Chapter 381: Chapter 381: But at least when I say it, it sounds classy
FLASHBACK: ISABELLA’S PAST LIFE
Isabella sat in front of her vanity mirror, hands clasped tightly together in her lap. Her reflection stared back at her—perfect makeup, perfect hair, perfect dress—but her chest wouldn’t stop tightening.
It was going to be her first runway show. The dream she had trained for her whole life. Her father had even secured her a private dressing room. Everyone in the industry knew what that meant: no excuses, no room for failure.
Her stomach churned.
She had flown out of the country just for this one show. She had stayed here for weeks, practicing, starving herself of rest, repeating the same walk until her heels blistered. And tonight, she couldn’t mess up. Not when hundreds of eyes would be watching her. Not when her entire future sat on this one stage.
Her palms were damp. She kept wiping them against her thighs, over and over, but the sweat wouldn’t go away.
Normally, Isabella wasn’t the nervous kind. She loved attention. She loved eyes on her. But tonight? Tonight was different. Tonight the weight of expectation pressed down on her shoulders like iron.
She only wished—desperately—that she had someone here to support her.
Someone who would look at her and say, You’ve got this. You’ll be fine.
She swallowed hard, her throat dry.
And then, as if the universe itself had heard her silent prayer, the curtain to her dressing room rustled and pushed aside.
One of the workers stepped in and said respectfully. "Someone is here to see you."
Isabella spun around in surprise.
And then her mother walked in.
As chic and fashionable as ever, her mother’s presence filled the room immediately. But Isabella’s smile froze almost as soon as it appeared.
Because something was wrong.
She stood quickly, worry shooting through her chest. She rushed forward and grabbed her mother’s arms. "Mom?"
Her mother was dressed in black from head to toe. Black scarf tied over her head, black glasses hiding her eyes, black sleeves covering her arms. She was beautiful, yes—always beautiful—but Isabella wasn’t fooled.
Her heart dropped. She already knew.
"Did he hit you again?" she whispered.
Her mother looked away, sighing. "You shouldn’t worry yourself with that."
Isabella’s eyes burned instantly, her throat tightening with unshed tears. "What do you mean I shouldn’t worry myself with that?" she demanded, her voice breaking. "This is getting out of hand, Mother. You can file for divorce. I’ll come with you. You know that, right? All I want is for you to be safe. Not living in fear like this."
She squeezed her mother’s arms, desperate.
But her mother yanked herself free, her movements sharp, almost cruel.
"Do not cry," she snapped. "You will ruin your makeup. You’re supposed to go out there in a few minutes."
Isabella scoffed in disbelief. A shaky, angry laugh slipped from her lips. "Is that all you care about right now? This stupid fucking fashion show?" she spat, her voice rising. "I am talking about your—"
"Enough," her mother cut her off coldly. Her voice sliced through the air like a knife. "I said do not worry yourself with that. I came here to tell you: do not mess up your first show."
Isabella’s chest caved in. She let out a breathless laugh, looking up so her tears wouldn’t fall. Her nose stung, her throat thick. She sniffled.
And then she whispered, "He sent you here, didn’t he? To warn me? To keep me on my toes so I never disappoint him. So I never disgrace him. So his perfect public image isn’t ruined by his imperfect daughter."
Her mother didn’t answer. She only stared. Silent. Unblinking.
Isabella laughed again, but there was no joy in the sound. Only bitterness. "Fine. Fine then. I can tell you enjoy being his puppet, right?"
Her mother’s jaw tightened. "Do not speak to me that way."
And Isabella smiled, but it wasn’t a happy smile. It was one of those brittle ones that cracked at the edges. She whispered, "I shouldn’t speak to you that way. But you let him mess you up?"
Her words were sharp, but her voice trembled.
Her eyes dropped to the sliver of skin on her mother’s neck where the scarf had shifted slightly. And there it was. A bruise. Dark, ugly, blooming across her skin like a cruel flower.
Isabella’s throat closed up. Her chest ached.
Her mother felt the weight of her daughter’s gaze instantly. Almost too quickly, she pulled her scarf higher, covering the mark. Pretending as if it had never been there. Pretending as if Isabella had imagined it.
But Isabella wasn’t fooled.
"Mama..." her voice broke, thick with pain. "Why don’t you leave him?"
Silence stretched between them for a moment, heavy and suffocating. Isabella could barely breathe.
Her mother let out a long sigh, the kind that carried exhaustion years in the making. Slowly, she pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at the corners of her eyes, careful not to smudge the eyeliner she had applied. She pushed her glasses higher on her nose, hiding herself again.
And then she said quietly, "This is why you have to work hard, baby. Work harder than everyone else. And do not fall in love. No matter what. Because if you do, you’ll end up being like me."
