All Chapters of I was more than pretty: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

Dear Reader,Thank you for walking this path with me.When I first dreamed of I Was More Than Pretty, I didn’t set out to write a story about revenge.I set out to write one about returning.Returning to yourself.Because so many of us — myself included — have spent years trying to be loved by changing 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 we were afraid of being alone.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 just 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 remembering.Evelyn isn’t here to destroy the people who hurt her.She’s here to outgrow them.And if you’ve ever stood in front of a mirror and didn’t recognize the woman looking back…If you’ve ever changed yourself to be

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

It was a Tuesday.Nothing special.No meetings.No deadlines.Just 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 longer than the other, stitched with silver thread like a scar. I’d titled it “I Am Not What You Threw Away.”It was the first time I’d named a design after a truth.And when I looked at it, I didn’t see fashion.I saw survival.I needed to submit it to the digital archive on the sixth floor.No rush.No urgency.Just a quiet walk, a scan, a save.So I walked to the east elevator bank.The same one Soren Bellandi used.I’d noticed that about him — he didn’t take the private lift.Didn’t demand clearance.Didn’t avoid people.He used the main elevator.Like he wasn’t afraid of being seen.I pressed the button.The doors opened.And my breath stopped.Inside, standing near the back, was Soren Bellandi.Not alone.Beside him, his secretary — a man in a tailored charcoal su

There are moments in life when silence is more dangerous than war.We are taught, from childhood, that to speak is strength, that to fight back is power, that to scream is survival. But what if the most dangerous weapon is not the cry of outrage — but the whisper of restraint?Evelyn’s voice, in this chapter, is the voice of a woman who knows. She has already lived the storm. She has already drowned in the flood of betrayal. And now, she stands in the ruins, watching the cycle begin again.Most people think betrayal happens suddenly. They think it is sharp, like a knife slipped between the ribs. They think it comes in a single night, with a confession or a discovery.But betrayal is slower than that.It grows.It grows in the quiet rooms where glances linger too long.It grows in the offices where excuses are handed out like candy to the favored few.It grows in the pauses between laughter, in the seconds of silence where two souls lean too close and pretend it is nothing.Serena is th

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