Chapter 1: Morning Ritual

Reading this, you might think it’s better to be special than to be ordinary. I used to think that too. But let me tell you something about being special: everyone notices you, but no one sees you. There’s a difference that will destroy you if you let it.

In the morning, the light was always the first thing I noticed as it filtered through the windows. The curtains—those heavy, floor-length drapes that my mother insisted on, woven from fabric that cost more than most people’s annual salaries—would fall across my bed in pale golden stripes. I would open my eyes, still half-asleep, and the light would be there, gentle and warm, promising a new day.

But the light was a liar; the moment it touched my eyes, the door would open. The house staff assigned to me would come. Four of them, usually, though sometimes five or even six on mornings when there was a special event. They would move in practiced silence, carrying warm water and soft towels and the hundreds of small items required to transform a sleeping child into a presentable daughter.

I would be lifted from my bed before I was fully awake. My nightgown would be removed, always with the utmost care, as if I were something fragile, something that might break if handled too roughly. Then I would be bathed in water that was always exactly the right temperature. Scrubbed with soaps that smelled of lavender and roses and some other scent I could never identify. The staff would then dry and rinse my body before the mirror before they began dolling me up.

Remembering back to when I was five, watching my reflection in the mirror as the staff dressed me in those horrible, constricting dresses that weighed more than I did. They would brush my hair with long, careful strokes until it shone like spun gold. They would pin it up or curl it, depending on my mother’s preference for the day. They would apply creams and powders to my face, making my skin perfect and smooth. They would dress me in layers of fabric underthings, petticoats, dresses, ribbons, and bows.

All while my mother would stand in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest, her expression one of critical assessment. She would offer corrections: “The bow is crooked. The hem is uneven. Her hair needs more volume.” She would walk over and adjust something, tuck something, smooth something. She would step back and examine me as if I were a painting that needed one more stroke.

I was five years old, and I was already a work of art. But here’s the thing about art: it’s not alive. It’s beautiful, yes. It’s admirable. It’s displayed. But it doesn’t breathe. I don’t think so. It doesn’t feel right. It just sits there, looking pretty, while the world moves around it.

I was breathing. I was thinking. I was feeling, and no one seemed to notice.

Today was different. Today was the first day of my sophomore year at Stratford Academy. Today, I was fifteen years old.

I should have been excited. I should have been thinking about classes and teachers and seeing my classmates again after the summer break. But all I could think about was the ritual that was about to begin, and the woman who would be watching from the doorway, and the weight of the dress that I knew would be waiting for me.

The dress had been delivered three days ago. I’d seen it hanging in my dressing room, a pale blue confection of silk and satin, with a fitted bodice and a full skirt that would require at least two layers of petticoats to achieve the proper shape. It was beautiful, in the way that all my dresses were beautiful. It was expensive, in the way that all my dresses were expensive. It was suffocating, in the way that all my dresses were suffocating.

But today was different. Today, I was fifteen years old. Something inside me felt different too.

I lay in bed for a long moment, staring at the ceiling. I could hear the sounds of the house waking up around me: the soft footsteps of the staff in the hallway, the distant clatter of dishes from the kitchen, the muffled voice of my mother speaking on the phone somewhere in the vast expanse of the estate. The Ainsworth Estate. My home. My prison.

I thought about the dream I had last night. I’d been standing in the middle of a ballroom, surrounded by people in beautiful clothes, completely naked. But instead of being embarrassed or ashamed, I’d felt free. Light. Like I could finally breathe. I’d looked down at my body and seen it for the first time. Not through the filter of a dress or a corset or a layer of makeup. Just me. Just my body. Just my skin.

Then I woke up.

I closed my eyes and tried to hold onto the feeling: freedom, lightness, the sense of being real.

But the door was already opening.

“Good morning, dear.”

The voice was kind, familiar, and utterly relentless. It belonged to Wendy, the head of the household staff and my primary caregiver since infancy. She was in her fifties, with silver-streaked hair pulled back in a neat bun, kind eyes that crinkled at the corners when she smiled, and hands that had bathed me, dressed me, and comforted me for as long as I could remember.

She loved me. I never doubted that. But she was also complicit in the system that was slowly suffocating me. She never questioned it.

“Good morning, Wendy,” I said, my voice still thick with sleep.

“Happy birthday, dear,” she said, smiling. “Fifteen years old. How does it feel?”

