The warmth of the morning sun brushed against Alina's cheek, drawing her from a dream she couldn't remember and into a reality she could never forget.
She opened her eyes slowly, not because she was tired, but because she wasn't ready — not for the day, not for the routine, not for them.
Her room, grand and cold despite its beauty, stared back at her in silence. Cream-colored walls trimmed with gold, fresh lilies by the windowsill, the faint ticking of a vintage clock imported from somewhere her father had conquered in business. Everything was polished, curated, perfect.
Just like her life.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand but she didn't bother to check it.
A soft knock sounded on the door and one maid entered before she could even respond.
"Miss, your mother said you should wear the gold dress. The DiLaurents will be there tonight."
The maid said, placing the gold dress on Alina's bed.
Alina sighed.
Another party. Another night of pretending to enjoy champagne, nodding politely to men twice her age who commented on how grown she'd become — as if her future were a prize to be won behind closed doors.
She slid out of bed, her bare feet touching the cool hardwood floor. Somewhere downstairs, she could already hear movement. Her mother's heels clicking across the marble. The deep, confident voices of her four older brothers — each of them molded into the perfect heirs to the Vanderbilt empire. Powerful, commanding, and impossibly proud.
And then there was her father — the man who loved order more than affection, control more than connection.
Alina pulled her robe tighter around her frame as she moved to the window. The estate grounds were already awake — cars arriving for the party preparations, staff buzzing like bees in the garden, furniture being arranged beneath fairy lights she would pretend to enjoy.
She didn't belong to this world.
She was born into it. There's a difference.
A soft knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.
"El?" It was Caleb, the third-oldest brother — the least insufferable of the four. "Mom says you're needed downstairs in thirty. Hair and makeup at ten."
"Of course," Alina said, forcing her voice into something graceful. "Wouldn't want to disappoint."
"Try not to," he replied lightly, and she could hear the smirk in his tone before his footsteps faded.
Alina exhaled, long and slow.
Tonight would be like every other night.
Until it wasn't.
The Vanderbilt dining room was more of a statement than a space. A long mahogany table stretched across the center like a runway for power, surrounded by high-backed chairs upholstered in velvet and silence. The chandelier above sparkled with cold elegance, casting perfect light on a perfectly staged family.
Alina sat at her usual place — three seats down from her father, two away from her mother, and carefully flanked by her brothers like a queen-in-waiting no one had asked to crown.
Her father, Edward Vanderbilt , scrolled through his phone with one hand while sipping black coffee with the other. His crisp grey suit was already spotless, as if he woke up dressed for war. Her mother, Vivian, wore pearls and perfume stronger than her smile.
"You're wearing the gold dress tonight," her mother said without looking up.
"I got your message," Alina replied, buttering a piece of toast she wouldn't eat.
"It's important. The DiLaurents are considering merging with Vanderbilt Enterprises. Appearances matter."
As always.
Across the table, Julian — the oldest — was talking loudly about market shares and board votes, clearly hoping their father would throw him a nod of approval. Beside him, Elijah checked his watch for the third time, probably counting down until his next flight to London. Caleb sat quietly, eating while scrolling through photos of women he had no intention of introducing to their mother. And then there was Matthew, the youngest of the brothers, who smirked at Alina like he knew exactly how bored she was.
"You look like you're attending a funeral, not a breakfast," Matthew said. "Cheer up. There'll be caviar tonight."
"And a fresh round of suitors," Vivian added lightly, sipping her tea. "A girl your age should be married by now."
Alina's jaw tensed, but she smiled. "Maybe I'm just waiting for the right bid."
Edward glanced up at her, his sharp blue eyes pausing mid-scroll. "This isn't a game, Alina. You don't get to wait. You get to be chosen."
"Of course," she said smoothly, hiding the sting behind her teacup. "How silly of me."
The table fell into brief silence, broken only by the clinking of cutlery and the distant noise of staff moving through the halls.
Alina sat still, perfectly poised, while inside, something whispered that she couldn't do this much longer. That a life where her value depended on family name and dress color was no life at all.
