The night has only begun but we are already tired even before entering the palace. Looking at the other girls I can't deny why the step sisters are labeled ugly. They ARE like Barbie dolls.
We joined the line of nobility streaming toward the grand doors. The queue moved slowly, like a parade of peacocks deciding who looked most ornamental.
At the entrance stood the representative of King and Queen, performing the ancient and noble ritual of Greeting Important People Without Actually Remembering Their Names.
Mother curtseyed flawlessly. "Lady Beatrice Helena Ashbourne," she announced herself.
"And your daughters?," the lady as Queen's representative asked, eyes twinkling with polite confusion.
"Youngest daughter Drizella Margaret Ashbourne."
Drizella curtseyed first, graceful and composed. She bowed her head exactly the correct amount which was impressive, since Mother had drilled those angles into us like math.
Then it was my turn.
"And the eldest, Anastasia Louise Ashbourne."
I curtseyed and nearly tipped forward, because gravity is a menace.
Mother made a noise that could curdle milk.
The representatives smiled anyway — proof they had seen far worse or drank before greeting duty.
They announced our names as we enter the Ballroom.
We entered the Ballroom — and I finally understood why poets were always losing their minds.
Glass windows soared to the ceiling. Silk banners fluttered. Candles sparkled like constellations. Music twirled through the air. And everyone smelled faintly of money and perfume.
Drizella leaned close, whispering, "This is what heaven looks like if you're rich."
"If you're poor," I whispered back, "heaven probably has sandwiches."
We scanned the room for danger (Mother), opportunity (potential husbands), and allies (pastries).
We spotted the pastries first. Naturally.
Mother leaned in, whispering the nightly agenda as if we were soldiers preparing for battle:
"First: polite greetings. Second: mingle. Third: catch the eye of someone notable. Fourth: dance if asked. Fifth: speak of tasteful hobbies. And please—do not discuss politics, sports, or your opinions about clothing."
Drizella looked directly at me.
I looked directly away.
The music swelled, guests parted, and the announcer prepared to introduce the royal family. Mother gasped softly — she lived for spectacle.
I, however, lived for pastries.
"It begins," Drizella murmured dramatically.
"Oh yes," I agreed. "War."
The music shifted — the kind of grand, trumpeting piece that announces important people, large announcements, or the arrival of someone wearing more gold than strictly ethical.
The announcer boomed, "Their Majesties the King and Queen, accompanied by His Royal Highness Prince Adrian of House Valmont!"
I tried to look but I was viciously blocked by a humanized giraffe. I shifted to the right but then again attacked by the Prince's bodyguard.
"Why everyone is against and the prince today? I wonder."
He took position at the top of the stairs, surveying the room like he was looking for someone in particular.
I lost my interest and went back to my first love as I can't even have a glimpse at his face.
Drizella nudged me so suddenly I nearly swallowed my fan.
"That's him," she whispered. "The one from the market."
"You need to be more specific," I whispered back. "We encountered several alarming men in the market."
"You know, the 'KIT' howler."
"Oh!" I looked again. He stood stiffly, hand resting where a sword would be if the palace wasn't terrified of someone scratching the floor.
Drizella tilted her head. "He looks less intimidating without weapons."
"He still looks intimidating," I said honestly.
"Yes," she sighed. "But politely intimidating."
Mother, who had been pretending not to listen, murmured, "He's handsome."
Drizella nearly dropped her fan. "Mother."
"I may be your mother," she said serenely, "but I am also not blind."
Mother then glided toward the nearest cluster of high-ranking nobility like a shark scented blood in parliament.
Drizella and I followed, because that's what one does in these situations: obey and pray.
"Lady Beatrice," cooed a duchess in too much lace. "How lovely you look."
Mother smiled, the smile she used for enemies and dinner guests. "Oh, Duchess Aveline, still wearing ivory? How daring at your age."
I choked on absolutely nothing.
Drizella turned it into a cough to hide laughter, saving both our lives.
Mother continued on her campaign, greeting politically powerful strangers, introducing us as if we were well-trained accomplishments instead of semi-chaotic daughters.
"These are my girls," she told a baron, "both fluent in literature and embroidery."
I nodded primly, wondering when exactly I had become fluent in embroidery. Drizella didn't argue, she was still choking from the ivory comment.
Mother moved to her next target — an earl with impressive mustaches.
"My daughters are known for their excellent manners," she lied boldly.
The mustaches wiggled as if unconvinced.
Mother then leaned in to a cluster of wealthy matrons. "Of course, we have several connections through the late Fairmont estates. It's quite remarkable what one can accomplish with diligence and refined upbringing."
Translation: Please acknowledge how successful I am so I may ascend the social rankings like a phoenix wearing diamonds.
The ballroom glittered like a dream poured out of a golden teapot. Everywhere I looked, lights dripped from chandeliers, gowns rustled, and music curled around people like ribbons.
And yet, somehow, none of that glitter settled anywhere near us.
Mother led us forward with her chin angled to the heavens, as if the entire palace had been constructed solely to compliment her cheekbones. I tugged at my gown—perfect stitches, perfect color, and yet…
My stomach sank when I realized what we looked like to them.
A cluster of noble girls drifted past, all delicate features and thin wrists, barely breathing under beauty standards that seemed sketched by someone who hated humans. Their mothers scanned the room like merchant hawks searching for sons with good titles. They didn't even pretend not to judge.
A pair of young men approached. Drizella perked up, smiling, hopeful. For a breath, I tasted victory.
Then one boy leaned closer to the other and whispered,not quietly enough—
"Not pretty enough. Pass."
They laughed softly and walked away without even bowing.
The sting was quick, cold, and ugly.
Drizella pretended she hadn't heard. Her ears burned crimson anyway.
A moment later, a duchess eyed me up and down like I was a pastry that had risen unevenly. "So… daughters," she murmured to Mother. "Are these both yours?"
The implication: pity, but unremarkable.
Mother's smile tightened like she was holding a scream behind her teeth.
Around us, the dancing began. Boys lined up for girls who looked like paintings—soft faces, tiny waists, roses pinned perfectly to hair. The kind of beauty that doesn't sweat, doesn't laugh too loudly, never snorts, and definitely never trips on staircases.
We watched as invitations were snapped up like cakes at a festival.
But not for us.
Drizella tried, "Perhaps they have weak knees and only dance with weak girls."
I snorted, maybe too loudly. "Then they should be grateful. We have very strong knees."
She laughed, but her eyes shone wet.
The cruel truth sat between us: beauty is a currency, and ours was undervalued here.
Not because we lacked charm, humor, wit, or loyalty—but because we did not match the drawing scribbled by society and titled "Beautiful Enough to Matter."
No one said it aloud, yet we heard it in every passing glance.
The music swelled. Couples twirled.
And we stood still.
For a moment, I wondered how many girls in how many ballrooms across how many worlds were doing the exact same thing—waiting to be seen.
Maybe we should have been born paintings instead.
Then Drizella squared her shoulders. "Fine," she muttered. "If no one asks us to dance, we shall make up our own dance later and it will be better."
I linked arms with her. "Naturally. And we, unlike them, will not faint from weak knees."
We laughed again, shaky but real.
Even ignored, we refused to disappear.
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SIDE NOTE: I wanted to portray the reality of society and how a girl is treated based on their appearance only. Like how a witch is always ugly and princess is always beautiful. I had my own experience as a witch. 😅 They were just a product of the society.
If you like my story then give it a star and share it with your friends, this will help me to keep motivated and write new stories.