Bella's eyes softened as she leaned back, a small smile tugging her lips. She looked at Ruth.
For a moment, the heavy silence of the room lifted as her mind wandered back, back to the times she had lived a life her father never knew about.
Her world had not only been piano recitals, glittering dresses, and forced smiles. No—there had been another Isabella, one that came alive on the court, on the field, and in the dojo.
She remembered the sweat dripping down her temple as she dribbled across the wooden floor, sneakers squeaking with every sharp turn. The crowd was loud that day; the school's finals were tied, just seconds left. Bella darted past two defenders, her small frame quick and unassuming, and launched the ball from the three-point line. Time slowed as the ball arched through the air before swishing cleanly through the hoop.
The gym erupted. Her teammates lifted her high, chanting her name. Bella had laughed freely, no tiaras, no glittering dresses, just pure, raw joy. She could still feel the sting of the referee's whistle, the rush of victory, the cheer of friends who saw her for who she was.
Her lips curled further into a smile at the memory of the martial arts mat. She was twelve, her heart pounding as she faced a taller opponent. The dojo smelled of sweat and polished wood.
The master's voice echoed: "Focus, Isabella. Use your speed."
When the spar began, Bella dodged, quick as lightning, slipping past her opponent's heavy kicks. She pivoted, countering with a swift roundhouse. Gasps filled the room when her opponent stumbled back. The final strike came sharp and precise, and the referee's call confirmed her victory. The gold medal that day had felt heavier than all the glittering crowns her father ever placed on her. For once, she had felt unstoppable, not because of beauty, but because of strength.
Then there was the muddy field, rain pelting against her skin as she sprinted toward the ball. She could still hear the echo of Ava and Claire's voices cheering from the sidelines, their hands waving wildly. The opposing team's goalkeeper braced himself, but Bella's foot connected with the ball in perfect timing. It flew past his reach, striking the net with a satisfying thud.
The rush of adrenaline was unmatched. Her teammates tackled her into the wet grass, laughter spilling in the rain. That was freedom—her true crown.
She chuckled softly, the memories warming her chest. For those few hours in sports, she was not Adrian's princess. She was just Bella, the girl who ran, fought, and scored, the girl who lived.
Her mother had known. Whenever Adrian traveled, her mother would quietly hand her a pair of sneakers or tie her black belt around her waist with a gentle wink.
"Go be yourself, my love," her mother would whisper. And Bella had.
But when Adrian returned, she hid it all away,
medals tucked in a shoebox under her bed, jerseys stuffed deep in drawers, bruises masked with long sleeves. Her double life had been painful, exhausting, yet necessary.
Even in the struggle, Bella loved her father too much to ever disappoint him.
She sighed and looked back at Ruth, her eyes glistening with both sorrow and pride.
Claire sat on the edge of the bed, her hands trembling as she wrung them together. She could feel Adrian's eyes boring into her, demanding an explanation, demanding the truth she had kept buried for so long.
Her chest felt tight, her heart racing, but finally she stood, tears already brimming in her eyes.
Claire: "Our daughter has been living her whole life to please you, Adrian. Every single step, every single breath, she's been trying to be what you want her to be. But… What about her? What about what she wants?"
Her voice cracked, and the tears spilled over. She clasped her hands together as if in prayer, pleading with him to understand.
Claire: "You pushed her so hard into your world, your expectations… Do you even know what makes her smile? Do you know what makes her heart beat with joy? Because I do. I see it every time you're not around. Those competitions, those games"
Her words caught in her throat. She pressed a hand to her chest, shaking.
Claire: "Yes, Adrian. Whatever you've seen, that's who she really is. That's what keeps her alive when your expectations crush her. That's what brings her peace when she feels like she's breaking. That is our daughter."
The silence after her words was deafening. Adrian stood rigid, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked as though it might shatter. His hands curled into fists at his sides. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths.
Adrian : "So… you're telling me all this time you've been letting her live this… double life? Behind my back?"
Claire's tears flowed freely now. She took a step closer, but he pulled away.
