The morning sun stretched gently over the sprawling estate of the Vauhn family, casting golden ribbons across acres of trimmed hedges, manicured lawns, and marble sculptures. Everything about the Vauhn Manor in south Dublin whispered 'old money' wealth; generational, intimidating, and meticulously preserved. The mansion, a fusion of Georgian elegance and modern opulence, stood like a monument of triumph, casting long shadows on the world beneath it.
Inside the house, the silence was deceptive. Behind tall French windows, gilded staircases, and priceless oil paintings, tension brewed like a storm.
Candice Vauhn sat at the head of a glass breakfast table, her posture as straight as her honey-blonde chignon. Her silk robe shimmered ivory under the chandelier light. The Financial Times lay folded beside her untouched cappuccino. Across from her, her husband, James Vauhn, scrolled through his tablet, frowning.
"She didn't come home again," Candice said softly, not lifting her eyes from the untouched toast on her plate.
"I know," James answered without looking up. His voice was calm, but the grip on his tablet tightened. "Security footage shows her leaving at 11:42 p.m. in the silver Bentley. She was with that Aria girl again. I am on the brink of pi James"
"She didn't even reply to my messages."
"Honey, you also need to bear in mind she's not seventeen anymore. She's twenty-two. A grown woman, legally."
Candice finally looked at him. "Don't do that, James. Don't retreat behind legal definitions. That's your business voice. This is our daughter." The tone of her voice hardened slightly.
James sighed and set the tablet down. He leaned back and ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. "You think I don't lie awake every night wondering what might have happened to her? That someone's taken advantage of her? Or worse?"
They sat in heavy silence. The ticking of the antique grandfather clock across the room was the only sound, each tick a reminder that time was slipping by, and with it, the future and perhaps, the life of their only daughter.
Melissa Vauhn, beautiful, rebellious, wild, was the uncontested darling of Dublin tabloids and social media alike. Her face graced glossy covers of fashion magazines, her parties were legend, and her scandals frequent. She had the kind of beauty that drew photographers like bees to nectar, tousled brunette waves, bright grey-green eyes, and a smirk that promised trouble.
To the outside world, Melissa lived a dream life: daughter of one of Ireland's richest industrialists, heir to a billion-euro empire in pharmaceuticals, aviation, and luxury real estate. But inside the walls of Vauhn Manor, she was a storm with no direction, spinning violently against a past that had only ever nurtured her.
It hadn't always been like this.
There were once years when she danced through the corridors barefoot, when she'd run into her mother's arms with drawings and whispered secrets, when James read her bedtime stories in a voice far less tired than the one he carried now. But something had broken in her after eighteen, something that spiraled into alcohol, cocaine, fast cars, faster lovers, and days of untraceable absence.
"She's not coming back until mid-afternoon," said Candice, staring into her cappuccino now as if it might give her answers. "One of the housekeepers got a text from her. She's at someone's flat. Drunk."
James stood up slowly. "Get Mason to go pick her up."
"She said no drivers. She'll Uber back."
James's face darkened. "We pay for a fleet of security. And she trusts a stranger in an Uber?"
"You know she doesn't trust us. Not anymore."
A brittle silence fell again. Then Candice stood too and crossed the floor toward the tall windows. She looked out at the garden, where a young gardener trimmed roses under the morning sun.
"Do you ever wonder," she whispered, "what would've happened if we'd had another child?"
James didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Melissa was their world, bright, broken, and dangerously close to becoming a tragedy.
Candice turned back. "Promise me something, James."
"What?"
"When she comes home today… please. No yelling. No accusations. Just let her know she's loved. We've tried everything else."
He nodded once, tight-lipped. "Alright."
At that very moment, miles away, in a stranger's townhouse just off Temple Bar, Melissa Vauhn stirred beneath silk sheets reeking of spilled vodka and stale perfume. Her head throbbed. Her mouth tasted like ash. Her phone blinked with twenty-eight missed calls and messages.
She groaned and rolled over, shielding her eyes from the beam of light that snuck in through the gaps between the French-styled window curtains.
Her mascara was smeared across her cheeks, and a strange ceiling stared back at her. The sheets smelled of stale cologne, beside her, a man she didn't remember snored lightly. She glanced at him, tasking her memory—wondering if his face was ever familiar, or if she could recall the extent she went last night, but her memory failed her.
Melissa closed her eyes again.
Her head throbbed as she stumbled out of the bed, her heels clutched in one hand, the other gripping her tiny sequined purse. She tiptoed through the dimly lit apartment, trying not to wake him. The memory of the previous night still a blur of flashing lights, shots of vodka, and lines of cocaine. Her heart pounded, both from fear and shame. How did she get here? How many times had this happened?
The apartment building was in a part of the city she didn't recognize. She hailed a cab with shaking hands and told the driver the address of the Vauhn estate. As the car weaved through the early morning fog, Melissa slumped against the window, silent tears tracking down her cheeks. The makeup, the glamour, the rebellion—all of it felt like a costume she no longer wanted to wear. But she didn't know how to stop.
She arrived home at 7:47 a.m. The mansion gates creaked open, the security guards exchanging knowing looks but saying nothing. Her mother's face flashed through her mind—elegant, polished, cold. Her father's, stern and disappointed. She crept through the grand front doors, hoping no one would hear her.
But Candice Vauhn was already waiting.
Dressed in a silk robe, hair immaculate despite the hour, she stood at the top of the stairs like a queen surveying the damage to her kingdom. "Melissa," she said, her voice low and tight. "Where have you been this time?"
Melissa didn't answer. She didn't have the strength. Instead, she climbed the stairs silently, brushing past her mother and locking herself in her bedroom. There, in the silence of her designer prison, she lay curled on the floor, the room spinning around her. A single thought echoed through her mind:
Something has to change.