Alana sat before the massive mirror of her glossy black vanity, the ornate gold trim gleaming under the dim chandelier light that hung above her like a crown. The room around her was everything she had ever dreamed of growing up—dripping in drama, glitter, and allure.
The velvet curtains were drawn halfway, letting in just enough morning light to catch the shimmer in the deep crimson wallpaper. The scent of peonies and rose perfume lingered in the air, mixing with the soft jazz playing on her speaker.
The entire space screamed "wannabe socialite"—but in the kind of way that made you take a second look, just in case she really was one.
Her bed, set like a throne at the center of the room, had a tufted white headboard taller than she was. Faux fur rugs covered the hardwood floors, and crystal trays filled with high-end makeup and designer perfumes sat meticulously arranged on her marble-topped dresser. Everything in her room looked like it belonged in a curated influencer photoshoot.
And Alana herself looked just as calculated.
She was dressed to impress, wearing a form-fitting burgundy dress that flattered her curves, paired with stilettos sharp enough to stab through glass. Her long hair cascaded over one shoulder in flawless waves, and her makeup was elegant yet bold—just enough to make her look effortlessly expensive.
Bold. Seductive. Attention-seeking. Just the way she liked it.
As she applied the final touches of highlighter to her already glowing cheekbones, her eyes shifted—drawn toward the nightstand beside her bed. There, like a sacred relic, sat a photo frame. One she never moved. One she never let anyone touch.
Her graduation photo.
It was a wide, formal shot—one of those massive group pictures they took at the end of the ceremony, the kind that captured not just faces, but the tension, the hopes, the rivalries of every student in that frame. There she was, standing in the second row, in a bright red dress that made her stand out against the sea of boring navy and black.
But her eyes didn't linger on herself.
They went straight to him.
Silas Blackwood.
Tall. Impeccably dressed. Smiling with that easy grace that came so naturally to him. He was in the third row, slightly off-center. His face tilted ever so subtly to the right.
To the unknowing eye, it might look like he was just caught mid-pose—but to Alana, that slight angle meant everything. Because right there, to his right, stood her.
She had always told people that he was looking at her. That the way his eyes softened meant something. That his smile was a silent message, meant only for her. Her friends would squeal and coo, calling her lucky, perfect, destined. And she'd bask in it, letting their words wrap around her like silk.
But deep down, she knew the truth.
That look wasn't for her.
It was for the girl standing just one step behind her—Avery Vale.
Even now, just the thought of that name made her lips curl in distaste. Avery. The darling everyone adored. The one girl who had always unknowingly stolen the spotlight Alana had fought so hard for. The only girl Silas had ever looked at differently.
But not anymore.
That part of the photo—that bitter corner of reality—Alana kept it in frame anyway. Not out of sentimentality, but as a reminder.
Because in the end, Avery Vale was gone.
And she, Alana, was still here.
She had clawed her way to the top, one manipulative step at a time. And now, even though she didn't know where Silas had gone off to recently, she felt no jealousy. No insecurity. Because the only girl who could've taken Silas away from her had already been erased from his life. Permanently.
Thanks to her.
With a soft, triumphant smile, Alana reached out and traced her fingers over Silas's face in the photo. "One day" she whispered, "you'll be mine. Officially."
She adjusted her robe, then stood up gracefully, slipping her feet into scarlet heels. She strutted toward the full-length mirror near her closet, took one final look, and nodded to herself with satisfaction.
Time to keep impressing the current queen of the Blackwood empire.
After all, keeping Aunt Vivienne wrapped around her little finger was key. If Vivienne continued to believe that she and Silas were made for each other, it was only a matter of time before the idea of 'Mrs. Alana Blackwood' became more than just a fantasy.
Just as she opened her bedroom door, she nearly bumped into her mother, who was walking down the hallway with a laundry basket in hand.
"Where are you going, Alana?" her mother asked, eyeing her daughter's appearance with a slight frown.
Alana didn't slow her pace. She tossed her hair back and gave a careless reply over her shoulder.
"To Aunt Vivienne's."
And without so much as a glance back, she clicked out of the house in her heels, the sound echoing down the hallway like a countdown to her calculated future.
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Vivienne sat quietly in the grand living room of the Blackwood mansion, her slender hands folded neatly over her lap as her husband, Nolan Blackwood, sat beside her—his attention entirely consumed by the phone clutched tightly in his hand. The tension in the air was almost palpable, thick enough to suffocate.
The room, though opulent, felt heavy. The massive floor-to-ceiling windows were draped in velvet, muting the natural light outside. A coffee table stood between them, adorned with a bowl of untouched fruit and an untouched cup of herbal tea. The ticking of the antique grandfather clock was the only sound competing with Nolan's voice as he barked orders on the phone.
Vivienne sat alert, her posture stiff, eyes flicking occasionally to her husband's face to anticipate his needs. She didn't speak. She didn't move. She just waited, like a good wife trained by years of living under Nolan Blackwood's volatile temper.
As soon as he ended the call with a furious swipe, he tossed the phone onto the sofa like it had personally offended him. It bounced once before settling among the plush cushions.