The laughter still lingered in the room, soft and nervous, like sparks refusing to die. Ava lay curled up on the bed, her book forgotten, the warmth of Isabella's presence too strong to ignore. Isabella was still glowing from the playful teasing, a smirk tugging her lips every time Ava tried to avoid her gaze.
But before either of them could say more, a sharp knock shattered the quiet.
Both girls froze. Ava's heart skipped. Isabella frowned, her playful smile vanishing instantly.
The door creaked open, and there stood Ruth, her favorite servant, the woman who had practically raised her. Her face was pale, her hands twisted nervously in her apron.
"Isabella—your dad is in. Hurry, get to your room!" she whispered urgently, her eyes wide with panic.
Ava sat upright, confused. Her dad? Now?
Isabella blinked, disbelief washing over her. "What?" she whispered back, her voice sharp and trembling. "That's… that's impossible. He wasn't supposed to be back for another month."
But Ruth shook her head frantically. "He's here, child. He wanted to surprise you. Your father is already inside with his luggage. Hurry!"
Isabella's chest tightened as panic clawed at her throat. Her boy clothes, her disguise, were still unpacked. Ruth hadn't prepared them either. Everything was lying out in the open, that was a big secrets. If her father saw…
She turned to Ava quickly, grabbing her hands. Her eyes searched Ava's face, desperate.
"Ava, listen to me, don't come out. No matter what you hear, no matter what happens, stay in this room."
Ava's lips parted, worried about softening her features. "Bella—"
"Promise me." Isabella's voice cracked, fear raw in her tone. She had never looked so fragile before.
Ava swallowed hard and nodded, her eyes locking on Isabella's trembling hands. "I promise."
Only then did Isabella breathe out and turn toward Ruth, every step heavy as if she were walking into fire. The playful girl who just moments ago had teased Ava was gone. Now, she was a daughter facing the one man who could break her world apart.
They reached Isabella's room. The door was already open.
And there he was.
Her father stood tall, broad-shouldered in his dark suit, a suitcase gripped in one hand. His presence filled the space like a storm cloud. His eyes, sharp and searching, were fixed directly on her.
He wasn't smiling.
He had always smiled when he saw her. He had always rushed to her first, scooping her up in his arms before even greeting his wife or anyone else. She was his princess, his life, his joy. But tonight… His face was unreadable, carved in stone.
Isabella froze at the threshold, her body rigid, her pulse deafening in her ears. All the air seemed to vanish from the room.
Her lips trembled as she whispered, "Daddy…"
The word was fragile, cracking under the weight of fear. Her voice shook, betraying the storm inside her chest.
And in that single moment, she knew—there was no running this time. No hiding behind boy clothes or laughter. Her father had come too soon, too suddenly. And tonight, her carefully guarded double life stood at the edge of exposure.
Adrian was disappointed. He had seen Bella's bedsheet, her carpets. He had seen her large built-in closet, the doors thrown wide open as though daring him to look closer. He moved into her shoe room, each step heavier than the last, and what he saw confirmed the thoughts clawing at his chest. He had seen everything before Isabella arrived.
Now, they both stood facing each other. The air was tense, thick enough to suffocate. Isabella's lips parted, wanting to explain, but Adrian's eyes silenced her. He didn't know where to begin, and worse, he didn't want to hear her voice now.
Without a word, he slowly brushed past her. His face was unreadable, but his silence carried a weight sharper than any scream. He made his way down the hall, his feet carrying him to the one person who owed him answers.
Claire.
She was in their bedroom, stretched across the bed, scrolling lazily through her phone, completely unaware of the storm about to crash through her door. To her, it was just another quiet evening. To Adrian, it was betrayal wrapped in silence.
The door opened. Adrian walked in and stood tall, his shadow stretching over her. Claire looked up and froze. His presence was like fire, angry, consuming, impossible to ignore.
She sat up abruptly, her heart thudding against her chest. She didn't need him to speak. She knew. With the look on his face and his sudden return home, she knew every secret she had buried was now clawing its way to the surface.
