Chapter Text
It started with the crash of glass at age fourteen.
Not dramatic. Not theatrical. Just sudden and violent enough to rearrange the air.
The wineglass shattered against the wall inches from Chloé’s head. The impact sent a spray of red across the pale wallpaper. For a fractured second she thought it was her skull. That something warm had burst out of her.
Her body locked.
She did not flinch.
Flinching was weakness. Weakness was fuel.
The room smelled like crushed grapes and expensive oak. The scent would linger. Audrey hated lingering smells.
Audrey lowered her arm slowly, as if she had merely discarded something trivial.
“Look at you.”
Not loud. Not angry.
Disappointed.
That tone carved deeper than shouting ever could.
Chloé kept her gaze fixed somewhere over her mother’s shoulder. Eye contact was interpreted as defiance. Looking down was interpreted as guilt. She aimed for nothingness.
“I leave you alone for five minutes and you find a way to humiliate me.” Audrey’s lips curved faintly. “It is almost impressive.”
Chloé’s pulse was pounding so hard she could feel it in her gums.
“I didn’t—”
The word escaped before she could cage it.
Audrey’s eyes snapped to her.
There it was.
Not rage. Not even irritation.
Just contempt.
A slow, clinical assessment, as if she were inspecting a stain.
“I am speaking.”
Chloé swallowed the rest of the sentence. It scraped on the way down.
“You were already removed from Paris because you could not behave like a Bourgeois.” Audrey let the word sit in the air, savoring it. “And now you attempt to challenge me in my own home?”
Challenge. The accusation felt surreal. She had asked if she could eat earlier. That was all. A single question.
Her stomach tightened reflexively at the memory.
Audrey stepped closer.
Chloé could see the fine lines at the corners of her mother’s eyes. The flawless makeup. The control.
“Do you have any idea how exhausting you are?” Audrey asked quietly. “To invest so much time and produce something so… average.”
The word hit harder than any slap could have.
Average.
Chloé felt heat crawl up her neck.
“I tried—”
The flick of Audrey’s wrist was subtle. A dismissal. A slicing motion through the air.
“Stop.” That was it. That one word. Final.
“You will not interrupt me. You will not justify yourself. You will not explain.” Audrey tilted her head slightly. “You will listen.”
Chloé’s vision blurred at the edges. She forced herself to stay still. Stay upright. Stay quiet.
“From this moment forward,” Audrey continued, voice measured and composed, “I do not want to hear your voice unless I directly request it. You will attend the events I schedule. You will stand where I place you. You will smile when required.”
She paused.
“And the rest of the time, you will be silent and out of sight.”
Silent.
The word sank into Chloé’s chest and lodged there.
“If I so much as hear a whisper,” Audrey went on, stepping even closer, “I will arrange for you to be sent somewhere that specializes in correcting behavioral defects. Do you understand what that means?”
Ireland. Stone buildings. Cold dormitories. No cameras. She heard that threat before in passing.
Chloé imagined being shipped off like damaged inventory.
Her throat tightened painfully.
“I asked you something.”
Audrey’s voice had dropped lower. Softer. Deadlier.
Chloé forced her lips to move.
“Y-Yes, Mother.” Her voice trembled. She hated herself for it.
Audrey studied her face for a long moment.
“You see?” she murmured. “You are capable of obedience when sufficiently motivated.”
Obedience.
Not growth. Not improvement.
Obedience.
Audrey’s gaze drifted over her like she was examining fabric quality.
“You could have been extraordinary,” she said idly. “You had the resources. The name. The connections.” A faint smile. “And yet here you are.”
Chloé felt something inside her chest cave in slightly.
“I do not know what defect you inherited,” Audrey continued, almost conversational. “It certainly was not from me.”
The implication hung heavy.
Defect.
Something wrong at a genetic level.
Chloé’s thoughts began to spiral.
Maybe she really was flawed. Maybe there was something fundamentally broken in her. Something invisible but obvious to everyone else.
