Mask

The Angel Dances Alone

The world thought I was winning.

HELLO! MAGAZINE:

“Montesque Heiress Glows in Milan: Wedding Stress? Not a Trace!”

VOGUE:

“The Angel Bride Turns Heads in Valentino — Anastasia Montesque Owns the Runway at Milan Fashion Week.”

TATLER:

“Croft Fiancée Spotted Without Klaude — But Looking Every Bit the Icon.”

If only they knew.

⸻

I didn’t stay home.

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t let the Croft estate’s walls suffocate me with their silence, heavy with unspoken names.

Instead, I built myself a fortress of schedules — packed my calendar so tightly there wasn’t room for my thoughts to catch me when they tried to chase me down.

Charity luncheons in Madrid.

Fashion week in Milan.

A private art exhibition in Paris.

A weekend in Dubai for an exclusive jewelry showcase.

If the world insisted on watching me, then I would give them something worth watching.

⸻

Milan came first. Fashion Week.

“Anastasia, this way! Over here!” The cameras shrieked louder than the reporters, their flashes strobing so violently I could barely see the steps leading to the entrance.

I wore a white Valentino peplum gown dusted in crystals, my hair twisted into an immaculate chignon, diamonds cascading from my ears.

Every blogger declared me “best dressed of the night.”

Every magazine fawned over my “effortless elegance.”

But inside, under all that silk and sparkle, I couldn’t breathe.

The dress clung like a cage, glittering and suffocating all at once.

⸻

The next morning, Vogue Italia called.

“Lady Anastasia, we want you on our next cover. Bridal couture. A full spread.”

Mother nearly cried. “See, darling? This is what it means to be a Croft fiancée. You’re not just a girl anymore. You’re a brand.”

She kissed my cheek, radiant.

I smiled at her, perfect, practiced.

But in the hollow of my chest, I hated how true it sounded.

⸻

The shoot was in Florence, at a villa overlooking rolling Tuscan hills the color of old gold.

Eight hours under the hands of stylists. Dior. Givenchy. Elie Saab. Silk that whispered against marble floors, lace so fragile I felt like I’d tear it by breathing.

The photographer beamed with every snap. “Bella! Perfect! Yes, that cold, mysterious look—like a saint carved in marble. Bellissima!”

If only he knew that “cold and mysterious” was just me trying not to think of Olivia’s perfume.

By the week’s end, Paris called. A late-night talk show, lights bright enough to blind.

“Lady Anastasia, congratulations on the engagement!” The host’s grin sparkled as much as the stage. “You and Mr. Croft are all anyone can talk about. How are you handling all this attention?”

I smiled — the same smile Mother had drilled into me since I was five. Sweet. Angelic. Untouchable.

“Oh, I’m just grateful,” I said softly, folding my hands, ankles crossed with perfect poise. “I’ve always believed that when you’re blessed with privilege, you should use it to inspire others. Klaude and I… we’re just excited to use our union for something bigger than ourselves.”

The crowd clapped.

Safe. Elegant. Scripted.

But what I really wanted to say?

It feels like drowning. Like being paraded as proof of a love story while the man I’m supposed to marry is whispering someone else’s name in the dark.

But no one could know that.

So I gave them more photographs.

Me on a yacht off the coast of Capri, champagne in hand, laughing like nothing could touch me.

Me at an exclusive gala in Florence, dripping in diamonds that glittered harder than my smile.

Me beside princes, CEOs, and heiresses, looking like the girl who already had everything.

Every like. Every “goddess” comment. Every “queen” and “angel” felt like armor.

What they didn’t see was the girl underneath — who stripped out of couture gowns at midnight and sat alone on the edge of a hotel bed, staring at her reflection until she couldn’t recognize her own face.

Anastasia Montesque. The Angel. The fiancée. The doll.

And I wondered — was this what being loved felt like? Pretending you didn’t care that you weren’t?

“Anak,” Manang Teresita said one night, bringing me tea when I returned to my Paris suite. Her eyes lingered on me the way only someone who’d known me since childhood could. “Hindi mo kailangang ipakita na okay ka palagi. Tao ka rin. Masasaktan ka rin.”

I traced the rim of the porcelain cup, its warmth seeping into my cold fingers.

“Hindi puwede, Manang,” I whispered. “The moment they see me break, they win.”

She frowned. “Sino? Si Mr. Klaude?”

I smiled faintly. “Everyone.”

That night, I scrolled again.

The tabloids loved me. Every article dripped with praise. Every photo perfect.

But there she was, too.

Olivia.

Always lurking in the background. Mentioned in whispers. Named in rumors.

Always there.

I shut the screen and stared at the ceiling until dawn crept past the curtains.

If Klaude thought he could love her and keep me on display like a prized possession, he was wrong.

This wasn’t a love story anymore.

It was a performance.

And I would play my role so flawlessly that when the curtain fell, no one would even remember her name.