The first day of summer descended upon the city in chaos, as if the heavens themselves had torn open to unleash an unrelenting downpour. The streets of Thornbury seemed moments away from disappearing beneath the torrent, with pedestrians scrambling for cover under shop awnings and hastily unfurled umbrellas.
Isabella Thorne stood at the gates of the grand Ashbourne Hotel, soaked to the bone, her long, dark hair plastered to her pallid face, strands clinging stubbornly to smudged makeup that once might have lent her a touch of elegance. Her dress, now muddy and torn from a frantic bicycle ride through the storm, hung limply on her trembling frame. Through chattering teeth and quivering lips, she pleaded with the stern-faced security guard barring her entry.
"I'm here for Mr. Cavendish's engagement ceremony," she managed, her voice barely audible over the relentless patter of rain against the pavement. "He’s my sponsor. Please, I just need to get inside."
The guard’s derisive snort hit her harder than the rain. His gaze flickered dismissively over her disheveled appearance, lingering on the frayed hem of her dress. “Like this?” he sneered, crossing his arms with exaggerated disbelief. “Miss, do I look like someone born yesterday? Mr. Cavendish doesn’t deal with charity cases like you waltzing in here, trying to freeload off his big day. You better move along before I call the cops.”
"Please, I’m begging you," Isabella implored, desperation leaking into her voice as she gripped the damp, disintegrating invitation clutched in her hand like it was the last tether to her resolve. She swayed slightly, her vision blurring. Cycling all the way from school had left her exhausted, and the unexpected deluge halfway through her journey had sealed her fate. The crash when her bike slid across the slick pavement was a blur of cold mud and hard asphalt, followed by the sickening crunch of a passing car obliterating both her wallet and her invitation.
As the guard stepped closer, his patience clearly worn thin, Isabella's knees threatened to buckle. She caught sight of the grand congratulatory banner displayed above the hotel entrance: “Congratulations to Mr. Arthur Cavendish and Miss Genevieve Windsor—A Match Made in Heaven!” The words, so cheerful and celebratory, blurred behind the stinging in her eyes. Was it tears or rain streaming down her cheeks? She didn’t know.
“Oi, don’t stand there gawking!” The guard snapped, stepping forward with a menacing air. “I told you to get lost! We don’t need your sob story—save it for someone who cares.”
Before the man could escalate his hostility further, a dark figure caught Isabella's eye, striding confidently across the entrance plaza. Without thinking, she ran toward him, her sodden shoes squelching with every frantic step.
“Secretary Green! Secretary Green!” she called out, her voice cracking.
The man turned sharply, his brow furrowing as he saw the disheveled young woman rushing toward him. For a moment, his surprise betrayed him, but recognition quickly followed. “Isabella?”
“Yes, it’s me,” she answered, her relief palpable despite her exhaustion. “Secretary Green, I—" she faltered, lowering her gaze in embarrassment as she gestured helplessly to her ruined dress and the shredded remains of her invitation. “I came here from school to attend Mr. Cavendish’s engagement. My invitation was destroyed in the rain, and now the guard won’t let me in…” Her voice trailed off, her tone full of quiet remorse. “I didn’t want to miss this day. It’s so important to him.”
James Green, Arthur Cavendish’s ever-efficient right hand, let out a small sigh, the lines on his face softening as he studied her. Though years had passed since they’d first met, he could still remember the timid yet determined orphan girl who had always greeted everyone with a bright smile, despite her malnourished frame and faded clothes. That smile had left an impression on him—a light amidst the hardships she had endured.
“Don’t worry about it,” James said with a reassuring nod, his tone gentler now. “Come with me. I’ll handle it.”
The tension in Isabella’s chest eased, and she followed him silently through the opulent entrance of the Ashbourne Hotel. The grandeur of the place was dazzling, every surface polished to perfection, every detail exuding wealth and refinement. For a moment, she felt out of place, a soaked and shivering shadow among the immaculately dressed guests who glided through the marble-floored halls.
James led her to a far corner of the ballroom, where three long tables were set aside for the children Arthur Cavendish had sponsored through his charitable foundation over the years. Isabella quietly took her seat, surrounded by smiling faces ranging from shy young boys to confident teenagers. Each child addressed Arthur with fondness and gratitude, their voices rising together in a sweet, almost harmonious refrain: “Uncle Cavendish.”
From her seat, Isabella watched as Arthur Cavendish stood at the center of the grand celebration, his hand resting lightly on the arm of his fiancée, Genevieve Windsor. They were a striking couple, perfectly matched in elegance and stature, their every gesture suggesting a shared understanding of their privileged world. Around them, glasses clinked, laughter echoed, and blessings poured in from the city’s elite.
