Celeste Ashford POV)
Saturdays were different from the rest of the week.
Not easier, not lighter just… different.
Ever since my parents divorced years ago, Saturdays had been reserved for my mother. She and my father had fallen out of love quietly, almost politely, each retreating into their own world, leaving me to navigate between the two.
My father's mansion had rules, schedules, and expectations that could crush a person if they weren't careful. My mother's house was different, but not lighter. She had remarried, and her new husband was influential in his own right someone who expected discipline, poise, and intelligence from everyone around him, including me.
I sighed softly, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear as I checked the clock. The time for departure had already been set by my father. He didn't trust me to make my own way. Three hours. Not a minute more, not a minute less. After that, language lessons awaited me in the mansion, and there was no negotiation.
I dressed carefully, trying to balance elegance with comfort. My mother appreciated polish, but she also appreciated confidence. She believed appearances reflected character, and she had always expected me to meet her standards.
By the time I arrived at her house, the garden had changed since my last visit. Roses bloomed brighter, fountains sparkled under the morning sun, and the entire place radiated an air of controlled perfection exactly like her.
"Celeste," she called the moment I stepped onto the porch. Her hug was firm, warm, and precise, the kind of hug that both comforts and reminds you of responsibility.
"Mother," I replied, returning it carefully.
She stepped back, inspecting me with her usual scrutiny. "You look… ready for anything," she said, a small smile tugging at her lips. "I see your father hasn't spared any effort making you perfect."
I forced a smile. "I try."
She let out a soft laugh, but it was light only on the surface. Her eyes always sharp, always calculating reminded me of the woman she was: influential, ambitious, demanding. "Try?" she said gently. "Darling, you must do more than try. You must command attention, impress minds, and never let anyone underestimate you. That includes me."
I nodded silently. That was her way love wrapped in expectations. Years ago, I had learned that rebellion here wasn't allowed. Not even in small doses.
We moved to the living room, tea set gleaming on the table, and she poured the tea herself, as always.
"So," she began, leaning forward slightly, "tell me about your week. School, friends, your life under your father's schedule… I want details, Celeste."
I took a careful sip before replying. "It was… busy. Tea talks, lessons, schoolwork. Naomi and Ethan were there as usual."
She raised an eyebrow. "Naomi Blake and Ethan Rowe. The wealthy friends, yes? You spend a lot of time with them?"
"Yes, Mother," I said. "We go to the same school, and they… they're friends."
Her eyes softened for a moment. "Celeste, I know your father surrounds you with wealth and influence, but remember true influence is not about appearances. It's about intelligence, grace, and how you carry yourself. Do you understand?"
"I do."
She smiled briefly, then leaned back, sipping her tea. "Good. I see too many young women my age, and even younger, wasted on frivolity. They learn manners but not wisdom. You must always be better than that. Smarter, stronger, more prepared."
I nodded again, feeling the weight of her expectations pressing gently against my chest.
"And your friends?" she asked, tilting her head. "Do they… challenge you? Or merely follow you through the motions?"
"They… talk about school, about future plans, things like that," I answered slowly. "They have ambitions, but it's not the same as yours. I… I think differently sometimes."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, not in disapproval, but curiosity. "Good. Thinking differently is important. Never let them or anyone make you forget who you are, or what you are capable of."
I took a deep breath, feeling a mix of pride and exhaustion. Every word she spoke reminded me that, no matter which parent I was with, the rules remained. The pressure remained. And expectations never ended.
The hours passed slowly. Conversation drifted between school, friends, her work, and the responsibilities she hoped I would inherit one day. At every turn, I nodded, smiled, and contributed when necessary. I had learned this was the only way to survive her influence without causing offense.
When the clock neared the time I was meant to leave, I rose quietly. My mother walked with me to the door.
"Remember, Celeste," she said, her hand resting briefly on my shoulder, "your words and actions carry weight. Always. Not just with me, but with the world. And never forget you are capable of more than anyone expects. Even me."
"I understand, Mother," I whispered.
The gate closed behind me, and I made my way back to my father's mansion. The afternoon sun glinted across the marble floors, reminding me that my other world waited the one filled with rules, lessons, and language tutors.
And yet, for just a moment, I let myself imagine the evening ahead: the rooftop, the quiet, the air that belonged only to me.
---
Jaden POV)
I was in the mansion most of the day, helping my mother as usual. Saturdays were always the busiest especially with events like these. Guests coming, the house bustling, instructions coming from every corner. She never complained, though. She had mastered the art of balancing grace with hard work. Watching her, I sometimes wondered how people could manage so much and still remain composed.
And then, I saw her. Celeste Ashford.
