𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆: 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐛𝐲 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞 𝐔𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐝

...🫀...

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓, 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊

𝐀𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟕

𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐓

𝐈 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐢𝐞.

Doctors have been telling me that my whole life. I expected it. From all the doctor visits and surgeries, it was just prolonging the inevitable. Each diagnosis, each procedure, each well-meaning but ultimately empty reassurance was another reminder that my time was limited. 

It was a truth I carried with me.

But here, in the halls of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, I could almost forget. 

The paintings and sculptures stood timeless, a stark contrast to the ticking time bomb in my chest. The MET was my sanctuary, a place where I could lose myself in the brushstrokes of masters and the whispers of history.

I wandered through the galleries, letting my fingers trail along the cool, polished banisters. The colors and forms around me blurred into a comforting haze. I paused in front of a landscape painting, the serene countryside scene so different from the chaotic pulse of New York City outside.

Time seemed to stand still within these walls. Here, I wasn't a girl with a failing heart; I was simply an observer, a part of something much larger and more enduring. 

I moved on, weaving through the crowd of tourists and art lovers, each of us lost in our own worlds.

A wave of dizziness hit me, and I gripped the nearest railing, my vision swimming. I closed my eyes, willing the sensation to pass. My phone buzzed and blinked through my blurry vision.

Glancing at the time, I sighed and turned, weaving through the clusters of tourists and art enthusiasts. I stepped out into the bustling streets of New York, the city's pulse syncing with my own as I hailed a taxi.

"Brooklyn, please," I said, settling into the backseat. 

The driver nodded, and we were off, leaving the grandeur of the MET behind. I watched the city blur past the window, each familiar landmark bringing me closer to the reality I couldn't escape. 

The cab stopped outside the boxing gym, and I paid the fare, stepping out into the familiar noise of my neighborhood. Conversations blended into a low hum, and the smell of sweat and leather greeted me as I entered the gym on the ground floor. Fighters pounded heavy bags, their grunts punctuating the rhythmic thuds of gloves against pads.

I walked through the gym, nodding to a few familiar faces before heading to the back and taking the elevator up to our loft. As the doors opened, I fished my keys out of my pocket and unlocked the door.

"Violet?" my dad's voice called from the dining room.

"Dad, I'm fine," I replied, throwing my bag onto the couch in the living room. The loft was a cozy blend of eclectic furniture and cherished mementos, each piece telling its own story.

I headed into the kitchen, the smell of eggplant lasagna wafting through the air. My dad stood at the stove, stirring a pot.

"Just walked around the MET," I said, leaning against the doorway.

"Did you take—"

"A cab," I finished for him, rolling my eyes.

"Yes, Dad."

He turned and gave me a look, one that was both stern and full of concern. I pushed off the wall and grabbed the bowl of salad and tongs, setting them on the table before reaching for the plates in the cabinet.

"How's school?" he asked, placing the lasagna on the table.

"Fine," I muttered, setting the table.

"Is that all I get?" He raised an eyebrow at me, his expression a mix of curiosity and frustration.

"There was a fight involving water and what I hoped was cottage cheese during lunch today," I said, sitting down and serving myself some salad and lasagna.

He sat across from me, shaking his head. "I see."

We ate in silence for a moment before he spoke again. "Your mom—"

"I don't want to see her," I cut him off, my voice sharper than I intended.

He sighed, setting his fork down. "I told her you'd say that."

I looked up, meeting his eyes. "And?"

"She still wants to see you. But I told her it would be your decision."

I stabbed my salad, the frustration bubbling up inside me. "She had seven years to see me. But she chose to leave."

Ever since my mom walked out on us ten years ago, she gave up on us. I knew it was my fault—the hospital bills and the medication were too much for her. But that doesn't give her the right to walk out on her kid.

"I'm not going to force you to talk to her. But you should try to answer her emails, even if it's to tell her you don't want to see or hear from her again."

"I'll think about it," I muttered, shoving a forkful of lasagna into my mouth.

He smiled at me, a small, sad smile. "This came for you." He handed me an envelope.

I set my fork down, pushing the lasagna around on my plate as my dad handed me an envelope. The cursive on the front was unfamiliar, elegant in a way that screamed importance. I tore it open, my fingers fumbling with the paper, and pulled out a letter.

