บททั้งหมดของ I was more than pretty: บทที่ 31 - บทที่ 40

Dear Reader,When I first dreamed of I Was More Than Pretty, I didn’t intend to write about revenge.I intended to write about returning.Returning to yourself.Because so many of us — myself included — have spent years bending and breaking to be loved.We’ve changed our faces, our voices, our truths.We’ve smiled through pain.We’ve stayed in rooms that drained us.We’ve called betrayal “love” because the silence of loneliness felt worse.And then one day, something shifts.Not loudly.Not with a scream.But with a quiet thought:“I was never the problem.”This story is for that moment.For the woman who’s beginning to see not her flaws, but her strength.Not her past, but her power.Not the lies she was told, but the truth she’s reclaiming.Evelyn isn’t here to destroy the people who hurt her.She’s here to outgrow them.And if you’ve ever stood before a mirror and not recognized the woman staring back…If you’ve ever reshaped yourself to be loved, only to lose yourself in the proces

The next morning, a message flashed on the internal screen in the lobby:“All staff — Mandatory meeting. Grand Hall. 10:00 a.m. sharp.”No reason.No agenda.Just a time.And yet, the building buzzed.By 9:50 a.m., the hall was full.Rows of chairs, polished floor, a massive stage with the Parsons insignia glowing in silver.People whispered as they found their seats.Some wore their boldest outfits.Others adjusted their hair for the tenth time.A junior designer near the front fanned herself with her notebook.“He’s actually coming,” she whispered. “I heard he’s speaking.”I sat near the back — not to hide, but to see.And then, at exactly 10:00 a.m., the lights dimmed.Not dramatically.Not with music.Just silence.The side door opened.And he walked in.Soren Bellandi.Not in a suit.Not in a coat.But in a tailored black sweater, sleeves pushed up just slightly, revealing strong forearms, a simple silver watch.His hair slightly tousled, like he hadn’t tried.His jaw sharp, his p

It was a Tuesday—ordinary in every way.No meetings.No looming deadlines.Just another quiet day at work.I was in the design annex on the third floor, finalizing a sketch for the seasonal textile review—a coat with asymmetrical shoulders, one sleeve slightly longer than the other, stitched with a single line of silver thread that cut across like a scar. I called it I Am Not What You Threw Away.It was the first time I’d ever named a design after a truth instead of an idea.And when I looked at it, I didn’t see fashion.I saw survival.All that was left was to upload it to the digital archive on the sixth floor. A simple task—scan, save, submit. No rush. No urgency.I gathered the sketch, straightened the edges, and made my way toward the east elevator bank—the same one Soren Bellandi used.That had always struck me as strange. He never took the private lift reserved for executives, never demanded clearance or avoided people. He used the same elevator as everyone else, like a man who

There are moments in life when silence is far more dangerous than war.From childhood, we’re told that strength lies in speech — that survival depends on the scream, the fight, the refusal to yield. Yet, the older we become, the clearer it is that sometimes the most lethal weapon is not the cry of outrage, but the stillness that follows it.Evelyn’s voice carries that truth. She has already lived through storms that tore her apart. She has already drowned in betrayal and surfaced again, alone, in the quiet after. Now, she stands among the ruins, watching a story she once survived unfold for someone else.People like to believe betrayal strikes in an instant — that it’s sharp and clean, like a knife between the ribs. In truth, it seeps in slowly. It grows roots in the small, almost invisible moments: the extra glance, the too-long pause, the laughter that lingers.It begins in the quiet rooms where people look but don’t look away.In the offices where excuses are handed out like gifts t

The elevator doors closed behind Luca Bellandi.I watched from the end of the hall — not close enough to be seen, but near enough to feel the silence he left behind.He didn’t walk like a man who’d just lost an argument.He walked like a man who’d lost the future he’d planned.Inside the elevator, he didn’t speak at first.His secretary — the same sharp, composed man who’d followed him earlier — stood beside him, eyes forward, hands clasped.Then, just as the car began to descend, Luca exhaled — long, slow, like he’d been holding his breath for years.“He said he loves her.”Not a question.A statement.A wound.The secretary didn’t look at him.But he listened.“My son,” Luca continued, voice low, “who once told a woman he would rather die than marry her… says he loves someone.”He shook his head.Not in anger.In disbelief.“You know how many women I’ve introduced him to? Seven. Seven of the most brilliant, beautiful, powerful women in Europe. And he treated each one like a business