"Lena, wake up. We're late."
The velvet curtains of her penthouse suite flooded with sunlight as Cami, her assistant, yanked them open. Lena groaned, burying her face deeper into the plush pillow. "What time is it?"
"Too late for beauty sleep," Cami replied, already tapping on her tablet. "You have a Vogue interview at eleven, fittings at one, and dinner with Cartier at eight. And yes, you still have to wear that ridiculous silver dress you said made you look like a disco ball."
Lena sat up slowly, mascara from last night still clinging to her lashes. "Can I skip the dinner?"
Cami didn't even look up. "No."
Lena swung her legs off the bed, letting her feet touch the cold marble floor. Her reflection in the mirror across the room looked tired—flawless, but tired. She was twenty-three, adored, envied, and exhausted.
She rubbed her temples. "Remind me why I do this again?"
Cami looked at her, one brow raised. "Because you're Lena Maren. Because you signed a seven-figure contract. And because... somewhere deep down, I think you like it."
Lena smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I like the silence more."
Cami paused. "What silence?"
"Exactly."
The day unfolded like every other—flashing cameras, designer shoes too tight, fake air kisses, interviews with the same questions, the same compliments. "You're so iconic, Lena." "What's your skincare secret?" "How do you stay grounded?"
The dining hall shimmered with crystal and candlelight. Music played softly, laughter echoed off marble, and the air smelled like champagne and expensive perfume.
Lena sat at the long table, her silver gown clinging perfectly to her form, her face lit by soft, golden glow. Every eye admired her. Every phone angled to capture her. To the world, she was dazzling.
To herself, she was fading.
"So, Lena," a voice cooed to her left—some billionaire's wife or a fashion editor, she couldn't tell anymore—"are you really launching your own perfume line? How thrilling!"
Lena smiled the smile. The one that looked genuine. "We're in talks," she said smoothly, swirling the wine in her glass. "Just finding the right scent."
The woman leaned in. "I bet it'll smell like ambition and heartbreak."
She laughed. So did everyone else. But Lena's gaze wandered—to the chandeliers, the flowers, the exits. Her mind was somewhere else entirely.
Later, alone in the back seat of her black car as it glided through the city, Lena rested her head against the window. The streetlights flickered over her tired reflection.
Grounded.
She hadn't felt that in years.
By the time she returned to her suite that evening, hours before the dinner party, her phone had 64 unread messages and her shoulders ached from posing like a mannequin.
She tossed her phone across the couch, kicked off her heels, and poured herself a glass of wine. Standing by the window, high above the city that never stopped moving, Lena whispered to the glass, to the skyline, to the stars she could barely see:
"I just want one night away from all this."
She didn't know the world was listening.
---
She pulled off her heels. Closed her eyes. Whispered again, this time not to the stars, but to herself:
*"If I could just disappear for one night… just one…"*
By the time she stepped into her suite, the city behind her, she didn't bother turning on the lights. She walked to the bed, the silver dress slipping off her shoulders, leaving a trail of silk on the floor.
She climbed under the sheets.
No texts. No noise. Just stillness.
She fell asleep to the sound of her own breathing.
And woke up to the sound of birds she'd never heard before.