"Private school?" I asked, looking up at him in confusion.

He nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I talked to your principal. She told me you are ahead in all your classes. So ahead, in fact, that you should be taking college classes."

I scanned the letter again, my mind racing. "I don't understand."

"You start on Monday," he said simply.

I stared at him, the letter clutched in my hand. "Dad, we can't afford this."

"I called in a favor. A friend owed me."

"Why?"

He sighed, setting his fork down and leaning back in his chair. "Because I want to give you your best chance."

I reread the letter, my eyes skimming over the words, trying to make sense of it. "Scholarship?"

"This scholarship is your chance at a better future."

"If Mom—"

"It wasn't your mom. An old friend of mine helped me out."

I closed my mouth, leaning against my chair, staring at my dad. The room felt too small, the walls closing in. He got up, moved around the table, and looked at me, his eyes softening.

"Vi, I know there will be rich, snotty kids there, but I did this so you can have a better future. A better one than I did."

I got to my feet and wrapped my arms around him, snuggling against his chest. "I know."

He pressed a kiss against my hair, holding me close. "I love you, Vi."

"I love you too, Dad."

...🫀...

𝐒𝐄𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐀𝐍

𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐓, 𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐍𝐎

𝐀𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟔

The paparazzi lights flashed like fireworks, their bulbs popping and sizzling in the night air as they captured every step we took. The noise of clicks and shutters mixed with the screams of girls calling my name, their voices blending into a high-pitched frenzy. 

The charity gala for the Bianchi family was in full swing, a glittering spectacle of wealth and influence in the heart of Valeriano.

"Sebastian, are you ready to be king yet?" one reporter yelled, shoving a microphone in my face.

I plastered on my most charming smile, which felt more like a mask than a part of me. "Of course," I said, my voice smooth and confident.

Beside me, my father, the king, spoke up, his deep voice cutting through the chaos. "My son can't wait to take on the throne and fulfill his duties," he declared, wrapping an arm around my shoulder and giving me a firm squeeze.

Girls screamed louder, a chorus of "Sebastian, are you single?" rising above the noise. 

I threw them a wink, knowing it would fuel the tabloids for days.

Inside the grand ballroom, the din of the crowd softened to a low murmur. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm, golden glow over the sea of elegant dresses and tailored suits. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the underlying tang of money. My stepmother, the Queen, glided past us in her gold dress, her presence commanding attention. My stepsister trailed behind her, looking ethereal in a pale purple gown.

I moved through the throng of people, exchanging pleasantries and shaking hands, but my mind was elsewhere. Every smile felt forced, every laugh hollow.

I slipped away later that evening, my footsteps echoing down the marble hallway until I reached the balcony. I stepped out into the cool night, the fresh air filling my lungs and momentarily easing the pressure in my chest. 

Valeriano's city stretched before me, a testament to my family's legacy. 

The city sprawled like a jewel-encrusted tapestry, its ancient streets weaving through a blend of old-world charm and modern elegance. Red-tiled rooftops of historic buildings contrasted with sleek, glass skyscrapers that pierced the sky, creating a striking skyline against the backdrop of the azure Mediterranean.

Cobblestone streets meandered through bustling markets, where the air was thick with the scent of fresh bread, ripe tomatoes, and aromatic herbs. Vendors shouted in melodic Italian, their stalls overflowing with vibrant produce, hand-crafted goods, and artisanal delights. Narrow alleyways, draped in ivy and adorned with colorful flowers, invited exploration and whispered secrets of centuries past.

Grand piazzas, with their ornate fountains and statues, served as the heart of the city, where people gathered to socialize, celebrate, and watch the world go by. The ancient cathedrals, with their spires reaching heavenward, stood as silent witnesses to the passage of time, their stained-glass windows casting kaleidoscopic patterns on the cobblestones below.

The waterfront sparkled under the Mediterranean sun, with luxury yachts bobbing gently in the marina. Along the promenade, cafes and trattorias offered the best of Italian cuisine, their terraces filled with patrons savoring the flavors of Valeriano while enjoying the sea breeze.

