Chapter 1

I dipped the brush into the light blue paint and carefully guided it across the page, just like I showed her. The little girl beside me—Ella, I think—giggled as the colors swirled together. Her hands were already messy, streaks of red and yellow on her cheeks and her dress. She looked up at me like I was someone.

“Do you like it, Miss Lorelie?”

I smiled genuinely at her. “I love it. It looks like a sky.”

She beamed. For a moment, I forgot where I was. The flashing cameras, the stiff smiles, the expensive shoes clicking against tile floors. In this corner of paint-stained tables and noisy laughter, I felt… warm. Almost invisible in a good way.

Until I wasn’t.

A shadow fell across the floor beside me. I didn’t even need to look up.  Lucia. My father’s secretary. Always in dark suits, always with perfect posture and always carrying his orders like law.

She has her straight black hair tied in a bun, not a strand out of place. Her skin was light olive. And her dark eyes, sharp behind rimless glasses. She leaned down slightly, her voice sharp but polite. “Miss Lorelie, it's time. The photographers are waiting. They want shots of you with the children before we leave.”

I nodded, swallowing the sigh that wanted to escape my throat. “I'll be right there.”

The little girl tugged at my sleeve. “Do you have to go?”

“I'll just be over there,” I told her gently, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Keep painting for me, okay?”

I stood up, straightened my baby pink dress Lucia picked for me, and smoothed the creases. Lucia handed me a handkerchief to wipe the paint from my fingers. Not too clean, though. Just enough to look presentable—still hands-on, still “warm-hearted,” as the press liked to say.

I walked toward the camera setup, past the rows of people in suits pretending they cared, past the journalists adjusting their angles. Lucia gestured where I should stand. I kneeled beside the kids again—new faces, different smiles, all unaware of how perfectly staged this all was.

The cameras began flashing. I curled my lips upward. Perfect angle. Soft eyes. Tilt the head slightly.

Smile, Lorelie.

I smiled. And the lights kept flashing. Soon after, we walked out of the orphanage hall through the crowd of smiling guests, donors, and local officials lining up the steps.

One by one, they reached for my hand.

“Thank you so much, Ms. Lorelie. The children adore you.”

“We’re honored to have the Montgomery family support us.”

“Your father’s doing such great work for Rosehill. You must be proud.”

I shook their hands the way I was taught—soft grip, warm smile, polite nod. Just enough to seem approachable, not enough to invite conversation. And every reply came automatically.

“Thank you for having us.”

“I’m just happy to help.”

“We’re always grateful to support the community.”

Words memorized since I was seven years old. Practiced in front of mirrors, maids, and my mother’s disapproving eyes. The perfect Montgomery response. When the last handshake was done and the cameras finally lowered, I was ushered to the black SUV parked discreetly outside. The driver opened the door. Lucia was already seated in the back, tablet on her lap, phone in one hand. I slid into the seat beside her.

She handed me a small bottle of alcohol before I even asked.

“For your hands. Who knows what germs they’re carrying.”

I silently accepted it, ignoring the remark. She said it after every event—always with that polished tone, like concern disguised as superiority. The citrusy scent filled the car as I cleaned my palms. I didn’t smile anymore. My face relaxed into its natural shape—blank and tired.

Outside, Rosehill passed by in slow motion. Kids with backpacks. Mothers with strollers. People who didn’t have to smile unless they meant it.

Lucia tapped something on her tablet, then turned it toward me.

“Look,” she said, her voice softening like it always did when she was pleased. “You with the children. It’s beautiful. You looked so natural. This one might make tomorrow’s headline.”

The photo was well-timed: me kneeling beside the little girl, hand guiding hers on the brush, eyes lowered in what looked like warm affection. If only they knew how carefully staged warmth could be.

I glanced at the image—at the woman I was trained to be. Lorelie Montgomery. Tall, graceful, with bright blue eyes and delicate features that are photographed well in soft light. My long blonde hair was pinned back in a modest twist, elegant but never bold.

Lucia smiled proudly beside me, clearly pleased with the outcome.

“You handled everything today with such grace,” she added. “Mayor Victor will be pleased. He has been praising your demeanor lately. You're exactly what the family needs.”

I didn’t answer. There was nothing left to say. Not right now. I just turned my head back to the window and watched the city roll by, holding my silence.

This was my whole life. Smile, nod, obey. Keep your hands clean—your image, cleaner. I am used to it by now. My job wasn't to feel. It was to maintain a good reputation—for them—for my father, my older brother, for the Montgomery name that only embraced me when it needed to look whole.

Despite being twenty-five, with a degree in Architecture earned with flying colors, I’d never once used it. I had dreams once—designing spaces, restoring forgotten places, designing homes. But my parents didn’t want me to work. Not because they thought I couldn’t—but because they didn’t want people asking why a Montgomery daughter needed to.

"Let your husband shine," my mother once said. "You were born to complement—not to create."

From the moment I was born, I had been contained. Homeschooled until high school. I was taught etiquette, piano, public relations. Lessons in posture, tone, and the kind of silence that pleases important men.

When they finally let me study abroad for college, it was a rare freedom—but not a full one. I was still under surveillance. Still expected to report back.

Even my course—Architecture—was only approved because it sounded refined and "non-political."

But building… it was the only time I felt real. I remembered late nights at my studio desk, sketching rooftops I would never touch. Designing homes, I’d never live in. Pouring dreams into models that would be boxed away as soon as I returned to Rosehill.

Lucia kept talking beside me—something about the media, about the foundation, about my father next political event.

I didn’t respond and let her entertain herself. Instead, I looked out the window again, tracing the lines of buildings we passed—imagining how I’d redesign them if only I was allowed.

Because that’s what I was good at: Taking things that were cold, and unlivable—and dreaming of something better.

Even if it was never for me.