Jia_Syzelle

In the 1920s, Mary, the quiet daughter of the town mayor, lives by strict rules—until she meets Isabelle Hart, a bold and flirty jazz singer. Drawn to Isabelle’s fire, Mary begins to question everything she’s ever known. But in a time where their love is forbidden, their greatest enemy becomes everyone—family, friends, and society itself.

Will they accept themselves and how will they fight the society?

Will there always remain forbidden?

Forbidden Dream 1920

The world blurred past her—the stone streets, the flickering gaslights, the soft hum of a sleeping town. But nothing could blur the feeling burning beneath her skin.

It hadn't been long, but it had changed something. It clung to her like a secret scent she couldn't wash away.

She reached the back gate of her family's estate and slipped inside through the narrow side path. Her heart thudded in her chest. Her breath came in sharp little gasps.

No one saw. No one heard. I was careful.

She crept into the hallway—silent, still, nearly safe.

Her elbow struck the narrow hallway table. A porcelain vase—delicate and floral, her mother's favorite—toppled and smashed onto the marble floor.

Mary stood frozen. Her lips parted in horror.

"Did you hear that?" her father's voice rang out, stern and tired.

"I did," her mother said sharply. "Something broke."

Mary darted toward the staircase, holding her skirt up with trembling hands. She flew up the stairs, down the corridor, and into her room just in time. She shut the door with a soft click and pressed her back to it, chest heaving.

Lord Whitmore descended first, tying the sash on his robe. "Someone's dropped something."

Lady Whitmore followed, candle in hand. "What in heaven's name is going on at this hour?"

They turned the corner and stopped.

The vase lay in shards, the painted roses broken into pieces across the cold white marble.

"My vase!" Lady Whitmore gasped, lowering her candle. "That was from France!"

Lord Whitmore rubbed his temple. "The one with the ridiculous gold rim?"

"It was an heirloom," she snapped.

"No one's here," he muttered, glancing around. "Doors are locked. Windows shut."

A soft little cry from near the kitchen arch.

The striped neighbor's cat strolled out lazily, tail high, blinking at them like nothing was wrong.

Lady Whitmore's jaw dropped. "That wretched animal again! I told Martha to keep the back door closed."

"It's just a cat, darling," her husband said calmly. "Might've jumped up on the table."

"A cat destroyed my vase," she muttered, shaking her head. "Just wonderful."

"We'll have it swept up in the morning. Come back to bed."

She gave the cat one last glare. "Disaster on paws."

Mary sat against her bedroom door, listening to every word below.

When it finally quieted, she let her head fall into her hands.

Her fingers shook. Her cheeks burned.

I could've been caught. I almost was.

But all she could think of was that kiss. The warmth of it. The danger of it. The way Isabelle had looked at her—not with judgment, not with expectation—but with a kind of bold knowing that made her feel like she was real.

She rose slowly and walked to the mirror. Her reflection stared back at her.

Hair windswept. Eyes wild. Lips parted.

Mary touched them with her fingertips.

The broken vase