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

London — Isabelle's Apartment, Late Evening

The ride through the city had been oddly quiet.

Isabelle sat close to Mary, holding her hand tightly in the carriage, her thumb brushing soft circles against her glove. Thomas, sitting across from them, tried to focus on the blurred city lights through the window, pretending not to notice the electricity between the two girls.

She kept glancing at him, not rudely, but with a silent question in her eyes:

But she said nothing—for Mary's sake.

Isabelle's Apartment — 9:40 p.m.

They stepped inside, and the shift was instant.

Isabelle's world was nothing like Mary's pristine, polished estate.

This was dim light and perfume-soaked air. Film posters lined the walls, faded photographs of jazz singers and Paris dancers framed in mismatched gold. A velvet chaise near the window. Stacked books about cinema, poetry, and rebellion. The scent of smoke, lipstick, and something like cinnamon hung in the air.

Mary's eyes lit up with curiosity. "This place is beautiful."

Thomas hesitated by the door, uncertain if he should sit or stand. "It's… unique."

Isabelle smirked. "It's rented. And it leaks when it rains. But it does the job."

She didn't miss the way Thomas's eyes lingered on the poster of a 1922 French silent film featuring two women in an embrace.

He said nothing. But the way he folded his hands over his coat told her he didn't feel comfortable.

Still, he remained polite—for Mary.

"I'll rest a bit," Thomas finally said. "It's been a long day."

Isabelle nodded, already walking Mary toward her room.

The room Isabelle had prepared was small but warm. The quilt was hand-stitched, the pillow fluffed gently. Mary had changed into a loose nightgown and sat at the window, looking down at the faint glow of lanterns on the street below.

She held the sketch she'd made of Isabelle in her lap. Her thoughts were tangled with too much emotion to sleep.

Down the hall, Isabelle sat in her room, legs curled under her on the chaise, listening to faint sounds—Thomas shifting in the guest room, the creak of Mary's floorboard.

She hadn't been able to speak freely. Not yet.

Tomorrow, I'll tell her everything.

The knock was soft, barely audible. But it was there.

She slipped off the bed, feet barely touching the cold floorboards, and padded to the door. Slowly, carefully, she turned the knob.

Isabelle stood there in the hallway, her hair loose, eyes sleepy but shimmering with something heavier—need, confusion, and everything she hadn't said yet.

"I couldn't sleep," she whispered.

Mary stepped aside without a word, letting her in.

The moonlight spilling through the sheer curtain was enough.

Midnight walls and secrets