The chandelier above glistened like stars suspended in glass, casting fractured light that danced across the ballroom floor. The music—light piano keys layered with the soft cry of violins—echoed between clinks of champagne glasses and the low murmur of upper-class conversation. Gowns rustled like whispers. Suits shifted in silent competition.And in the center of it all stood Belladonna Jones—the picture of elegance, the standard of composure. Her dress was red silk, daring yet graceful, with a slit that moved like water when she walked. Her posture was perfect, her steps deliberate, her smile a delicate curve that betrayed nothing. People turned to look when she passed—not out of obligation, but out of awe."Belladonna, my dear," crooned Mrs. Caldwell, a matriarch whose voice always lingered one octave below condescension. "You take my breath away every time."
From the outside, she was enviable.
From the inside, she was empty.
She had learned to wear beauty like armor and charm like perfume. A child of wealth and legacy, she had been raised in a house that was always clean, always cold. Her father was a banker. Her mother, a woman of philanthropy and social prestige. But neither had ever told her they were proud of her. They had only told her to smile. Her phone buzzed. She didn't need to look at it. She already knew. Remember who you are tonight. Grace, not emotion. – MomBelladonna's jaw clenched for the briefest second before her smile returned, untouched. She slipped away from the crowd, moving through the ballroom like silk through fingers. The balcony was empty. Cold. Mercifully silent. She pushed open the doors, letting the sharp winter air hit her skin. The scent of roses and wine vanished, replaced by the clean nothingness of night. She leaned on the balcony railing and looked out across the city.
Beneath her, a sea of lights blinked like stars fallen to earth. Cars moved like fireflies. Everything felt so small from up here, yet somehow more real than the lives behind the glass ballroom. She closed her eyes. If she were honest with herself—which she rarely was—she would admit this: She was lonely. Profoundly, deeply, and painfully lonely. Not the kind of loneliness that comes from being alone,but the kind that comes from being surrounded by people who never ask, "Are you really okay?"If she were honest with herself—which she rarely was—she would admit this: She was lonely. Profoundly, deeply, and painfully lonely. Not the kind of loneliness that comes from being alone,but the kind that comes from being surrounded by people who never ask, "Are you really okay?"And wouldn't know what to do if the answer was no.
She had friends—on paper. People who laughed with her, took pictures beside her, tagged her on glittering Instagram stories. But when she cried, she cried alone. And when she had nothing left to give, the world grew quiet around her. She used to think somethingwas wrong with her. Now she just wondered if anyone really knew her at all."I'm tired," she whispered. The wind carried the words away.She imagined a different life—one where she could be clumsy and uncertain. Where she didn't have to dress for the public or walk like she was always performing. Where love didn't have to be earned, and worth wasn't measured in perfection.She stayed out there for a long time. Long enough for her arms to goosebump. Long enough for her smile to finally fall away.And then… a sound. The door creaked open behind her.She turned, just slightly. A man in a dark coat stepped out. Broad shoulders. No drink in his hand. No smile on his face.
He didn't look at her the way the others did—not with hunger, not with admiration. He looked as if he had seen the same emptiness in himself once. Belladonna didn't say a word. Neither did he. They stood in silence—two strangers, two ghosts, two quiet storms under the same winter sky. Something in her chest fluttered. Not because he looked at her. But because, for once, someone didn't.Back inside, someone called her name. Loud, bright, artificial. She turned back to the ballroom, fastened her mask of grace, and stepped into the light. Her smile returned—flawless as always.Because no one had ever taught Belladonna Jones how to be seen. Only how to be admired.