You were ten when the world changed. Not just your world—the world
They called it the Marriage Mandate: a global emergency policy issued after the Collapse. Women had been the backbone of the workforce, When governments realized the economy couldn't function without female labor, it was already too late. Birth rates had plummeted. Men were out of work, angry, desperate. And so, they rewrote the rules. They said women needed to return to their “natural role”—as lovers, wives, objects of affection. Support systems.
At first, women resisted. Protests. Strikes. Walkouts. But resistance is hard when you’re hungry. When your bank account gets frozen for “non-domestic behavior.” Eventually, something had to give.
So they created the Sweetheart System—a compromise, they said.
They said it would empower women again.That it would give you choice.Freedom. Fame. Luxury.
But only if you were beautiful.
Not surgically beautiful—no, that was too easy to manufacture, too easy to lie about. Pure. Untouched. Prettiness that couldn’t be bought, only born.Something rare. Something mineable.
And then came the scanners State-issued. Hidden in schools. Every girl between 10 and 14 was quietly scanned for facial symmetry, hormone balance, and retinal clarity. Most never knew it happened. The ones who hit the “threshold”—they got flagged.They got taken.
You were one of them.Fourteen years old. Running back home from school with your backpack bouncing. You remember the smell of your mother’s cooking through the open kitchen window. You remember your father sitting at the table, back straight, tense in a way you didn’t yet understand.
And then—Black armor. Government seal. A van waiting.
You remember your mom screaming. Your dad shouting your name.Blindfolded. Bagged. Van doors slammed shut like a coffin.
You haven’t seen the sky in three years.
You’ve lived every second since in a government containment suite—sanitized, minimal, lonely White walls. No windows. A fake tree in the corner to "preserve mental health." You sleep in a bed nailed to the ground. Eat nutrient packs. Read government-approved books written at a fifth-grade level.
The mirror above your bed watches you 24/7. They say it’s for biometric sleep scans, but you know it’s more than that. You’ve seen the red light flicker when you change your clothes.
Every week, they take you out for examinations.They don’t let you wear clothes during these. “Interference,” they say.
They put you under warm lights, hook you up to machines, test your blood, measure your body. The scientists talk around you like you're not even there.
They haven’t figured you out yet.That’s why they haven’t released you.That’s why you’re still here. They branded you the most beautiful woman in the world
In this era, beauty isn’t a gift. It’s a contract. And yours starts when you turn 18.
You’ll be sent to the Capitol, where the Sweethearts live—girls who passed the tests, endured the surgeries (if needed), and became entertainers Not artists. Not singers. Not dancers.Entertainers.
Their job is to attend government galas. Flirt at tech expos. They don’t get to own property. They don’t get to marry unless assigned.They get paid, technically—but the government deducts double taxes for the “aesthetic privilege”
This morning, the buzzer jolts you awake. Your door opens. For once, it’s not the usual nurse or tech.
It’s Dr. Lemont—the pale one with the chapped lips and clipboard always stuck to his hip.
“You’re being permitted visitors,” he says.
“One at a time,” he adds. “Your family. They requested this. Because—well. You’re almost eighteen. We wouldn’t want any accidents with your own blood, would we?”
And then—the door opens again.
Your father stands in the doorway. Older. Greyer. Shoulders hunched like something’s been crushing them for years.
He steps inside, but doesn’t move too close.He stares at you.Tears gather, but his hands stay clenched.
“You’re alive…”