Claire: "I let her live, Adrian. Because she was suffocating under everything you wanted. I couldn't watch her drown in silence. I couldn't"
Adrian : "Suffocating? Drowning?!"
He slammed his palm against the wall, the sound echoing through the room like a gunshot. Claire flinched, covering her mouth with her trembling hands.
Adrian: "I gave her everything! The best schools, the best clothes, the best name in society! And you" he jabbed a finger toward Claire, his voice shaking with rage and disbelief "you betrayed me by letting her chase after nonsense! Sports?
You think that will give her a future here? Do you think society will accept her like that?"
He turned, slamming his fist against the wall again, harder this time. The picture frame rattled and fell, shattering on the floor. Claire gasped, tears streaming, her chest heaving.
Claire: "I don't care about society! I care about our daughter! I care about her heart, her happiness! Why don't you?!"
For the first time, Adrian faltered. His face twisted—not just in anger but in pain, disappointment, confusion. His breaths were ragged, and his knuckles were already bruising from where he had hit the wall.
He stood there for a moment, his whole body trembling, and then he turned his back on her. His voice was low, cracked, almost unrecognizable.
Adrian: "No… no, I can't… I can't even look at you right now."
He stormed toward the door, yanking it open so violently it banged against the wall.
Claire called after him, her voice raw and desperate
Claire: "Adrian, please! She's still your little girl! She still loves you more than anything—don't throw her away!"
But he didn't look back. He slammed the door shut behind him, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway until another door clicked—his office, locked.
Inside, fury boiled over. Adrian grabbed the nearest papers from his desk and hurled them to the floor. A glass paperweight followed, shattering against the wall. He swept books from the shelf, his breath ragged, chest rising and falling until the storm inside him broke into silence. Finally, he collapsed into his chair, running a hand down his face, forcing himself to breathe.
And as he sat there, the memory came unbidden—
The valet opened the car door, and Adrian stepped out first, looking every inch the confident Hart patriarch in his tailored black suit. He circled to the other side, opening the door for Isabella as if she were royalty. She slid out in her gown, clutching the bouquet of white roses he had given her earlier.
The country club's ballroom glittered with chandeliers, soft golden light reflecting off polished marble floors. Fathers in tuxedos and little girls in layers of tulle and satin filled the space. The music, a string quartet's graceful waltz, wrapped around the room like silk.
Adrian smiled down at her. "Ready, my princess?"
She gave a small nod, though her hands fidgeted at the hem of her dress.
They made their way through the crowd, greeting acquaintances with polite smiles. Isabella stayed close to his side, her steps small and measured.
When the MC announced it was time for the first dance, fathers began leading their daughters onto the floor. Adrian took her hand and guided her to the center. The other girls twirled with excitement, their dresses spinning like flowers in the wind.
But Isabella's movements were stiff, her eyes darting toward the exit more than once.
Adrian noticed. At first, he thought maybe she was just shy, but the slight tug she gave at her neckline, the way she smoothed her skirt as though it didn't belong to her, made him pause.
He bent down to her level, his voice low and teasing, trying to coax a smile.
"Hmm… My princess doesn't look very happy. Is this gown not royal enough for you? Should we have gone bigger, more sparkle?"
She hesitated, her throat tightening. The words pushed at her lips—I hate this dress… I want boys' clothes. They slipped out, barely above a whisper.
But the orchestra swelled at that very moment, the violins drowning her voice. Adrian only caught the faint movement of her lips.
Don't tell Daddy you want boys' clothes, her mother's warning echoed in her mind, and she quickly forced a small smile, shaking her head. "It's fine, Daddy."
Adrian searched her face, not quite convinced, but the music carried them into the first steps of the waltz. He decided, for now, to believe her. After all, maybe she just needed a moment to feel like the princess he knew she was.
The memory faded, and Adrian found himself back in his office, slumped in his chair. A sharp ache twisted in his chest. Why hadn't he seen it then? Why hadn't he realized what she was really trying to say? If he had… maybe things would never have gotten this far.