บททั้งหมดของ I was more than pretty: บทที่ 21 - บทที่ 30

Dinner began slowly, as though the entire room was still recovering from my entrance. Plates arrived in quiet succession, wine glasses filled and refilled by waiters moving with rehearsed grace. Conversations trickled back to life — polite, measured, a little too careful. The air itself seemed to pulse with what no one dared to mention.No one commented on my lateness.No one joked about being “fashionably late.”Because this wasn’t fashion.It was an arrival.And they all felt it.I didn’t feel the need to fill the silence with charm or laughter. I spoke when spoken to, smiled when appropriate, but mostly, I simply existed — calm, composed, unbothered. I cut my food. I sipped my water. I met eyes when they met mine. Every quiet moment tilted the balance of the table a little further in my favor.Across from me, Serena glowed like the hostess she wanted to be — laughing at small jokes, tossing her hair, touching her necklace when she spoke. To anyone else, it might have looked effortle

The guests trickled out in elegant waves.First, the juniors — polite smiles, hurried goodbyes, clutching their purses like shields as they slipped into the night.Then the seniors — exchanging numbers, air-kissing cheeks, murmuring promises of coffee dates that would never happen.Bit by bit, the restaurant emptied, leaving behind the soft hum of the city outside, a few half-finished glasses of wine, and the faint perfume of too many conversations.When the last door closed, it was only us — Serena and me.The quiet felt strange after the buzz of laughter and clinking glasses. Candles burned low, their flames swaying in the draft, casting shadows that flickered against her face.She turned slowly, her smile perfectly rehearsed — too calm, too sweet to be sincere."That was… really nice," she said, sliding her bag over her shoulder. "You handled it well."Not You were wonderful. Not I’m proud of you.Just handled it.Like a test I was lucky to pass.I smiled faintly. "It was a beautifu

The city blurred beyond the taxi window — streaks of gold and neon bleeding together, as if the night itself was crying light.I rested my head against the cool glass and closed my eyes and remembered..Not the lies or the clinking of glasses or Serena’s perfectly rehearsed smile.But the beginning.High school.I was a sophomore — awkward, quiet, still trying to figure out how to disappear without being noticed. Then she arrived.Serena Blake.She walked into homeroom like she owned it, sunlight following her through the door. Perfect hair, skin that never seemed to break out, a laugh that made teachers pause mid-sentence.Everyone noticed her.And yet, that first day, she noticed me.I was sitting in the back row, half-hidden behind my bangs, drowning in an oversized sweater that smelled faintly of detergent. My face was a battlefield of acne and insecurity. But when she smiled at me, it felt like being seen for the first time.Not pitied.Not studied.Seen.We started talking after

I saw the confusion in my mother’s eyes.I’d said it too sharply — “Let them dry out.”Cold. Final. The kind of tone that didn’t belong to her daughter.She didn’t understand.How could she?To her, roses were a sign of love. A gesture of thoughtfulness. A reason to smile.To me, they were just reminders of manipulation dressed up as affection.But she couldn’t know that.I wasn’t only protecting myself.I was protecting her too.She trusted Julian.She liked Serena.She believed the picture-perfect life I’d painted — and if I tore it down too suddenly, she’d worry. She’d ask questions. She’d try to fix things that were never hers to fix.So I smiled. Soft. Familiar. The kind of smile she remembered from before everything changed.“Oh,” I said lightly, reaching for the bouquet. “I didn’t mean it like that. Of course I’ll put them in water.”Her face relaxed instantly. “I knew you would. He always knows how to make you smile.”My chest tightened, but I didn’t let it show.I carried the

Sunday came quietly, with the kind of calm that doesn’t demand attention but simply arrives and settles into the air. The world outside felt still, suspended somewhere between the fading chill of morning and the promise of light. There were no messages waiting for me, no phone calls to return, no obligations pressing at my chest. Just silence — and the kind that didn’t ache.I tied on the old apron my mother had given me when I was sixteen, the one still stained with streaks of paint and faint traces of flour that no amount of washing could erase. It smelled faintly of vanilla and time. I turned on the jazz playlist my father used to love — that easy, golden kind of sound that fills a home without taking up too much space — and started to bake.Cinnamon rolls first, soft and golden, then dark chocolate tarts that gleamed under the light, and finally a lemon cake with lavender frosting. I didn’t bake for anyone. I just wanted to see how the pale purple looked against the white plate. Th