Chapter 1

Shantelle's POV

I spent three endless weeks locked inside my studio, painting my father's portrait.

Three weeks of mixing titanium white and burnt umber colors until oil paint stained my cuticles.

Three weeks of staying awake past 3:00 AM, desperately chasing the ghost of the man I remembered before my mother died.

The man who used to carry me on his broad shoulders through the mansion, whispering in my ears that I was his entire world….

Tonight, I was going to give him the canvas. Tonight, I was going to prove that choosing art over a stethoscope and white coats didn't make me a failure.

But I should have known better….

“You are a complete and utter disgrace to the González name!”

My father’s voice roared across the dining room, so loud the glass cups on the mahogany table vibrated in response.

The canvas I wrapped carefully, which was resting against my leg, suddenly felt like a cruel joke.

Rivera González stood at the middle of the table. Along the sidelines of the room, three housemaids froze in place, lowering their eyes to the floor in an uncomfortable, helpless silence.

I swallowed hard around the lump forming in my throat, my fingers digging into the velvet upholstery of my chair.

“Father, please… I only wanted to—”

“You wanted to do what?” he snapped, his dark eyes flashing as he stepped closer.

“Throw away three decades of legacy?”

“I didn't throw anything away, father!”

“You rejected Harvard for fuck’s sake!”

His fist slammed onto the table with thunderous force.

“You were offered a seat at the most prestigious medical school on the planet, and you threw it in the trash for a low class arts college in Valencia!”

Heat rushed to my face, burning hot against my cheeks. I pressed my spine flat against the back of my chair, trying to keep my voice from cracking.

“I….I never wanted to study medicine, Father. I don't have the heart for it.”

“You don't have the stomach for anything that matters, Shantelle!”

The words landed like a dirty slap. He glared down at me as if I were a grease stain on a wedding gown.

“You were supposed to wear that white coat. You were supposed to build a respectable reputation so you could stand beside me as my heiress. And look at you!.” He pointed wildly at my frame, his lip curling in disgust.

“Hiding away in a dark room, smearing paint on canvas like a dumb little child.”

The air locked in my lungs. Across the table, Martina lowered her gaze, biting her lower lip to hide the smug, triumphant smile creeping onto her face.

My half-sister looked immaculate. Her tailored emerald gown clung flawlessly to her narrow waist, her porcelain skin glowed under the chandelier lights, and every dark wave of her hair fell in effortless perfection.

She was the kind of lady my family had spent years trying to hammer me into…

Slender.

Refined.

Famous.

And, above all, obedient.

Father turned toward her, his tone instantly softening into something warm and possessive.

“Look at Martina. She built a name for herself in the fashion world without relying on my vanity.”

A bitter laugh escaped my throat before I could stop it. “Without relying on you?”

Martina’s smile vanished. Father narrowed his eyes, staring at me dangerously.

“Watch your tongue, Shantelle.”

“No!.” I pushed my chair back, the wooden legs scraping sharply against the marble floor. My hands were shaking, but I forced myself to sit up straight.

“For once in my life, I’m going to say what everyone in this house is too afraid to whisper.”

The room plunged into a suffocating silence.

I looked directly at Martina. “You didn't build Streamline Stitch alone. Father financed your first three runways. He bought your fabric suppliers. He handed you a golden plate.”

“Because she proved she was worth the investment!” Father fired back, he looked like an angry gremlin.

“I was never allowed to prove anything!” My voice broke, tears finally stinging the corners of my eyes.

“You wanted a puppet in a lab coat, Father. You never asked what I cared about. You never looked at me and saw me.”

Father stared at me, his jaw tightened as his expression hardened into cold steel.

“Because I knew what you needed better than you did.”

Sitting close to Martina, my stepmother, Carmen, set down her wine glass with a deliberate clink.

“Rivera, darling, don't waste your blood pressure,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. She turned her eyes onto me, her gaze sweeping lazily over my shoulders and stomach.

“Shantelle has always been... difficult. Perhaps if she spent half as much time working on herself, especially her figure, as she does making excuses, we wouldn't be having this scene.”

The insult didn't even hide itself. It never did.

My body. It was always about my body.

Too heavy.

Too soft.

Too large.

I pressed my palms together under the table, staring down at my knuckles to hide the fresh tear that escaped down my cheek.

Then my knee brushed the edge of the framed canvas resting beside me. The portrait.

I had poured twenty-one days of my soul into it, foolishly believing that if he saw how clearly I remembered his kindness, he might remember it too.

I reached down with trembling hands and lifted the heavy canvas onto my lap.

“Father... before you say anything else, just look at this.” I pulled away the protective cloth, revealing the oil painting underneath.

It was a portrait of him from twenty years ago: his broad shoulders were relaxed, a soft, genuine smile warming his eyes, holding my mother's hand on the balcony of the mansion.

For a second, nobody moved. The room was dead silent.

Please…, I prayed silently, my heart hammering against my ribs. Just look at me father….

Father leaned forward, his cold eyes scanning the canvas.

Then a sharp laughter tore from his throat devoid of warmth. It was loaded with pure ridicule.

“You wasted three weeks on this trash?”

My fingers went numb against the wooden frame. “I... I painted it for you.”

“I don't want it.” With a flick of his wrist, he shoved the edge of the frame away from him.