The car rolled up, sleek and spotless, and I recognized the routine instantly. Every Saturday, the same schedule. Out of the mansion in the afternoon, three hours to spend at her mother's, back before five, exhausted and proper, ready for her language lessons. I've watched this enough times now that it's almost predictable. Almost… but still, there's something about her I can't look away from.
Her face when she returned it wasn't angry, it wasn't upset but it was tired. Heavy, like she carried the weight of expectations with her. Not the kind of exhaustion that comes from physical work or chores, but the kind that comes from being constantly measured, observed, and molded. I've never felt that level of pressure, but I could see it in her eyes, the slump in her shoulders, the way she let out a tiny sigh before entering the mansion again.
Shortly after she came back, her language teacher arrived. The lessons began, and her day continued without pause. Polished, controlled, efficient. Always efficient. Watching her, even from a distance, I feel… something. A pull, almost. Not because of who she is exactly, but because of how different her life is, and yet, in some ways, how similar it must feel to me.
I always feel like I want to say something to her. Even just a single word, a simple "Hi," or ask how she is. But… I can't. I'm not in her level. Not even close. She doesn't know I exist beyond passing glances in the corridors of our school. She doesn't even know we go to the same school. She's too busy, too controlled, too… untouchable in the way only people like her can be.
After helping my mom and finishing the chores in the mansion, I went back to my neighborhood. It's small, but it's mine. Here, people know me, like me, trust me. They ask for advice, let me play with their children, even rely on me sometimes. There's a sense of freedom in it something I don't feel anywhere else. Here, my presence matters, and I am not judged for my background, my clothes, or the house I live in.
Later, I went to help my father deliver bread to stores. He runs a bakery, and on busy days, every pair of hands counts. Carrying trays, checking orders, interacting with store owners this is my world. It's tiring, yes, but in a different way than Celeste's day must be. My exhaustion comes from doing, moving, giving. Hers… I imagine hers comes from always performing, always meeting expectations, always being watched.
And yet, thinking about it, I realize there's a strange similarity between us. We're both tired. We're both pulled in directions we didn't exactly choose. Our days are packed, exhausting, but for different reasons. Hers is filled with invisible pressures, invisible judgments, invisible eyes. Mine is physical, practical, obvious but the fatigue is real in both cases.
Sometimes, I imagine what it would be like to speak to her. Just a few words. To tell her, maybe, that someone notices. That someone understands, even in a small way, how exhausting it can all be. But I can't. I wouldn't even know where to start. She wouldn't have time to notice, and even if she did, I'm… me. Someone from the other side of the walls, the streets, the classrooms. Someone invisible.
Still, I think about her. Often. Not in a dramatic way, not in a way that would make sense to anyone else. Just… curious. Observant. A quiet feeling that she lives in a world that's different, and yet, somehow… parallel to mine.
Today was long, like every Saturday. But as I finally collapsed onto the small steps outside my house, breathing in the warm evening air, I thought about her. Her exhaustion. Her precision. Her life. And somehow, it made my own feel… fuller, even if harder.
Maybe one day, I'll say something to her. Even a little. Even a small word.
But not today.
---
By the time the evening rolled around, the mansion had quieted down. Celeste's language lesson was over, and her pen hovered over her notebook as she closed the final page. Her shoulders ached not from physical work, but from hours of carefully balancing expectations, perfection, and appearances.
She stepped outside, leaving the mansion behind, walking swiftly through familiar streets she had memorized over years. The path to her secret rooftop hideout was hidden, quiet, and just far enough to feel like a world apart. Nobody else knew she went there her father certainly didn't, and her friends couldn't imagine she had a place untouched by rules.
The cool night air greeted her as she climbed the small stairwell that led to the rooftop. From there, the city stretched below, lights twinkling like stars scattered across the ground. She leaned against the railing, exhaling deeply, letting the weight of her day drift away. Here, she could think, breathe, and simply be Celeste, without perfection, without expectations, without anyone watching.
---
Meanwhile, across town, Jaden walked the narrow streets of his neighborhood, the last bakery deliveries done, the evening settling over his small world. He paused on the familiar steps outside his home, letting the night air wash over him. His muscles ached pleasantly from the day's work, but his thoughts wandered to her.
He pictured her careful, composed, exhausted in ways he could only imagine leaving her mansion and slipping into her own world, a secret place where she could breathe freely. He imagined the way she must exhale, just a little, letting the weight of the day lift off her shoulders.
He smiled faintly. She has her world… I have mine. But somehow… we're not that different.
He looked up at the sky, the same sky that stretched above Celeste's rooftop, above his neighborhood, above both their worlds. Two lives, separate yet parallel, each carrying their own burdens, each longing for a moment of freedom.
And though they didn't know it yet, their evenings had aligned, even if only in silent reflection two worlds quietly mirroring each other under the same stars.