Isabella’s fingers tightened around her napkin as a strange heaviness settled in her chest. In a room filled with joy and congratulations, she couldn’t shake the sensation that something was slipping irreversibly out of her grasp.
Among the cheerful chatter of children calling him “Uncle Arthur,” Isabella Thorne stood out awkwardly, her formal address of “Mr. Cavendish” marking her as different—too formal, too distant. And in social circles where conformity was comfort, those who stood out rarely escaped criticism.
"Well, look who it is," a girl at the table sneered, her tone dripping with mockery. "Isabella. You’d think she’d have the sense to clean up for a day like this."
"Right? I mean, showing up looking like she crawled out of a ditch?" another chimed in, her voice carrying just loud enough to ensure Isabella would hear. "If it were me, I’d hide under the nearest rock.”
“Yeah, but you know her,” a boy added with a smirk. “Always trying to catch Uncle Arthur’s attention. It’s embarrassing, really.”
The sting of their words washed over Isabella like water off a stone. Long ago, she’d learned to let these barbs pass through one ear and out the other, though the icy knot in her stomach always lingered. Keeping her expression neutral, she steadied her head with one hand, the dizziness from earlier still clinging stubbornly to her senses.
Her gaze wandered across the room, and for a moment, she was struck silent. The ballroom was an opulent dream, as if conjured from the pages of a fairytale. The air seemed perfumed with wealth and romance. Pink heart-shaped balloons floated overhead, casting soft hues on floral arrangements bursting with roses. Glittering crystal chandeliers hung above a symphony orchestra that played with perfection, their notes weaving seamlessly with the hum of champagne flutes and murmured conversation.
But the true centerpiece of it all was the couple on the stage.
Arthur Cavendish stood tall and regal, his sharp black suit tailored to perfection, his crisp white shirt lending him an almost ethereal glow under the lights. With his impeccably chiseled features and that polite, gentle smile that rarely faltered, he seemed less a man and more a figure out of legend. To Isabella, he was nothing short of godlike, the man who had saved her from the orphanage, restored her sight after years of blindness, and given her life new meaning.
Genevieve Windsor, standing beside him, was no less dazzling. Draped in a gown of cascading silk and sequins, she exuded the effortless grace of a princess in a storybook—her beauty so striking it bordered on unreal. Together, they looked every bit the golden couple: perfect, untouchable, and heartbreakingly unattainable.
Isabella’s heart ached as she watched Arthur. How could it not? Ten years ago, as a child clinging to the shadows of despair, she had idolized him. Over time, those feelings had grown, shifting and deepening into a love so profound she scarcely understood it herself. But this love, intense as it was, had no place in the world she now faced.
You’re nothing compared to them, her thoughts whispered cruelly. The prince belongs with the princess. You, Isabella? You’re just a beggar at the gates of their castle. A toad daring to dream of the swan.
The emcee’s voice rang through the ballroom, pulling her from her reverie. “Ladies and gentlemen, the engagement ceremony is about to begin! Please join me in welcoming Mr. Arthur Cavendish to the stage for his speech!”
Thunderous applause filled the room as Arthur took the microphone, Genevieve’s hand resting lightly in his. His smile deepened as he scanned the crowd.
“First, let me thank all of you for joining us tonight,” he began, his voice rich and calm, effortlessly commanding the room’s attention. “To find Genevieve, to fall in love with her—it’s the greatest fortune of my life.”
Isabella’s chest tightened as the applause swelled once more. She swallowed hard and cast her eyes downward, as if by doing so she could escape the crushing weight of his words. He’s happy. He’s in love. And you? You’re a fool for even being here.
She reached for the glass of wine in front of her, ignoring the glances from her tablemates, who waited eagerly to seize on any excuse to mock her further. Lifting the glass, she downed it in one determined gulp, the sharp bitterness doing little to dull the ache in her chest.
The room seemed to tilt as she set the glass down, her fingers trembling. Before she could regain her composure, the dizziness returned with a vengeance. Spots danced in her vision, her head felt unbearably heavy, and her legs buckled beneath her.
With a loud thud, Isabella collapsed to the ground.
Gasps rippled through the ballroom, followed by a cacophony of hushed whispers and frantic exclamations.
“Oh my God, did she just faint?”
“Is she breathing? Someone call for help!”
“What’s she even doing here, anyway?”
The world around Isabella dimmed, her awareness slipping further and further away. But even as unconsciousness loomed, a single thought echoed in her fading mind: Not now. Not here. Not at his engagement.
And then, silence.
Above the growing commotion, a familiar voice rang out, commanding and urgent. "Move aside—let me through!"
Even in her near-unconscious state, Isabella’s heart stirred at the sound. Arthur. He was coming closer. But would it be as her savior—or her judge?