Somewhere out there, beyond the gates of this estate, someone was probably drinking their coffee without a tie, without an agenda, without being watched.
And for a split second, she envied them more than anything.
The estate was quieter once the men left.
Edward and her brothers had retreated into the city for business — meetings that determined mergers and millions — leaving behind a house that felt more like a monument than a home. Her mother vanished into her own wing, likely prepping for tonight's performance or calling one of her friends to discuss who Alina might be "matched" with next.
Alina wandered through the empty corridors like a ghost in silk, her bare feet soft against the marble. She should've been grateful for the silence, but boredom clung to her like a second skin — elegant, suffocating, and utterly invisible to everyone else.
So she turned toward the one place that felt untouched by expectation.
The library.
The tall oak doors creaked as she pushed them open, releasing a familiar scent: old paper, leather bindings, and faint traces of dust that somehow escaped the staff's obsessive cleaning. The room stretched high, with shelves reaching for the ceiling and ladders sliding along rails that gleamed under the skylight.
Here, at least, no one told her who to be.
She ran her fingers along the spines of books she'd already read twice — tragedies, romances, even political thrillers she secretly found thrilling — until she reached the corner where no one else bothered to go. Her favorite armchair waited, worn just enough to be comforting, with a side table still holding the teacup she'd left two days ago.
Alina curled up in the chair with a novel she'd pretended not to like the first time, just so she could reread it without questions. But as she flipped the pages, her mind drifted.
Not to tonight's party. Not to the dress or the suitors or the smiles she'd have to fake.
But to a strange ache she couldn't name.
Something was missing.
Or maybe… something was about to arrive.
She glanced toward the window that overlooked the back garden. It was too far to see much — just a blur of green, a flicker of movement.
She wasn't sure why, but her heart paused.
Then resumed.
She returned to her book, pretending that flicker meant nothing.
That today was just like every other day.
But deep down, something had shifted.
And the story of her life — the one written by others — was about to lose its grip.
Alina had just begun to lose herself in the rhythm of the words when the echo of her mother's heels approached — sharp, staccato clicks against marble. A moment later, the library doors creaked open without a knock.
"There you are," Vivian said, stepping into the quiet sanctuary as if she belonged there. "I should've known. Hiding in dusty books again."
Alina marked her page and closed the novel. "Some of us find comfort in stories."
"And some of us live in the real world," her mother replied, waving a manicured hand. "Come, we need to choose your jewelry for tonight."
Alina didn't move. "Does it matter? You've already picked the dress, the heels, and the makeup"
Vivian gave her a tight smile. "Yes, but the DiLaurents have sharp eyes. Every detail counts, and you will sparkle."
Alina bit back the urge to roll her eyes. "Because nothing says compatibility like strategic accessorizing."
Vivian raised an eyebrow. "Sarcasm makes your mouth look heavy. Let's go."
Resigned, Alina stood and followed her mother down the hallway, back to the part of the house where mirrors were cruel and silence wasn't allowed. They entered Vivian's private dressing room — a chamber of polished glass and soft lighting, where velvet boxes lay open like secrets waiting to be worn.
"Sit," her mother instructed, motioning to the cushioned stool in front of a massive mirror.
Alina obeyed, staring at her own reflection as Vivian held up a diamond necklace that glinted like frost. "Too cold," her mother murmured. She switched to an emerald choker. "Too bold." Finally, she settled on a delicate gold chain with a single teardrop pearl.
"Perfect. Innocent, soft, understated elegance."
"Like livestock at a premium auction," Alina muttered.
Vivian paused, the necklace still in her hand. "Do you know how many girls would kill to have your life?"
"I imagine it's easier to envy a cage when you've never lived inside one."
Her mother's eyes flickered — annoyance, maybe hurt, maybe nothing at all — and then she fastened the necklace around Alina's throat with steady fingers.
Alina stared into the mirror.
The pearl shimmered gently against her collarbone, beautiful and quiet — like her.
A decoration, not a person.