Chapter 9 – The Performance Never Ends

The flash of the camera lit up the walk-in closet.

Again.

And again.

I held the pose—one hand resting lightly on the glass shelf, the other gently touching the gold zipper on my branded dress. My lips curved in a soft pout, my eyes narrowed just enough. I tilted my chin slightly and leaned closer to the rows of heels lined perfectly beside me.

Click.

Perfect.

From behind my phone, I checked the screen and smiled.

The caption I had planned was already typed:

“Surrounded by elegance. This is what hard work looks like. ??? #SoftLife #BossQueen #LuxuryLiving”

I hit upload and watched the likes start rolling in almost instantly. My followers would eat it up. They always did. They believed the life I showed them. The dresses, the bags, the diamonds—all carefully arranged. All curated for the story I wanted to sell.

That I was rich. Powerful. Untouchable.

And as long as I played the part, no one asked where I really came from.

Or who I really was.

I tucked my phone into the crook of my elbow and took one last look at my reflection in the mirrored closet wall.

Perfect.

Almost.

I walked out of the closet into the hallway, about to head to the kitchen to demand another cup of chamomile tea when the housekeeper came running toward me, breathless.

“Miss Zarah!” she said. “The Master is on his way back. He just left the airport.”

I froze.

My blood turned cold.

“He’s coming here?” I asked.

She nodded quickly. “He’ll be here in less than thirty minutes.”

I didn’t even answer her.

I spun around and rushed back toward my bedroom, heart pounding.

Why didn’t anyone tell me sooner?

I tore open drawers, grabbed a towel, and bolted into the bathroom. My hand shook as I turned on the water. The scent of lavender filled the room as steam started to rise.

I stripped and climbed into the shower, letting the warm water hit my skin while my mind raced.

He wasn’t supposed to come today.

Not like this. Not suddenly.

What if he noticed something? What if he asked the wrong questions?

What if—

No. Stop. I told myself. You’ve played this part for five years. He never looks too closely. Just keep looking pretty. Keep your voice soft. Keep his name out of your mouth unless you’re praising him.

I scrubbed fast and rinsed even faster.

I didn’t know what I would say when he came upstairs, but I knew what I had to do.

Distract him. Smile. Maybe cry a little. Remind him I was still “his.”

That usually worked.

I stepped out of the shower, wrapping myself in the softest silk robe I owned. It clung to my damp skin and smelled like roses and lavender. I fixed my hair quickly, dabbed some lip balm on my lips, and turned the soft music up just enough.

Then I waited.

And waited.

Five minutes.

Ten.

Fifteen.

I padded quietly across the bedroom and peeked into the hallway.

Silence.

Strange.

I waited another five minutes before finally stepping out and calling for the housekeeper.

She met me halfway up the hall.

“Oh, Miss Zarah…” she looked surprised. “You missed him.”

“What?” I blinked. “He left?”

“Yes. I… I’m sorry. He walked in, stayed a short while, then asked for the driver and left again.”

I stared at her, stunned.

“He didn’t ask for me?”

She shook her head. “He saw the money on the floor. The cash from earlier. And then he asked a few questions. About you. About your behavior. I think he was... disappointed.”

I felt my throat go dry.

Disappointed?

That couldn’t be good.

I forced a small laugh. “Well. He must’ve been in a mood. Men are like that.”

The housekeeper hesitated, then nodded.

“Don’t worry,” I added. “He’ll come back around.”

But inside, I wasn’t calm.

I was scared.

What did he ask?

What did the staff say?

Did he suspect anything?

Was he beginning to notice the truth?

No, I told myself. Don’t panic.

He didn’t ask to see me. That was good. It meant I didn’t have to lie today.

But it also meant he didn’t want to see me.

That was bad.

Really bad.

-----

Back in the closet, I sat on the edge of the bench and stared at the wall of luxury I’d built. All the dresses. All the designer bags. All the shoes I never wore. All the boxes I kept in pristine condition just in case someone ever came to check.

It was all supposed to keep the illusion alive.

Now it felt like a tower of cards.

One soft breath and the whole thing could fall apart.

I opened my phone and checked the post I’d made earlier. It had over 12,000 likes already. The comments were full of hearts, fire emojis, and praise.

“You’re living the dream!”

“Queen energy only!”

“Teach us, boss lady!”

They didn’t know the truth.

That I was nothing but a good actress.

I didn’t know him. I didn’t know what happened five years ago. I didn’t even know the real girl’s name.

I had just been in the right place at the right time.

And I wasn’t about to give up this life.

Not when I was this close to getting everything I wanted.

------

Later that evening, I called the housekeeper again.

“Start preparing,” I said.

“For what, Miss?”

“I want to return home,” I answered. “To my Neighborhood.”

She blinked. “But why now?”

“I want people to see me,” I said, standing tall. “I want them to remember who I am. I want them to know that I’ve made it.”

“But the Master—”

“He won’t care,” I said quickly. “Besides, it’s only for a few days. I’ll take the big car. The white one. And tell the guards I want two to come with me. And—make sure my new handbags are packed.”

The housekeeper gave a small nod, still unsure.

I could tell she thought it was too soon.

But I needed this.

I needed to show off.

Back in my Neighborhood, everyone used to whisper behind my back.

They said I was too proud. Too pretty. Too poor.

They laughed when I disappeared for a while.

They said I was nothing.

Now they’d see the truth.

That I lived in a mansion.

That I was married to power.

That I wore designer clothes and traveled in blacked-out cars with guards who opened my doors.

They would see me.

And maybe then, if the Master really did start asking questions… I would have enough support. Enough attention. Enough clout to make it on my own.

I wasn’t going back to being poor.

Never again.

So what if I had to pretend?

Everyone faked something.

I just happened to be better at it than most.