All Chapters of I was more than pretty: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

No one clapped.No one spoke.No one even breathed.I stood at the end of the table, coat still on, one hand resting lightly on the back of my chair, and let them look.Not with hunger.Not with desire.But with recognition.Because they knew me.Not as Evelyn Morgan, the rich girl with the “interesting face.”Not as the woman they whispered about — “She’s pretty, but you can tell it’s not real.”Not as the one who changed her nose, her jaw, her smile — like she was apologizing for existing.No.They saw me now.And for the first time, they saw what they’d refused to see before.That I had always been here.That I had always been enough.That the only thing that had changed was my refusal to hide.A woman in a silver dress blinked at me like I’d appeared out of smoke.Another turned to her neighbor and whispered, “Is that… her?” — like she couldn’t believe her eyes.One man — a senior designer I’d seen at Parsons — actually straightened in his seat, as if instinctively showing respect

She came back in like nothing had happened.Serena.Hair smoothed.Lips re-glossed.Smile freshly painted.She took her seat like a queen reclaiming her throne — back straight, chin high, eyes scanning the room like she was checking her kingdom.But I saw her.The way her fingers trembled when she picked up her wine.The way her smile didn’t soften, even when someone laughed.The way her eyes kept flicking to me — not with curiosity.With hunger.The hunger of someone watching their plan collapse.And then she watched.As I spoke.Not loudly.Not desperately.But naturally.A designer across the table mentioned a new fabric line.I nodded. "I used something similar in a sketch last year. The drape is incredible."She leaned in. "Wait, you design?""Trying to," I said. "One piece at a time."She laughed — real, warm.Not at me.With me.Another woman asked about my coat.I told her it was custom.She asked where.I said, "A boutique downtown. I’ll send you the address."No bragging.No

We left the restaurant together — not side by side, but close enough to look like friends.The city air was cool that night, the kind that slipped under your skin and carried the faint smell of rain. Streetlights hummed above us, casting their yellow glow onto the pavement, while the laughter and clatter of cutlery from the restaurant faded behind like an echo I no longer belonged to.There was no rush in our steps. No chatter to fill the silence. Just two figures moving down the sidewalk, bound by blood but divided by something deeper.And then came the moment.The one I used to live for.The ritual.The place in the night where I would pull out my phone, open the app, and say, “I’ll call you a taxi, Serena. Don’t worry, it’s no trouble.”Like it was my duty.Like it was my role in her life.Like my presence was only justified if I served.I used to do it without thinking, without hesitation. Even on nights when I was exhausted. Even when I was carrying pain I couldn’t name. Even whe

I walked into the house like I was coming back from war.Not bruised.Not bleeding.But changed.The lights were low. The staff had gone. Only the soft glow from the living room welcomed me.And then she appeared.Mom.In her favorite sweater. Hair loose. A book in hand.She didn’t say, How was it?She just opened her arms.I walked into them.Held her — tightly, deeply — like I was reattaching myself to something real.“You’re home,” she whispered.“I missed you.”I didn’t say anything.Just breathed in the scent of her perfume — vanilla and lavender, the same since I was a child.She pulled back, smiled. “How was dinner? Was it nice? How’s Serena?”Her voice was warm.Genuine.Full of trust.Because she didn’t know.She’d known Serena Blake since we were teenagers.Had seen her at birthday parties, school events, family dinners.Had heard her say, “Evelyn’s my sister.”Had believed her.To Mom, Serena was kind.Thoughtful.A good influence.She had no idea the girl who hugged her da

I didn’t cry long.The bath had taken it out of me — not just the tears, but the weight of memory.The scar on my foot.The roses in the trash.The lies wrapped in chocolate.But I didn’t let it drown me.I stepped out.Dried off.Pulled on soft pajamas.Brushed my hair until it shone.And just as I turned to go to bed — I stopped.Monday was coming.Not orientation.Not introductions.Not another performance.Work.My first official day at Parsons — not as a guest, not as Julian’s fiancée, not as Serena’s “sister” — but as Evelyn Morgan, Design Associate.And I wouldn’t walk in unprepared.I went to my desk.Opened the folder labeled Parsons – Onboarding.Pulled out the documents.Thick.Polished.Full of rules, expectations, hierarchies.I sat on the edge of my bed, legs tucked beneath me, and began to read.Not quickly.Not casually.Line by line.I started with the company mission: Innovation through integrity. Design that speaks, not shouts. It was more than a slogan. It was a pr