CHAPTER 01

𝐏𝐎𝐕 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐀

Eighteen years old.

For some people, this day is anticipated. For me, it has always been feared.

Not because I believed something bad would suddenly happen, like an accident or an unexpected tragedy. My fear was never of the unexpected. It was certain. Of the constant feeling that this number didn’t mark a beginning, but a limit.

I stared at the ceiling of my bedroom, motionless. Today was one of those days when everything felt heavier. Too many thoughts. Too much silence.

I heard footsteps in the hallway and quickly got out of bed. It didn’t take long for the door to open slowly. I grabbed the robe hanging beside the bed and slipped it on in a hurry, covering my lingerie.

“Miss Helena,” the housekeeper said in a restrained tone. “Your father wants to know why you haven’t come down for breakfast yet.”

I frowned.

My father had never cared whether I ate or not. He had never asked where I was. He had never waited for me.

“He… asked?” I let slip.

“Yes,” she replied, visibly confused. “He’s waiting.”

My heart gave a strange jump.

Why?

Could it be…?

The thought came against my will: did he remember my birthday?

I shook my head immediately, pushing the idea away. In eighteen years, my father had never congratulated me. Never said “happy birthday.” Sometimes I wasn’t even sure he remembered the date I was born.

The truth was, I was stalling because I didn’t dare to leave my room. I was afraid of what awaited me on the other side of that door.

“I’ll be right down,” I said.

The housekeeper nodded and left, closing the door behind her.

I exhaled slowly.

Running wouldn’t help. Sooner or later, I would have to leave the room and face whatever it was.

I considered taking a shower, trying to clear my head, but dismissed the idea. My father wasn’t the type to wait. And when he did wait, he demanded repayment.

I went to the closet and picked out a blue dress. Simple. Slightly above the knee. Nothing drew attention. I slipped into flat sandals, brushed my teeth, and tied my hair back without much care.

I went down the stairs, hearing low voices coming from the kitchen.

My father spoke.

My mother listened.

Always that way.

When I entered, the conversation stopped.

“Good morning,” I murmured, approaching the table.

My mother didn’t answer. She didn’t lift her eyes. She remained rigid, as if she weren’t really there.

“You took long enough,” my father said, without looking up from the newspaper.

“Sorry,” I replied automatically.

“Sit.”

I obeyed.

I took my usual seat, keeping my gaze lowered. The atmosphere in that house was never light, but that morning it was different. Heavier. More suffocating.

I glanced at my mother. She continued to avoid eye contact.

My father took a sip of coffee and turned the page of the newspaper.

I wanted to disappear. But since that wasn’t an option, I picked up a piece of toast, spread some cream cheese on it, and poured myself a glass of orange juice.

I took a bite.

That was when his voice cut through the silence.

“Eighteen years.”

My body froze.

He knew.

My heart sped up in an almost childish way. For one ridiculous second, I waited for… something.

“You grew up fast,” he continued. “The useless phase is over.”

I swallowed hard.

My mother stirred her coffee with a spoon, over and over, pretending not to hear.

“You already know how this works,” he said plainly.

I lifted my eyes without realizing it. He noticed immediately.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said coldly. “There’s nothing to ask.”

I pressed my hands against my thighs, trying to control the trembling.

“Raising a daughter is expensive,” he went on. “Time. Money. Patience. This isn’t love. It’s an investment.”

He folded the newspaper and placed it on the table. Finally, he looked at me.

“And today, that investment starts to pay off.”

My mother took a deep breath.

“She’s still young…” she tried, softly.

He turned his face slowly toward her.

“Be quiet.”

No shouting. No emotion.

Then he looked back at me.

“You’re ready,” he stated. “Right age. Good appearance.”

“Dad…” I tried to speak, my voice breaking.

“Don’t dramatize,” he cut in. “You weren’t raised to choose.”

He stood up calmly, adjusting the impeccable suit jacket.

“We’re receiving visitors tonight,” he said. “Wear the best dress you have. Don’t embarrass me.”

He turned and left the room as if he hadn’t just decided my fate.

I stared at the space where he had been.

“Finish eating,” my mother said, without looking at me. “It’s better.”

It was impossible to feel hungry, but I ate.

Not out of hunger.

Out of survival.

Afterward, I went back up to my room, closed the door, and sat on the bed.

Eighteen years old.

I didn’t receive a gift.

I didn’t receive a hug.

Furthermore, I didn’t receive congratulations.