Adrian's voice was low but edged with fury.
Adrian: "Where's my princess?"
Claire forced a small laugh, trying to buy herself time.
Claire: "She's probably in her room, isn't she?"
Adrian's eyes narrowed, cutting through her weak attempt.
Adrian: "You know what I mean."
His words were sharp, deliberate. With a swift motion, he threw his phone onto the bed beside her. The screen lit up, displaying the very images that had broken him moments earlier, Isabella's room, her things, her world that had been hidden in plain sight.
Claire's breath caught. Her fingers trembled as she picked up the phone, staring at the evidence staring right back at her. For the first time in years, she was completely cornered. There was no more hiding, no more clever excuses.
Her mind raced. She knew Adrian demanded an explanation, but how could she possibly begin? Where could she even start when every word she said would unravel everything she had tried so hard to keep together?
She looked up at him, tears pricking her eyes, and whispered—her voice barely holding together.
Claire: "Adrian… I can explain."
But the fire in his eyes told her he wasn't ready for excuses. He wanted the truth. And only the truth.
BACK IN ISABELLA'S ROOM.
Ruth sat quietly on the edge of the bed, watching Bella's expression.
Ruth: "Do you want me to switch everything up? Maybe change things back, bring your father's princess out again?"
Her voice was careful, tender. Ruth wanted to bring Adrian's beloved little girl back, the princess in gowns, ribbons, and polished shoes. But Bella's silence was heavy.
Finally, Isabella exhaled.
Isabella: "No. Let them be."
Her voice cracked, but her eyes were firm.
Ruth: "Bella, are you sure? We don't want to provoke him any more than we already have."
Isabella looked down at her trembling hands. For years she had been her father's masterpiece, a porcelain doll dressed in perfection. Adrian had adored taking her everywhere, his precious daughter in lace dresses and shiny shoes, her curls neatly tied with satin bows. People admired her, whispering in awe, "Adrian's daughter is like a little gold."
Her friends had envied her—the dresses, the parties, the glory. But none of them knew the chains hidden beneath the silk.
FLASHBACK – THE COMPETITIONS
At nine years old, Isabella had been pushed onto the grand stage of the National Junior Piano Festival. Her fingers trembled against the keys of a glossy black Steinway, the spotlight burning on her skin. Adrian had smiled proudly from the front row, mouthing, "Do not fail me."
She had played Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata flawlessly, the audience rising to their feet in thunderous applause. Adrian had lifted the golden trophy high that night, bragging to his colleagues: "My daughter is the best."
But behind the curtains, Isabella had hidden in a dark corner, tears streaking her face. Her hands hurt, her chest hurt more, and all she wanted was to run away from the piano that had become her prison.
At eleven, it was the Ballet Étoile Competition. She danced under the weight of a glittering tiara and a suffocating tutu, her toes bleeding inside satin shoes. Every pirouette was perfect, every leap graceful, and again she was crowned first place. The cameras flashed, her father's voice boomed with pride, but her heart was breaking.
She remembered clutching the trophy in the dressing room, whispering, "I don't want this. I don't want to be a doll."
And every single time, when the crowd dispersed and the trophies were lined on the shelves of their mansion, Isabella would return to her room and cry.
Ava, Ruth, and Claire had always been there—her shadows, her comfort.
Ruth would rub her back and say, "You were amazing, Bella, but you don't need to keep proving yourself."
Claire would braid her hair, whispering, "Forget him tonight. You're ours, not his showpiece."
And Ava… Ava would hold her hand the longest, her soft voice steadying Isabella's trembling heart. "One day you'll be free, Bella. You'll see."
Now, back in the room, those memories flooded her chest like an old wound torn open. Isabella wiped a stray tear before it fell.
Isabella: "I'm done, Ruth. I don't care if I provoke him anymore. I'm tired of hiding, from him, from society, from myself. I just… want to be free."
Her words hung in the air, raw and defiant.
Ruth swallowed hard, nodding slowly. She knew this wasn't just rebellion, it was survival.