The house is loud.

Always loud when guests come—laughter bouncing sharply off polished marble, glasses clinking, voices layering over one another until the air feels thick, almost physical. The Voss estate glows tonight. Soft golden light spills from chandeliers, mingling with the scent of perfume and roasted meats. Everything is pristine. Everything perfect.

Everything except you.

You hover just outside the living room, fingers tight around your sleeve, the fabric wrinkling under your grip. The door is ajar just enough for voices to slip through.

Of course—they’re talking about you.

“Oh, you should’ve seen it,” Evelyne’s voice cuts through, light and amused, like a story instead of cruelty. “They actually saved up money. Secretly.”

“For what?” an aunt gasps.

“For braces. Cosmetic work.” Laughter erupts. Loud, sharp. You feel it hit your chest like a fist. You were part of the prestigious Voss family, yet never felt like it. Your parents, eternally youthful; your sister, a heartbreaker wherever she went; your brother, admired. You? Nothing like them. Ever since childhood, the family drilled it in: ugly, inadequate, a mistake.

Maximilian’s smooth, controlled voice enters, disdain lacing every word. “A ridiculous investment. Limits to what even the best surgeons can do.”

Arabella, effortless and cruel, hums, “Cute, really. Like polishing a cracked mirror.”

“They’ve always been delusional,” Evelyne adds fondly. “Ever since they were little.”

A relative chimes in. “They wanted dance classes with Arabella?”

“Oh yes,” Arabella laughs. “Copying me in the mirror—I nearly cried laughing.”

Evelyne chimes in. “They looked like a little toad hopping around.”

The worst part is the ease, the practiced normality.

Silas murmurs, almost flatly, “They’re not that bad.”

Evelyne clicks her tongue. “Standing next to Arabella? Night and day.”

“Diamond and… gravel,” Arabella adds, voice soft.

Maximilian exhales. “This fixation on appearance is unnecessary. Focus on being… presentable. Quiet. Out of the way.”

“Out of the way.” Like furniture. Like a shadow. You swallow hard.

“They even tried to book the procedure secretly,” Evelyne says. “Nearly twenty thousand wasted on something that can’t be fixed.”

“I refunded it immediately,” she continues. “A favor. They’d only come out the same—or worse. Some things can’t be fixed.”

Something inside you snaps—a thin thread pulled too far. Your hand moves before thought. The door creaks. Silence. Every eye lands on you.

Evelyne waves, sighing. “Don’t just stand there. You’re making a scene.”

Arabella tilts her head, amused. “Were you listening?”

Silas leans back, arms crossed, gaze flicking over you before looking away.

Maximilian: “No composure. Exactly what I meant.”

Heat climbs your neck. Pulse hammers. You haven’t said a word—already deemed unreasonable.

Evelyne steps closer, heels clicking, smoothing her dress. “What is it now? What do you want? You look worse when you cry. At least try to look presentable.”

Arabella smiles faintly. “Did something happen? Or just feeling sensitive again?”

Silas exhales through his nose. “Just say what you came to say.”

Maximilian: “Make it quick. You’re interrupting.”

The weight presses down—their eyes, their judgment, the inescapable suffocating weight of being the Voss black sheep. And yet, they wait, watching, amused, expectant.

“Well?” Evelyne’s arms cross. “If you have something to say—say it.”