Maybe that was why no one stayed.
“Now,” Audrey said, stepping back at last, “since you chose to speak without permission…”
Chloé’s stomach clenched in anticipation before the sentence even finished.
“There will be no dinner.”
The words dropped clean and precise.
Chloé’s breath caught.
“You need to learn restraint. Hunger sharpens discipline.” Audrey’s expression did not shift. “Perhaps it will thin you out as well. You have been looking soft.”
The shame was immediate. Acidic.
Chloé’s hands curled at her sides.
She had not eaten since breakfast.
She imagined the kitchen downstairs. The refrigerator. The food she would not touch.
Audrey turned away.
“Oh, and one more thing.” She glanced back, eyes cool. “If I discover that you have disobeyed and eaten anyway, I will extend the lesson.”
Chloé’s heartbeat stuttered.
The door closed softly behind Audrey.
No slam. No dramatics.
Just a quiet click that felt permanent.
For several seconds, Chloé did not move.
The wine was still dripping down the wall. Red streaks cutting through pale paint. It looked violent. Ugly. Ruined.
Her stomach growled.
The sound felt loud in the silence.
She pressed her palm against it instinctively, as if she could muffle the betrayal.
Tears began to fall before she realized she was crying. Not sobbing. Just leaking.
Her mind replayed the word over and over.
Average.
Defect.
Soft.
Unexceptional.
She walked carefully to avoid the glass, each step deliberate. Controlled. Silent.
Up the stairs. Down the hallway.
She kept her breathing shallow so it wouldn’t echo.
Inside her room, the air felt colder.
She closed the door and leaned against it, finally letting her shoulders drop.
Her legs trembled.
She moved toward the mirror.
The girl staring back at her looked pristine. Expensive. Polished.
A fraud.
She leaned closer.
“You are defective,” she whispered under her breath, testing the word against her reflection.
It fit too easily.
Her stomach twisted again, this time sharper.
Hunger wasn’t just physical.
It was humiliation.
It was being reminded that your survival depended on someone who believed you were flawed merchandise.
She imagined sneaking downstairs later. Taking something small. A piece of bread. Cheese. Anything. Her body moved involuntarily towards the door once more, only for her hand to stop at the polished gold handle.
Then she imagined Audrey finding out.
The disappointment.
The extended lesson.
Her mind filled in the blanks with punishments that had not yet happened but felt inevitable.
Her thoughts spiraled faster.
Maybe if she were quieter.
Maybe if she were thinner.
Maybe if she stopped needing things altogether.
Maybe if she stopped taking up space.
Her hands clenched so hard her nails pierced skin. Pain bloomed in her palms.
It grounded her.
It reminded her she was still here.
Still breathing.
Still unwanted.
The blonde turned back and slid down the door slowly until she was sitting on the floor, knees pulled to her chest.
Her stomach ached.
Her head felt light.
And somewhere deep in her chest, something began to calcify.
Not anger. Not yet.
Something colder.
Something that whispered:
You are alone here.
And you will either learn to survive it— Or disappear.
One month before her sixteenth birthday, the ballroom glittered as if light itself had been trapped and trained to behave.
Crystal chandeliers hung in obedient symmetry from a ceiling painted with cherubs that had never known hunger. Polished marble reflected gowns worth more than most people’s annual salaries. The air carried a layered perfume of truffle oil, citrus glaze, expensive cologne, and champagne that tasted faintly of apples and arrogance. Every laugh was measured, every gesture rehearsed. Even indulgence here had etiquette.
Chloé stood beside her mother, positioned not as a daughter but as an accessory. Audrey moved through the room with the confidence of someone who believed space rearranged itself to accommodate her, and Chloé followed half a step behind, as she had been trained to do. A gentle pressure at the small of her back directed her forward; a subtle shift of Audrey’s shoulder signaled when to stop. She had learned the choreography so well that it required no words.
She had also learned the value of silence.