I wanted to say something honest. Something like, It feels like I’m still a doll, still a possession, still something to be dressed up and displayed. It feels like nothing has changed and nothing will ever change. But I didn’t. I just smiled and said, “It feels fine. Thank you.”

Wendy nodded, satisfied with my answer. She turned to the staff behind her: three assistants, all in crisp uniforms, all holding the various implements of my morning transformation. “Let’s get started, then. We have a big day ahead of us.”

The ritual began.

I was lifted from the bed, my nightgown removed with practiced efficiency. The bathwater was already waiting, perfectly heated, scented with lavender and rose. I stepped into the claw-foot tub and let the warmth envelop me, closing my eyes as the staff began the familiar routine.

They washed my hair first, working the shampoo through the long strands with careful, methodical strokes. My mother insisted on my hair being long. “A lady’s hair is her crown,” she’d say, and it reached nearly to my waist. It was thick and dark, a trait I’d inherited from her, and it required an extraordinary amount of maintenance.

Then the body wash. The soft cloth. The careful scrubbing of every inch of my skin, as if I were a piece of fine furniture being polished to perfection. I’d long since stopped feeling embarrassed by the intimacy of it all. How could I be embarrassed? This was all I’d ever known.

When they were satisfied that I was clean enough, I was lifted from the tub and wrapped in a thick, fluffy towel. I was dried with the same meticulous care, then positioned on a stool in front of the mirror.

Then the work began.

Wendy brushed my hair first, long and slow, working out the tangles with practiced expertise. The brush moved through my hair in a rhythmic pattern, and I found myself relaxing into it despite everything. It was the only part of the ritual that ever felt good. The only moment when I could pretend I was just a girl getting ready for school, not a doll being prepared for display.

“Your mother has chosen a lovely dress for today,” Wendy said, her voice light and conversational. “She says you’ll be the envy of the entire school.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. The envy of the entire school. That’s what they wanted. To be envied. To be admired. To be the focus of everyone’s attention. But no one ever asked what I wanted.

The brushing continued for what felt like an eternity. Then the styling. Wendy’s skilled fingers worked my hair into an elaborate updo, pinning it in place with a series of pearl clips. A few strands were left to frame my face, curling gently at the ends. It was beautiful. It was elaborate. It was exactly what my mother would have wanted.

Then the makeup.

A light foundation to even out my skin tone. A touch of blush to add color to my cheeks. A sweep of mascara to make my eyes look larger, more expressive. A hint of lip gloss, just enough to make my lips look full and soft.

I watched my face transform in the mirror, watched the girl disappear, and the doll emerge. I’d been doing this since I was eight years old, and I’d never gotten used to it. Every time, I felt like I was losing myself a little bit more.

“How do I look?” I asked, my voice flat.

Wendy smiled. “Beautiful, dear. Absolutely beautiful.”

I nodded and turned away from the mirror. I didn’t want to see anymore.

The door opened, and my mother entered the room.

Nicole Strauss was a beautiful woman; there was no denying that. She was tall and elegant, with dark hair that she wore in a severe, stylish bob, and eyes that were perpetually assessing. She was dressed in a cream-colored silk blouse and tailored trousers, immaculate as always. She looked like she’d stepped out of a magazine.

“Good morning, Connellan,” she said, her voice crisp and businesslike. “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

She walked toward me, her eyes already scanning my appearance. She adjusted a strand of hair that wasn’t quite in place. She smoothed a wrinkle in my robe that hadn’t been there a moment before. She stepped back and examined me with the same critical expression she always wore.

“We have a busy day ahead,” she said. “The dress is hanging in your dressing room. It’s been specially made for your first day of school. I want you to look your best.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Your father and I are hosting a small dinner tonight. Nothing too elaborate, just the family and a few business associates. You’ll be expected to attend.”

“Yes, Mother.”

She studied my face for a moment, looking for something I couldn’t identify. Then she nodded, satisfied. “Good. Wendy, please continue with the dressing. I’ll be back to check on her progress.”

With that, she was gone.

The dressing began.

The first layer was the chemise, a thin, silky garment that covered my torso. Then the corset. I hated the corset more than anything. It was custom-made, designed to cinch my waist and push my chest up, creating the perfect silhouette. It was uncomfortable, constricting, and made it difficult to breathe.