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Accessories had been included: a delicate set of jewelry far finer than anything you owned—pearl drops for your ears, a matching necklace that shimmered like dew on gold, and long gloves in the exact shade to complement the gown.

Clara whispered, voice hushed with awe: “This is… meant for royalty.”

And yet—it had been sent to you.

You reached out and touched the fabric. It was cool, heavy, impossibly soft. For the first time, something had been made not for your sisters, not for your family’s image, but for you.

You felt the weight of that truth settle in your chest—warm, terrifying, and strangely freeing.

—————

In the adjoining sitting room, your sisters’ voices carried clearly through the half-open door.

Arabella’s tone was sharp with disbelief. “She was pointed at like she was chosen. By a princess.”

Juliette paced, silk whispering around her ankles. “And now this? A gown that looks like it was woven from actual sunlight? While we’re still fighting over the same tired silks?”

Arabella laughed—bitter, brittle. “She looked like nothing yesterday. That’s exactly why it worked. The little mouse gets noticed the moment she stops trying.”

Juliette’s voice dropped, colder. “This isn’t luck. This is dangerous.”

They both knew it.

This wasn’t just attention.

It was a shift in power.

——————

In your parents’ chamber, your mother paced while explaining the situation to your father, voice tight with frustration and strategy.

“The princess noticed her. Publicly. In front of everyone. Now this gown arrives like a declaration. We cannot afford to misstep here.”

She expected concern. Worry. Damage control.

But your father—Lord Sterling—simply smiled. Softly. Proudly.

Your mother stopped mid-step, thrown off balance. “You don’t seem to understand the implications—”

He interrupted gently, looking out the window toward the garden. “I understand perfectly.”

A long pause.

Then, quietly: “She was always meant to be seen.”

Your mother stiffened.

He continued, voice low and measured: “Her mother was not invisible either.”

He didn’t say the word mistress. He didn’t need to.

He turned to face her. “I made a choice when I brought her into this house. And I do not regret it.”

Your mother’s jaw tightened.

Because this truth had always been there, buried beneath layers of propriety and silence:

You were not her daughter.

Not by blood.

—————

That evening, as the city lights began to flicker on and carriages rolled through the streets toward the grand ball, you stood before the mirror one final time.

The golden gown fit like it had been stitched to your soul—structured yet flowing, glowing with every movement. Your hair had been styled with delicate pearl pins and a single yellow flower tucked just above your ear, a quiet nod to the garden that had started everything.

Clara stepped back, eyes shining. “You look… like someone who was always meant to be seen.”

You met your own gaze in the mirror.

For the first time, you didn’t look away.

—————

Meanwhile, at Wayne Estate, Damian stood before his own mirror as a valet made final adjustments to his dark, perfectly tailored evening attire. Everything was precise—cufflinks aligned, cravat knotted with military exactness, coat falling in sharp, clean lines.

He looked like power.

He looked like control.

But his mind was elsewhere.

Jon Kent burst into the room, already dressed and radiating energy. “Tonight’s the night! The ball of the season. Think I’ll find my future wife among all that silk and scandal?”

He grinned at Damian. “What about you? Any particular lady catching your eye?”

Damian’s response was immediate—sharp, clipped. “I am not interested in romance. Only in duty.”

Jon paused, studying him with that easy, perceptive warmth. “That sounds miserable.”

Damian didn’t react.

But something inside him shifted—unsettled, restless.

A faint memory flickered: A scarf hiding a face. A lake. A ring grazing his skin.

He frowned slightly.

Then dismissed it.

Again.

—————

The carriages moved through Gothmere’s illuminated streets—lanterns glowing, music already drifting from distant halls.

In yours, your sisters whispered excitedly about the night ahead. Your mother sat straight, calculating every possible advantage.

You looked out the window instead.

The city felt different now.

Watching you.

In the Wayne carriage, Damian sat composed and silent beside his father.

Controlled.

Detached.

About to be proven wrong.

By the time the music began, nothing would remain the same.

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