The canvas slipped from my hands, crashing face-down onto the hard floor. The wooden frame cracked with a sharp snap, and the wet varnish smeared across the polished marble floor.

Something inside my chest finally broke.

Carmen raised a hand to her mouth, letting out a soft, amused giggle, while Martina turned her head to hide her smirk.

I dropped to my knees, picking up the ruined painting, my vision completely blurred by tears.

“I have made my final decision regarding the company,” Father announced, his tone dropping into a flat, corporate register.

I stood up slowly, clutching the cracked canvas against my stomach. “About what?” I asked.

“About the inheritance.” He didn't even look at me. He looked directly at Martina.

“Martina is my sole heiress to the González empire.”

The room seemed to move sideways, my vision became blurry because of the tears clouding my vision.

“What?” I choked out. “Father, I am your firstborn. I am your legitimate blood!”

“And that is why I gave you twenty-two years to prove your worth,” he said, stepping over the paint smudges on the floor to stand beside Martina.

“You rejected Harvard. You embarrass this family in public. And frankly...” His eyes dragged deliberately over my disheveled hair, my tear-stained face, and my full frame.

“...you lack the physical image required to represent a multi-billion-dollar dynasty.”

Carmen sighed dramatically, patting Father’s arm.

“Oh, Rivera, don't be so harsh on the poor girl. Though... you aren't wrong.”

Carmen leaned back in her chair, placing a hand over her heart with practiced innocence.

“Dad, please. I never asked to take Shantelle’s place.” Martina said in a calm, pristine voice.

“I know, sweetheart,” Father said softly, placing a proud hand on her shoulder. “And that humility is precisely why you deserve it.”

A cold nausea formed in my gut. I looked around the long table, searching every face for a single shred of humanity.

The maids kept their eyes glued to the floor. I know they wanted to help but they just couldn't. Carmen was sipping her wine while Father was smiling at his second daughter.

My eyes landed on Alejandro.

My fiancé was seated to my right, staring down at his silver cufflinks.

Tonight was supposed to be our official engagement party, the night he put the heavy 16-carat diamond ring on my finger in front of the entire family.

He was supposed to be my partner. My shield.

“Alejandro,” I whispered, my voice trembling.

His jaw tightened, almost as if he was irritated by my presence.

Slowly, he pushed his chair back and stood up. He walked around the table, stopping a few feet away from me.

A tiny spark of hope flared in my chest. Please stand with me. Tell all of them they're wrong.

Alejandro leaned in, his voice dropping so low only I could hear it. “Shantelle... stop this. You’re making an absolute fool of yourself.”

I stared at him in absolute shock, the blood draining from my face. “What?”

“Your father is furious,” he muttered, his eyes darting nervously toward Rivera. “Just accept it for tonight. Don't ruin the party.”

“Martina is stealing my life, Alejandro!” I snapped, a harsh whisper tearing from my throat. “And you’re telling me to sit down and take it?”

He swallowed, shifting his weight uncomfortably. “I’m telling you to be realistic.”

“Do you love me or not?”

His jaw tightened, a flicker of annoyance passing through his pale eyes.

“Of course I do. But this isn't the time.” He took two steps back, putting distance between us. “We’ll discuss this later.”

He turned his back on me and walked away.

The spark of hope inside me died, leaving behind nothing but cold, black ash.

I gripped the cracked frame of my painting so tightly the broken wood cut into my palms.

“If you strip me of my title, that is your choice, Father,” I said, my voice dropping into a clear whisper but surprisingly clear through the quiet hall.

“But I will not shrink myself, and I will not apologize for existing.” Father’s eyebrows shot up, startled by the sudden lack of tears in my voice.

“I may not be the daughter you wanted,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “But I am the only REAL daughter you have.”

Without waiting for his response, I turned on my red heels and walked out of the dining hall, the silk train of my dress sweeping over the ruined paint on the floor.

I made it past the grand entrance before the first sob ripped from my throat. I pressed my back against the cold stone wall of the corridor, closing my eyes as heavy tears ruined my eye makeup.

I squeezed my eyes shut, taking deep, ragged breaths to stop my hands from shaking.

That was when I heard the low, muffled sound of voices coming from the other corridor. The dark hallway leading to my father's executive garage.

I smoothed my dress and stepped forward, initially intending to head to my room, when a soft, familiar chuckle stopped me in my tracks.

Martina’s laugh…

I hid near the shadow of a marble pillar. Through the narrow gap in the doorway, I saw two silhouettes standing under the dim security lights of the courtyard.

Martina was leaning against one of father's polished vintage cars. And standing inches away from her was Alejandro. His hands tucked familiarly into her waist.

My heart dropped into my stomach.

I pulled back behind the pillar, my breath catching in my throat.

No. No, I'm misinterpreting this. He's just congratulating her. He's my fiancé!.

Martina reached up, her long, manicured fingers threading into Alejandro’s dark hair, pulling his face down toward hers.

Alejandro didn't even pull back. He didn't hesitate. He let out a low groan, wrapping his arms around her back

and pulling her face against his chest.

And right there, under the cold glow of the garage lights, my fiancé pressed his lips against my sister’s, kissing her with a fierce, ravenous hunger I had never once felt from him.