Amidst this vibrant tapestry, the imposing family estate loomed on a hill, its grand architecture blending Renaissance splendor and modern opulence. The estate's manicured gardens, with their labyrinthine hedges and marble statues, reflected the city's blend of history and contemporary grandeur.

Valeriano was a city of contrasts, where the past met the present in a harmonious dance, each element enhancing the other's beauty. It was a place where every corner told a story, and every street held a piece of my family's legacy.

I closed my eyes, leaning against the stone railing, and let the night wrap around me. Out here, away from the cameras and the expectations, I could almost breathe freely.

Almost.

"Thought I'd find you here," a soft voice said, breaking the silence.

I opened my eyes to see Isabella standing beside me. Her presence was a balm, a reminder that not everything in my life was a performance.

"Needed a break from the circus," I said, my voice rougher than I intended.

Isabella gave me a side hug, her touch light and reassuring. "Father's looking for you," she said, her tone gentle but firm.

I sighed, the weight of her words settling over me like a shroud. "Of course he is," I muttered, pushing off the railing.

"Hey," Isabella said, catching my arm. I turned to face her, and she smiled, a genuine smile that reached her eyes. "You got this," she said.

For a moment, the mask slipped, and I allowed myself to return her smile. "Thanks, Bella," I said, squeezing her hand.

As I walked back inside, the noise of the gala washed over me again, and the weight of my responsibilities settled back onto my shoulders. My father was waiting, his eyes sharp and expectant. I straightened my tuxedo, steeling myself for the rest of the evening.

...🫀...

𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐓

I stepped back from my painting, taking in the faceless girl standing at the edge of a small town, her future a blank canvas. The colors swirled in a chaotic mix, capturing the uncertainty I felt every day.

A wave of dizziness washed over me, and I stumbled back, reaching for the stool. My heart raced, each beat thudding loudly in my ears.

I fumbled through my bag, pulling out my portable ECG. My fingers shook as I attached the electrodes to my chest and connected it to my phone. The app beeped to life, displaying the erratic peaks of my heartbeat. I took deep breaths, trying to steady the rhythm. Slowly, the spikes evened out, and I leaned back against the wall, waiting for the pounding in my head to subside.

"Are you okay?" a voice asked, breaking through my haze.

I opened my eyes to see a girl around my age, with rich brown hair and concerned eyes, standing over me.

"I'm fine," I replied, my voice steadier than I felt.

She dropped onto the floor beside me, rummaging through her designer bag. "I have orange juice," she offered, pulling out a small carton.

I cocked an eyebrow. "Diabetic?"

She nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. "Yeah. Want some?"

"Thanks, but I just need to sit."

"If you're sure."

"I'm sure," I said, more to convince myself than her.

She held out her hand. "I'm Isabella."

"Violet," I said, shaking her hand.

Isabella looked around the room, her eyes landing on my painting. "Did you do that?"

I nodded.

"You're good."

"Thanks."

A phone rang, breaking the moment. Isabella pulled hers out, glanced at the screen, and rolled her eyes before declining the call.

"My brother," she explained. "He's at this party and wanted me to go."

"Didn't feel like it?"

"More like didn't want to get high and drunk," she said, her tone tinged with sarcasm.

I glanced at her clothes, noting the expensive fabric and impeccable style. Her blouse looked like it belonged on a runway, paired with perfectly tailored pants and designer shoes. "I see."

"So, how long do you usually sit here?" she asked, changing the subject.

"Twenty minutes."

"Well then, do you want to read the latest Gossip Girl?" she asked, a mischievous glint in her eye.

"Gossip Girl?" I repeated, confused.

Isabella stared at me as if I had confessed to not knowing the sky was blue. "You know, the blogger?"

I shook my head.

She sighed dramatically, causing a reluctant smile to tug at my lips. "We have to change that."

Isabella pulled out her phone and tapped on the screen. "Gossip Girl is the ultimate source of drama and scandal around here. She knows everything about everyone."

"See? This one is about my brother," she said, holding the phone out to me.

I skimmed the post, and my interest piqued. "Sebastian Kingston? The crown prince?"

"Yep," she said, rolling her eyes. "He's a walking headline."

I listened intently as she scrolled through the latest posts, her voice animated as she recounted the juiciest bits of gossip.

Gossip Girl, huh?