Years had passed since Audrey had restricted her speech, and the habit of quiet had grown roots. Words now felt foreign in her mouth, like objects that no longer belonged to her. When guests offered vague acknowledgments of her existence—“She’s grown,” or “Such a lovely young lady”—they did so without looking at her directly. Their attention skimmed over her the way light glances off glass. Audrey answered on her behalf every time.
“I’m refining her,” Audrey said at one point, her smile composed, her fingers resting lightly on Chloé’s arm as though presenting a product nearing completion.
Refining required reduction.
Chloé felt the truth of that in her bones.
She had eaten a single yogurt at noon and forced herself to stretch it across an hour, spoonful by careful spoonful, pretending it was sufficient. Now, surrounded by abundance, her body betrayed her composure. The scent of warm bread and roasted meat settled heavily in her lungs, and saliva gathered under her tongue despite her efforts to swallow it back.
Her stomach tightened painfully.No one was looking at her.
No one ever truly did.
When Audrey became engrossed in a conversation about an upcoming fashion showcase and the “unfortunate spectacle” of Parisian politics, Chloé drifted toward the buffet with the tentative movements of someone approaching forbidden territory. The table gleamed beneath soft lighting, silver serving utensils resting against porcelain platters as though they had been arranged for a still life.
She picked up a plate.
The porcelain felt cool and steady in her trembling hands.
She placed small portions on it, telling herself she was exercising restraint. A spoonful of something creamy and pale. A thin slice of roast. Two miniature pastries no larger than coins. It did not look excessive. It did not look greedy. It looked almost modest.
She walked toward the edge of the ballroom and cut the meat into precise pieces, keeping her posture upright, her face neutral. The first bite spread warmth through her mouth and down her throat in a way that nearly made her knees weaken. She closed her eyes briefly as she swallowed, her body reacting with an urgency she had to conceal.
Halfway through the second bite, she felt the weight of observation.
Audrey stood across the room, her gaze fixed and unblinking.
There was no fury in it. Only calculation.
Audrey excused herself from her conversation with seamless grace and crossed the ballroom without haste. The music continued uninterrupted. Laughter rose and fell. No one registered the quiet gravity forming in that small corner.
Audrey stopped in front of her and looked down at the plate.
“Is this necessary?” she asked, her voice soft enough that it would not disturb the illusion of elegance surrounding them.
Chloé lowered her fork but did not speak.
Audrey’s eyes lifted to meet hers, and the faintest smile curved her lips, though it held no warmth.
“You have eaten today,” Audrey continued. “You will not behave as though you have been deprived.”
Deprived. Starved, her mind supplied.
The words settled heavily in Chloé’s chest.
Without breaking eye contact, Audrey took the plate from her hands and passed it to a server.
“Dispose of this.”
The plate disappeared as though it had never existed.
“You will not embarrass me by appearing indulgent,” Audrey murmured, adjusting the strap of Chloé’s dress with careful fingers. “Control yourself.”
The shame arrived swiftly, hot and corrosive, and Chloé felt it spread through her veins. She nodded once, the movement barely perceptible, and arranged her mouth into a polite smile as instructed.
That night, the penthouse felt cavernous.
The city outside pulsed with distant life, a restless thrum beyond the tall windows. Inside, the silence was immaculate.
Audrey removed her gloves in the foyer and spoke without turning around.
“You lack discipline.”
Chloé stood still, her hands clasped in front of her.
“You will begin eating once a day,” Audrey said evenly. “At dinner. Only at dinner.”
The words did not rise in volume, but they carried the weight of law.
“If I discover that you have taken food outside of that window, you will forfeit dinner as well. Hunger, I find, sharpens obedience.”
Chloé stayed silent, about to just nod since she hadn’t been given permission to speak. That is until Audrey flicked her wrist in a practiced movement.
“Yes, Mother,” Chloé replied, her voice thin and steady.
