Prologue
The gallery buzzed with life, the air heavy with the scent of expensive perfume and polished wood. Crystal chandeliers hung above the crowd, their light casting a golden glow over the sea of designer suits and gowns. This was Grace Wellington’s world—opulent, commanding, and utterly suffocating.
And I was her most prized possession.
I stood at the edge of the room, clutching a champagne flute I had no intention of drinking. My dress, a flowing emerald-green creation Grace had handpicked, clung to me like a second skin. I could feel the weight of her gaze even when I wasn’t looking at her. She always made sure I fit the image she had crafted for me, the perfect accessory to her empire.
But I don’t belong here.
The paintings on the walls, admired by the glittering elite, told a story of beauty and brilliance. The Ethereal Blossoms was the centerpiece, glowing under its spotlight. The guests whispered about its genius, about the name scrawled in bold letters beneath it: Grace Wellington
Grace didn’t see a daughter when she looked at me. She saw an asset, a tool to further her own dark, insidious plans. And so, I became a player in a game I never agreed to, forging counterfeit art, selling my skill to protect the Wellington name, my hands trembling as they held brushes that would have been better suited to another life—one that could have been mine if I’d been allowed the chance.
I swallowed hard, bile rising in my throat. They didn’t know the truth. Every stroke, every shade, every nuance was mine. My hands had created these masterpieces, but the credit belonged to Grace.
She had stolen my art, my name, my legacy.
“Zara.”
Her voice sliced through my thoughts, sharp and precise. I turned to see her gliding toward me, her tailored silver gown shimmering under the light. Grace was always perfect—poised, elegant, untouchable. She reached me, her lips curving into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“You’re sulking,” she said quietly, her tone a mix of warning and mockery. “Smile. You’re the artist behind the scenes, Zara. Be proud of that.”
Behind the scenes. Always behind the scenes.
I forced a tight-lipped smile, and Grace’s eyes narrowed, her grip tightening on my arm. “Don’t ruin this for me,” she hissed. “Tonight is important.”
I didn’t respond. What was the point? Grace always got what she wanted, and I’d long since learned that resistance only made things worse.
She led me to a circle of guests, introducing me as her stepdaughter, her protégée. The compliments came easily, flowing like honey. “Grace is so generous,” one woman gushed. “You’re lucky to have her guiding you.”
Lucky.
The word echoed in my mind as I endured their praise for a woman who had stolen everything from me. I nodded when expected, smiled when required, and prayed for the night to end.
Hours later, I escaped to the quiet of my room in the Wellington estate. The rain tapped against the tall windows, a rhythmic reminder of the world outside this gilded cage. My sanctuary, if it could be called that, was a stark contrast to the rest of the mansion. The walls were bare, the furniture functional. The only decoration was the easel in the corner, a half-finished painting perched on it like an unspoken rebellion.
I sat on the edge of my bed, running my fingers over the bracelet on my wrist. It had been a gift from my father—a simple piece, unassuming, but filled with meaning. He had believed in my art, in me, and his encouragement had been a lifeline.
Until Grace entered our lives.
After his death, she had taken over everything: the house, the business, even me. She saw potential in my art, but not as something to nurture. To her, it was a resource to exploit.
A knock at the door pulled me from my thoughts.
“Zara?”
It was William, my husband. I hesitated, staring at the door. Our marriage was as hollow as the compliments I’d endured tonight. It was a union of convenience, orchestrated by Grace to cement alliances and elevate her social standing. William played his role well—charming in public, indifferent in private.
“Come in,” I said finally.
He stepped inside, his tailored suit still immaculate, his expression unreadable. “You disappeared from the gallery,” he said.
“I needed air,” I replied, keeping my tone neutral.
He studied me for a moment before shrugging. “Grace is looking for you. She wants you downstairs.”
Of course, she did.
Later, as I stood in the gallery once more, watching Grace accept accolades for my work, I felt the walls closing in. The applause was deafening, the smiles blinding. No one noticed the artist in the shadows, the woman whose soul was on display but whose name would never be spoken.
I gripped the edge of the table beside me, the polished wood cooled under my fingers. One day, I promised myself. One day, I will escape this life. I would reclaim what was mine.
But for now, I had to play my part.
And the show would go on.
