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📖 Chapter 4 — The House That Wasn't Quite Home
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It was a pale spring afternoon when Mira left the Song estate. The sky was a quiet gray, hanging low over the cherry trees in bloom. Their petals drifted down in slow, ghostly spirals, gathering on the wide stone steps like fallen confetti.
She stood there for a moment, suitcase by her side, staring up at the grand front doors. The home she'd once thought would be hers forever.
Her mother emerged from inside, eyes shiny though she tried to hide it behind a bright, practiced smile. "I'll come visit soon, darling. Once everything settles a bit."
Mira nodded. Her throat felt too tight to trust with words.
"And if you need anything—anything at all—call me or your father. This doesn't change that we love you."
Doesn't change. Mira almost laughed at that. Of course it changed things. How could it not?
But she only offered a small, fragile smile. "I know, Mother."
---
The driver carefully loaded her bags into the sleek town car. Mira climbed into the back seat, smoothing the skirt of her simple navy dress. As they pulled away, she twisted in her seat to watch the mansion recede—its tall windows catching the faint light, the gardens looking so peaceful it almost felt like mockery.
At the very last moment, she spotted Elena standing by one of the side terraces, hugging herself. She looked small, uncertain. Almost guilty.
Mira lifted a hand in a little wave. Elena hesitated, then lifted her own. But the car was already turning down the drive, the cherry trees swallowing the view.
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The apartment was beautiful. Of course it was.
A birthday present from her parents last year—though at the time, they'd insisted it was "just an investment." A sleek new building on the edge of the city's arts district, close to small galleries, bookshops, cozy cafés that spilled out onto cobblestone streets. The lobby gleamed with marble, fresh-cut flowers stood in tall glass vases, and the concierge bowed with practiced elegance.
Inside, the apartment was bright and airy, with tall windows and a balcony that overlooked a tiny park. The kitchen was fitted with shining appliances Mira barely knew how to use. The living room held a cream sofa she'd picked on a whim from a designer catalog.
It was perfect.
And it wasn't home.
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When the door closed behind her, the silence rushed in all at once. No quiet footsteps of maids in the hall, no faint echo of her parents' voices in the study downstairs, no warm scent of jasmine drifting from the gardens.
Just Mira, standing alone in her expensive cage.
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The first night was the hardest.
She tried to make tea but couldn't figure out the high-end electric kettle. By the time she managed, she poured scalding water over her hand, yelped, and dropped the delicate porcelain cup. It shattered across the sleek white floor, sending shards skittering under the kitchen counter.
Mira slid down to her knees amid the mess, hot tears spilling unchecked. She wasn't sure what hurt more—the tiny burn on her skin, or the vast emptiness stretching out in every direction.
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She might have stayed like that all night if her phone hadn't buzzed on the counter. A soft glow against the steel.
It was Adrian.
Adrian Chen: Did you get there safely?
She wiped her eyes with the back of her wrist, fingers clumsy as she typed back.
Mira: Yes. It's nice. Thank you.
A moment later, another buzz.
Adrian Chen: Call me if you need anything. Even if it's just company while you figure out the stove.
A watery laugh escaped her despite herself. Typical Adrian—pretending he didn't see through her defenses even as he gently held them in his hands.
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The days trickled by.
She forced herself into small routines. Made lists. Figured out how to use the washing machine after three tries (and one overflowing bubble disaster). Ordered groceries online, though the first time she forgot half of what she needed. Spent long afternoons curled up by the balcony with books she'd once claimed were her favorites, though the words swam by in gentle, meaningless tides.
Sometimes she watched people in the park below—children chasing pigeons, couples walking dogs, street artists painting scenes of the little fountain. It helped, a little, to see life going on.
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A week later, her mother visited. She arrived with two housemaids carrying bags of groceries and delicate boxes tied in silk ribbons.
"Oh, Mira, you've lost weight," her mother fretted immediately, brushing hair from Mira's face. Her hands were cool and soft, and Mira almost closed her eyes, wanting to lean into them like she had as a child.
"I'm fine," Mira said instead. "Just getting used to things."
They unpacked the bags together—imported cheeses, ripe strawberries, a little silver tin of jasmine tea. Her mother tried to smile, but her hands kept fidgeting. Finally she sank onto one of the bar stools.