Her voice cracked, just a little, but she kept going.
"No matter what you do, never, ever let yourself be owned by a man."
The words stabbed Isabella right through the heart.
She couldn’t hold it in anymore. The tears she’d been fighting back spilled down her cheeks. Hot, heavy, unstoppable.
"But Mama..." Isabella’s voice shook as the memories poured out of her. "We used to be so happy. You used to love me—your little girl—so much. What changed?"
Her chest heaved. The vanity lights blurred through her tears. She looked at her mother, begging for an answer. Just one.
But her mother said nothing.
She stood there silently, her expression unreadable. She didn’t reach for Isabella. Didn’t comfort her. Didn’t explain.
And after what felt like forever, she turned. She walked away.
Isabella’s body jolted as the door clicked open. She heard her mother’s voice outside, cold and efficient, speaking to someone in the hallway.
"Her makeup is messed up. Fix her."
The door shut.
And Isabella laughed through her tears. A bitter, broken sound.
Of course. Of course that was all she was. A doll. A perfect little doll that anyone could fix up when she broke. A doll that didn’t have feelings—or if she did, those feelings didn’t matter. They could be wiped away, covered, discarded. Painted over until she looked fine again.
She sat frozen as the makeup team entered her room. Brushes clicked against tables, powders opened, sprays hissed. They didn’t ask questions. They didn’t comfort. They just made her sit down, tilting her face up as if she were nothing more than canvas.
Her skin was blotted dry. New foundation covered the streaks of her tears. Her eyeliner was redrawn, her lipstick reapplied. Her hair was brushed back into place.
In minutes, Isabella’s face no longer looked like the face of a girl who had just broken down. It looked like the face of a model.
That night, when she stepped onto the runway, she walked with confidence. Or at least, the kind of confidence that wasn’t real. Fake confidence. But it was enough.
Like they always say: fake it till you make it.
The lights hit her. The crowd gasped. Cameras flashed. And Isabella smiled that perfect, practiced smile.
The people loved her. She could tell from the applause, from the cheers, from the energy that filled the room and swallowed her whole.
She opened the show perfectly. She didn’t trip. She didn’t falter. She floated down that runway like she was born for it.
She trended for months after. Headlines, photos, praise. They called her unforgettable. They called her iconic. And later that year, she won Model of the Year.
Her name was everywhere.
Her face was everywhere.
And yet... the one person she wanted to see her, the one person whose love she still craved, grew more and more distant.
Her mother.
The gap between them widened until it felt like a canyon.
So Isabella began to feed on something else.
The attention. The praise. The obsession from strangers. Her fans, her audience. The world gave her the validation she no longer got at home.
It wasn’t the same. She knew it wasn’t the same. But she told herself it was.
She told herself that love and attention were the same thing. That being adored by thousands could replace being loved by one. That the cheers of strangers were enough to fill the hole her mother had left.
So she clung to it.
And she got addicted. Addicted to the lights, the noise, the eyes that followed her. Addicted to the feeling of being seen, of being wanted, of being important.
Even if, deep down, she knew none of it compared.
Even if, deep down, she still longed for something she would never have again.
A mother’s love.
The one thing she never got back.
Not then.
Not ever.
...
"Wow, Lady Isabella, you look beautiful," one of the younger ladies blurted out, cheeks going pink as she stared in awe.
Isabella giggled and spun in a twirl, her white dress flaring out perfectly. She caught her own reflection in the mirror as she moved and nearly clapped for herself. "I know!" she said happily, her voice dripping with confidence.
Then she paused dramatically, putting a hand on her chest as if she’d just remembered manners. "Oh, and you all look beautiful too."
The girls erupted into laughter, nodding eagerly, and soon enough they were all tripping over their words to compliment each other.
"You’re glowing tonight."
"No, look at your hair—it’s perfect."
"Your dress is prettier than mine."
"Stop, you’re literally stunning."
They went on and on, the compliments bouncing around the room like a never-ending game of catch.
Isabella folded her arms, shaking her head fondly as she watched them. "Oh my gosh, you girls sound like a flock of parrots," she teased.
One of them gasped. "Well, you started it, Lady Isabella!"
"True," Isabella admitted with a smirk, then pretended to toss her hair. "But at least when I say it, it sounds classy."
That set them all giggling again.
Warmth filled Isabella’s chest as she looked at them, their smiles, their joy, the way they lifted each other up so easily. Her eyes softened, and she let herself breathe in the moment.
She might not have had the best life back on Earth—loneliness, pressure, constant expectations—but that didn’t mean this one couldn’t be better. Maybe here, surrounded by laughter and light, she could finally claim a little happiness for herself.
And if that happiness came with a room full of girls treating her like the main character she obviously was? Even better.