The Muse

I hate their eyes.

I hate how they linger, how they undress, how they assume. How they dig under my skin like crawling insects, itching, burning and peeling every layer of me I've tried to build.

It's suffocating sometimes.

I've spent my entire life dodging attention, slipping through the cracks, becoming forgettable on purpose. But today?

Today, I can feel them remembering me.

The aftermath of Massimo's little show follows me like a shadow everywhere. In class. In cafeteria. In the washrooms. Girls glares me down.

The boys? They don't even bother whispering.

I can feel their stares dragging down my body in that lewd way that's making me want to crawl on Mama's lap and hide.

And I want to vomit.

Maybe if I claw at my skin hard enough, I'll peel away the layers of myself they think they know. The one they've crafted in their heads—the one he put on display.

Massimo Bianchi.

My tormentor. My scar. My personal curse wrapped in a leather jacket and an ego bigger than this entire campus.

I hate him. I hate him so much that the feeling scratches at my ribs, crawling up my throat, choking me with the weight of it. And yet, even with all that hate, I still can't erase the feeling of his hand gripping my wrist.

Keep it up, little nerd, and I'll make sure they see more of you than just your legs.

A shiver slithers down my spine, not because of his threat, but because he meant it.

I know he meant it.

And I know that if I stay here any longer, I'll suffocate on the weight of my own existence.

So, I do something I never do.

I leave.

Three skipped classes. One empty hallway. A single exit door.

And just like that, I disappear.

❁

Home.

The second I step inside, I inhale deeply. The familiar scent of jasmine and sandalwood wraps around me like a safety net. A cage and a home in one place.

My sanctuary because it's mine. The only place where I can be just Krystina and not a Romanovski.

My cage because... well. That last name comes with chains.

I kick off my shoes and make a beeline for my room, stripping out of my clothes before my reflection can mock me again. The oversized sweater I pull on is my comfort space, and as the fabric swallows me whole, letting me feel small and unseen, I finally breathe.

There.

I don't have to be the girl they stare at. Or the girl they whisper about.

Just me. Invisible.

"Skipping classes now?"

I nearly jump out of my skin, whipping around to see my mother standing at the door.

The woman with the warmest eyes and the softest voice. The woman whose smiles are stitched together with invisible pain. Or exhaustion.

The woman I want to make proud.

I force a small smile. "Just today."

She hums, stepping inside, brushing my hair back like she used to when I was little. I melt into the touch despite myself, desperate for that motherly warmth even when I don't deserve it.

Her lips quirk. "Rebelling, are we?"

"Hardly." I snort. "If I were rebelling, I'd be on a beach somewhere, drinking piña coladas and questioning my life choices. I'm not Anya, Mom."

She laughs softly, but there's a knowing look in her eyes. She sees too much sometimes. Sees through me. Through my lies, my deflections, my pain.

She tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "We have a party to attend tonight."

My stomach drops.

"Do I have to?"

She gives me a pointed look. The kind that says you already know the answer.

I sigh. "Will there be good food?"

She smirks. "Your Papa is the host. There will be an entire buffet."

I chuckle with her as she ruffles my air one more time before pressing a kiss on my cheek.

I'm often told I look carbon copy of her.

It's a lie.

A well-meaning, placating lie.

My mother is effortless elegance. She's the kind of woman who walks into a room and makes heads turn without even trying. The kind whose beauty doesn't need embellishments, but her presence alone is enough. She doesn't shrink herself to fit into the spaces the world allows her—she carves out her own.

Me? I've spent most of my life trying to disappear into the wallpaper.

I push off the counter, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my hoodie, the only thing that feels remotely like a second skin. "What's the dress code?"

"Elegant, as always," she says, giving me a once-over that I pretend not to feel. "Something nice, sweetheart."

Something nice.

That means suffocating.

I hum in response, already dreading the layers of fabric, the cinched waist, the way I'll spend the evening adjusting my dress and tugging at invisible imperfections.

"Try to enjoy yourself," she adds, her voice softer now. Gentler. Like she knows exactly where my mind just went.

I flash her a grin. The kind that almost feels real if I don't think too hard about it. "Of course, Mom. I'll be the life of the party."

She shakes her head with a fond smile, but I don't miss the flicker of something deeper behind her gaze. Something that says she knows.

She always knows.

❁

I'll be the life of the party.

What a lie. What a lie.

What a lie.

I am anything but feeling alive here.

I'd rather be at home, curled up in bed with a book, watching a mindless show, munching on snacks—fishing, diving, dying—anything but this.