"Darling… I hope you know this isn't forever," she said quietly. "We thought—well, Elena's so new to everything. The staff, the reporters, even the family dynamics. It seemed kinder to give her space to adjust. And… I suppose we hoped it might give you space too. To figure out what you truly want."
Mira looked at her for a long moment. Part of her wanted to shout that she hadn't asked for space, hadn't wanted any of this. But deeper down, beneath the ache, was a sliver of understanding. Maybe even relief. Because living under the same roof would have meant watching her parents and Elena build a life Mira couldn't truly share.
So she just nodded. "I know."
Her mother leaned forward, kissed her forehead. "Call me every day. Even if you have nothing to say."
---
When she left, the apartment felt bigger than ever.
Mira wandered from room to room, trailing her fingers over the cool marble counters, the sleek leather of the sofa. None of it felt earned. None of it felt like hers.
At night, she lay awake staring at the ceiling, wondering if Elena was curled up in Mira's old room back at the estate, tracing the same cracks in the plaster Mira had memorized as a child.
---
The second week brought a new sort of pain.
She received an invitation—an elegant card thick with embossed lettering—for a spring gala hosted by the Westwood Academy alumni association. Normally she would have gone automatically, wearing some delicate gown her mother selected, smiling beside her father as he made the rounds with influential investors.
But this year… everything was different. Elena's name was on the invite too.
Of course. The family needed to present her properly, introduce her into their world.
Mira almost declined. But something stubborn rose in her chest. A reckless, aching pride. She wouldn't vanish so easily.
So on the evening of the gala, she stood before her mirror in a deep emerald dress that hugged her waist and spilled like water to the floor. Her hair was swept up in soft twists, tiny jeweled pins catching the light. For the first time in weeks, she felt almost like herself again—polished, poised, powerful.
Even if it's only a mask.
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The ballroom glittered with chandeliers and laughter. Waiters moved through the crowd with trays of champagne. A string quartet played something delicate near the stage.
Mira found herself drifting toward the edge of the room, watching clusters of familiar faces. Business heirs, old school rivals, girls who once giggled at slumber parties in the Song estate's rose garden.
Then she saw Elena.
Standing with their parents near a cluster of important foreign guests, Elena wore a soft blush gown that set off her gentle beauty. Her hair fell in loose curls, and she held herself with quiet grace that somehow drew eyes even more effectively than Mira's practiced elegance ever had.
People loved her. It was clear from the way they leaned in, the way laughter sparkled around her like tiny lights.
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Mira turned away, throat tight, and nearly collided with Adrian.
He steadied her instantly, hands warm on her arms. His dark eyes searched her face. "You okay?"
She tried for breezy. "Why wouldn't I be? It's just a party."
He didn't look convinced. His thumbs brushed lightly over her skin, as if memorizing her there.
"You look…" He trailed off, a small, helpless smile tugging at his mouth. "You look breathtaking, Mira."
Her chest squeezed. It was almost too much. "Thank you."
---
They stood there together for a moment, an island amid the swirling crowd. She could pretend, just for a heartbeat, that nothing had changed. That she was still Mira Song the cherished heiress, and Adrian was still the boy destined to stand by her side.
Then a voice floated through the chatter. "Miss Song—excuse me, but which one?"
It was a family friend of her parents, a sleek woman in a silver sheath dress. She laughed lightly, fanning herself. "I suppose I must be more specific now, with both of you here."
Adrian stiffened, but Mira only gave a tight smile. "You want Elena. She's by the far table."
"Ah! Of course. Thank you, dear."
---
When they were alone again, Mira let out a slow, shaky breath. "See? This is what it's going to be now."
"No," Adrian said quietly. "It's what other people will try to make it. It doesn't have to be what you let it become."
She wanted to believe that. But all she could think was: Maybe it's simpler this way. Maybe Elena was meant for this world more than I ever was.
---
They didn't stay much longer. Adrian walked her out to the courtyard, the night cool and fragrant with lilacs. Before her driver could open the door, Adrian caught her hand.
"Mira. Just… remember you're not alone in this. Even if it feels like it."
She hesitated. Then, before she could lose her nerve, she rose on her toes and brushed a soft kiss against his cheek.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For still seeing me."
His breath caught, hands tightening like he might pull her close—but then he let her go. Watching with eyes dark and tender as she slipped into the car.