It was just another evening at the estate.
Another gathering filled with noble chatter and rehearsed smiles.
This wasn't the charity event—that was still days away. This was merely an obligation, one of many, where Claire was expected to listen, smile, and play her part.
The evening air was thick with murmurs and laughter, noble voices exchanging pleasantries that felt as empty as the golden goblets they held. Claire stood among them, her posture poised, her expression unreadable.
She smiled when necessary, nodded at the right moments, and spoke in the measured tone of someone who had long mastered the art of noble composure.
Yet inside, something churned.
A quiet storm, waiting to break.
She understood these people—their games, their hidden sneers behind silk-covered words. And still, she played along, because that was what was expected of her.
Because that was what Claire Valen did.
Then, a conversation nearby caught her attention.
"—women these days forget their place. Always trying to be more than they are meant to be."
A few chuckles followed.
"That's why I always admired Lady Valen." A woman's voice now—smooth, laced with something almost sweet. Almost. "She knew how to stay silent. Unlike some, she never overstepped."
Claire's breath stilled.
She turned her head slightly, catching sight of the speaker—a noblewoman dressed in soft pastels, the edges of her lips curling just enough to be mistaken for a smile.
"Such a shame," another voice added, a man this time. "A perfect example of grace, yet even she couldn't secure her place, in the end. Perhaps if she had been wiser—"
The laughter that followed grated against Claire's skin, like a dulled blade scraping against bone.
Her fingers twitched.
Her mother.
They were speaking of her mother.
Then—
The light dimmed.
Not in the room itself, but within her vision, as if something unseen had crept into the space between her and the world.
A whisper.
A breath against her ear, cold as death.
"Oh… good girl. You are so used to it, aren't you?"
Claire's breath stilled.
The voice did not echo. It did not belong to the world around her. It was closer.
Too close.
A presence, just behind her—leaning in, its voice curling at the edge of her mind like something pressing against her skull, slithering beneath her skin.
"Playing the good girl act again? How precious."
A cold weight settled against her back, an invisible touch trailing over her spine. Not real. Not real. Not real.
But the air had thickened, pressing inward, constricting her breath.
"Smile. Nod. Be the perfect lady. Pretend you don't want to break them."
It knew.
"I know you better than anyone… because I have always been watching you."
The laughter in the hall stretched unnaturally, warping, twisting—too many voices at once, too many mouths forming the same sound. The clinking of goblets rang sharp, distant, then close again. A loop. A sound played too many times.
Claire lifted her goblet, took a slow sip.
She was still listening to the speaker before her.
But she was not here anymore.
"Tell me, Claire," the presence purred, voice brushing against the shell of her ear, "Don't you want to slap their faces? Don't you want to watch them crumble?"
The candlelight flickered. The shadows stretched.
"What are you resisting for? You're so understanding, aren't you? Hah… how noble of you."
Something unseen grazed her wrist. A feather-light touch—no, a grip. Just for a second.
Claire exhaled slowly. Ignore it. It's not real.
"Who are you doing this for? Who deserves your patience? Tell me, Claire—do you even know who you are anymore?"
Her grip on the goblet tightened.
Tighter.
Tighter.
A heartbeat too long—
And she released it.
Her fingers loosened, relaxed, as if nothing had happened.
Her mask remained intact. Flawless.
She smiled. Excused herself gracefully.
And walked away.
Each step felt heavier. The air thicker.
As though she were wading through something unseen, something suffocating.
But she did not rush.
Did not falter.
Not until she reached her room.
The door closed behind her with a forceful thud.
Silence.
For the first time that evening, she let herself breathe.
She stepped toward her bed, each movement sluggish, as though exhaustion had seeped into her very bones.
She fell forward, fingers gripping the sheets, her body curling in on itself.
Silence.
The voice did not follow her here.
Or so she thought.
When she opened her eyes—
She was standing.
Not in her bed.
Not in the warmth of candlelight.
But in front of the mirror.
Still. Composed. Too composed.
Her reflection stared back at her—calm, quiet, unreadable.
But beneath the surface, beneath the perfect exterior—
Something cracked.
She whispered to herself.
"Who am I?"
The words were barely audible—
Yet they rang in her skull like a scream.
Am I truly this person?
Her fingers curled into her arms, nails pressing into her flesh.
The pain was grounding. Real.
She did not stop.
A sting. A thin line of red.
A small cut.
She barely registered it.
"Am I what they say I am? Or am I just playing the role they wrote for me?"
Her reflection did not answer.
The silence did.
And for the first time—
Claire considered what it would mean to stop playing along.