But here I am, standing in the middle of a ballroom drenched in golden light, trapped in a dress that clings in all the wrong places, surrounded by people who sip champagne like it's oxygen and talk in rehearsed scripts.

This place is hell.

And the two people beside me? They are its rulers.

I sneak a glance at them, barely holding in a snort.

If I ignore their constant bickering, they're eerily similar—sharp jaws, sharp eyes, sharp tongues. Every part of them exudes power and confidence, like they were born for this world. Unlike me.

I'm still trying to figure out if I even belong here.

And maybe I don't.

Because what kind of normal siblings threaten to kill each other over being called dumb?

"Say that again, and I swear I'll have you buried in a ditch by morning," Judas mutters under his breath, swirling his drink like a mafia villain. I swear he has a screw loose in his head.

Anya flicks her bold red manicured nails at him. "You couldn't get rid of me even if you tried."

"I'd love to try," he drawls.

I take a slow sip of my mocktail, pretending to be invisible. This is just another normal evening with them—death threats and dramatic flair included.

I wouldn't be surprised if one day one of them disappears.

A waiter passes by with a tray of appetizers, and I swipe a canapé before turning to Anya. "Tell me again, how are we related?"

She smirks, tossing her long dark hair over her shoulder. "Still in denial?"

"Not denial," I say, chewing thoughtfully. "Just healthy suspicion. Because I, for one, don't plot my own family's murder."

My elder brother hums, his gaze lazily scans the room. "That's only because you wouldn't succeed."

I whip my head toward him. "What the hell?"

"What?" He takes a leisurely sip of his drink as his pale eyes gleams. I swear he gets off on mention of blood. "I'm just stating facts."

Anya leaned back against the table. "Don't listen to him. He's just in one of his moods."

I groan, already regretting every decision that led me here.

Judas and Anya look like they stepped out of a Renaissance oil painting. They're stunning, untouchable, and more than a little terrifying.

Judas, with his sharp cheekbones and colder-than-winter pale blue eyes, stands like he owns the world. And maybe he does. With the way people glance at him, whisper his name, like he isn't just Judas Romanovski but something more.

A force, a threat, a legacy.

He wears his power well, draped in a black-on-black suit that molds to his frame. Even his hair are dark and tousled like he just ran his fingers through it in irritation, looks artfully demure.

His beauty doesn't compensate for his ugly insides.

And Anya?

She's his mirror but dipped in fire instead of ice.

Where Judas is cold, Anya is raw.

She stands like she dares the world to take her down. Her lips are painted in deep red. Her short shimmery black dress makes her stand out. Gold jewellery and red heels. Anya doesn't do subtle.

I lift my mocktail to my lips, letting the ice-cold sweetness settle on my tongue as my eyes roam the room.

Where are they?

Papa is undoubtedly surrounded by businessmen and discussing investments like it's casual dinner talk. Mama, meanwhile, is probably somewhere just as unreachable—floating between conversations, graceful, smiling, ever the perfect hostess.

They'll be busy. I already know that.

They always are.

It's not that they don't love me.

They do.

But love and attention are two very different things.

I should be used to this feeling by now.

But it never stops stinging.

I exhale, setting my glass down. Enough.

I need a breather. A moment away from this suffocating illusion of belonging.

Slipping through the crowd, I mumble a half-hearted excuse and make my way down the hallway. The air is cooler here, quieter. I push open the bathroom door and let out a breath, staring at myself in the mirror.

Pastel blue. Soft. Feminine. Expensive.

Not me.

It's a costume, and I'm tired of playing pretend.

I turn on the tap, splashing cold water onto my face. The droplets run down my skin, trailing over my jaw, my neck. I watch myself in the mirror, the girl staring back at me looking as lost as I feel. Makeup smudge. Eyes vacant.

I should go back.

I straighten, smoothing down my dress. Drying my face and curved my lips. Smile. Walk back in. Belong, even if you never will.

I step out of the bathroom, only to be met with a shift in the air.

Something's wrong.

The murmurs are shriller now. A thick tension is crackling through the walls.

I push forward, stepping back into the ballroom. People are gathered in a dense circle, curious whispers and some gasps.

A sick feeling coils in my stomach as I move closer, slipping past the bodies pressing in.

And then I see it.

My brother.

Judas stands in the middle of the crowd, his hand wrapped around the collar of another man's shirt, his grip white-knuckled and merciless. His face is etched in cold lines with unreadable expressions, but there's a fire in his pale eyes that tells me he's two seconds away from doing something dangerous.

My eyes slowly lifts to see the man.

And I freeze.

What are the odds it's him?

Cause when Massimo Bianchi is involved, nothing good ever happens.

********