From that evening forward, dinner became a monitored ritual. Audrey observed her from across the table with detached interest, as though studying a long-term experiment. Portions were measured. Seconds were forbidden. Chloé learned to eat slowly enough that the meal would last as long as possible, sipping water between bites, pressing her fork into her plate to create the illusion of abundance.
Her body began to change in ways she could not ignore.
The dresses in her closet no longer fit as they once had. Fabric hung differently from her frame. Her collarbones sharpened, her cheeks hollowed subtly, and a faint bluish shadow settled beneath her eyes. Makeup compensated for what nutrition could not. Foundation layered thickly over pallor. Blush mimicked circulation.
Standing too quickly made her vision tilt. Black specks sometimes swam across her sight, and she would steady herself against the nearest wall until they receded.
Her thoughts narrowed.
They circled food obsessively. The memory of textures. The smell of bread. The imagined weight of a stolen apple in her hand. Sometimes she pressed her fingers against her abdomen and felt the slight inward curve forming there, a confirmation that she was shrinking in all the ways Audrey seemed to desire.
One evening, alone in her room, she stood before the mirror and began to remove her makeup with slow, deliberate movements. With each swipe of the cloth, the mask dissolved, revealing the truth beneath. Her lips were pale. Her skin almost translucent under the lamplight. The faint shadows under her eyes were not entirely cosmetic.
She lifted the hem of her sleep shirt and inhaled deeply. Her ribs showed more distinctly than they once had.
For a long moment, she stared at her reflection without flinching.
A thought surfaced quietly, almost clinically.
If she stopped eating entirely, how long would it take?
The idea did not arrive with drama. It felt measured. Logical, even. An exit strategy from a life that had grown unbearably silent.
She imagined lying down and not rising again. Imagined the house continuing in its pristine stillness without her.
Would Audrey notice the absence, or simply adjust?
Her gaze lingered on the girl in the mirror. The hollowness in her cheeks made her appear younger and older all at once. Fragile, but not in a way that inspired protection.
In a way that suggested erasure.
“I’m disappearing,” she whispered.
The words felt less like despair and more like fact.
Her eyes drifted toward the window behind her reflection. Beyond the glass, the city glittered. It was chaotic and loud and unrefined, but it was alive in a way this house would never be.
The streets were dangerous.But they were not this.
They did not starve you politely beneath chandeliers.
The thought of leaving did not feel brave. It felt necessary.
She turned from the mirror and opened her closet. She ignored the gowns and delicate fabrics that symbolized a life she no longer inhabited. Instead, she selected practical clothing—jeans, a hoodie, undergarments she could move in. She retrieved a small travel bag from the back shelf and folded the items inside carefully, minimizing bulk.
At her vanity, jewelry lay arranged in velvet-lined drawers. Necklaces, bracelets, earrings that had been gifted for appearances rather than affection. She hesitated before selecting several pieces: a diamond bracelet, a pair of sapphire earrings, a delicate gold chain. They were small enough to conceal and valuable enough to exchange for survival.
She did not take cash as there was none that would not be immediately noticed.
She slipped the jewelry into the lining of her bag and zipped it shut.
The penthouse had settled into night. Pipes hummed faintly within the walls. The air-conditioning whispered through vents. Every sound felt amplified as she stepped into the hallway.
Her heart pounded so loudly she feared it might echo.
She descended the staircase slowly, her hand gliding along the banister for balance. The foyer loomed ahead, marble floors reflecting the dim glow of recessed lighting.
She did not look toward Audrey’s wing.
At the front door, she paused only long enough to steady her breathing.
If she stayed, she would vanish here, one measured meal at a time.
If she left, she might starve in the open air.
But starvation chosen felt different from starvation imposed.
She opened the door.
Cold night air rushed against her face, sharp and immediate. It filled her lungs in a way that felt almost violent after months of controlled breathing.
She stepped outside and closed the door gently behind her.
The city stretched outward, imperfect and immense.
For the first time in a long while, the silence inside her chest fractured—not with hope, but with motion.
She adjusted the strap of her bag and began to walk into the dark.