Sunlight poured through the tall windows of the Clifford estate, spilling golden rays across polished floors and velvet curtains. Jasmine moved gracefully along the hallway, her bare feet barely making a sound on the marble, yet her presence seemed to radiate warmth. The house was alive with laughter and chatter— her father travelling out for business, her stepmom humming a tune while arranging flowers, Irish patting her head like a big sister with a proud smile.
"Jassy, you've really outdone yourself with that script," Irish said, her eyes glinting with admiration as she read the latest draft. "I don't know how you do it. Such brilliance at your age!"
Jasmine's cheeks flushed. "Thank you… I just try my best," she murmured, unaware of the small, calculating glance her stepmom exchanged with Irish across the room.
Days passed in a rhythm of structured perfection: lessons in etiquette, hours of songwriting, practice in drama scripts, all punctuated with laughter, compliments, and occasional gifts. At night, she would lie in her bed, listening to the faint echoes of music and chatter from the main hall, feeling the warmth of being wanted, loved, needed admist her hidden self.
Jasmine used to believe she was lucky.
That belief began in Everston High School, a place where music floated through hallways like oxygen and talent was currency. The kind of school parents bragged about and students dreamed of—grand stages, spotless classrooms, and a yearly musical that decided who mattered and who didn't.
Jasmine didn't mattered.
She did before but not anymore, having lost her voice .
She transferred into Everston High School at sixteen, wearing her uniforms and a polite smile that never quite reached her eyes. Her dad had remarried her bestfriend's mom after her Mom's death.
Irish Clifford the school's sun.
Golden-haired, golden-voiced, adored by teachers and worshipped by students. Wherever Irish went, applause followed. And wherever Irish stood, Jasmine stood quietly behind her—holding scripts, humming melodies, fixing broken notes.
"You're my lucky charm, Jassy," Irish would say, looping arms with her in the hallway. "Promise you'll never leave me."
Jasmine always promised.
What she didn't realize was that promises could be chains.
Behind closed doors, their lives blurred. Late nights in Irish's bedroom turned into writing sessions. Jasmine would sit cross-legged on the floor, scribbling lyrics while Irish paced dramatically.
"No, no, no," Irish would snap. "That line doesn't bleed. Make it hurt."
So Jasmine made it hurt.
She poured grief she didn't understand into verses that made audiences cry. She stitched melodies from loneliness into songs that won competitions. Teachers praised Irish's genius. Judges crowned her queen of the stage.
And Jasmine smiled from the wings.
Leo Edward noticed Jasmine first.
He was the school's quiet prince—student council president, debate champion, admired but distant. Irish introduced him as her "protective older brother," always watching, always calculating.
But Leo watched Jasmine differently.
He listened when she spoke. He asked about her dreams. He defended her when teachers overlooked her contributions.
"You should be on stage too," he once told her after rehearsal.
Jasmine laughed. "I'm not made for the spotlight."
Leo smiled slowly. "That's what scares me."
The School musical that year was titled Mirror
How ironic.
Jasmine wrote the script and song.
Irish starred in it.
The story was about a girl who lost herself in fame, betrayed yet triumphant.
During rehearsals, Irish sang Jasmine's song and acted with perfect precision, her voice cracking at the right moments, tears falling on cue.
The audience called it authentic.
They had no idea.
Applause thundered on opening night. Flowers filled the stage. The school declared it Everston High's finest production in decades.
Backstage, Irish hugged Jasmine tightly.
"We did it," she whispered.
Jasmine corrected her softly. "You did."
That was the night Leo proposed.
It wasn't flashy. Just a ring slipped onto Jasmine's trembling finger beneath the stage lights after the crowd dispersed.
"I'll protect you," Leo promised. "Always."
She believed him, her fiance.
The next months were a blur of whispered plans and hidden smiles. Irish celebrated with happiness, throwing surprise parties and insisting on writing "celebration songs" together. Jasmine ignored the growing tightness in her chest.
Until the doors locked.
The basement came first as a "recording room." Then a "quiet place to work." Then a prison.
Irish's smiles sharpened. Leo's eyes grew colder.
Songs were demanded. Scripts were revised. Mistakes were punished.
"You owe us," Irish hissed one night, heels clicking against concrete.
"Your mom ruinedour lives and you will pay for her sins, moreover you were nothing before without us."
Jasmine learned pain had rhythm.
She learned screams could be swallowed by soundproof walls.
She learned love could rot.
By the time Everston High graduated its brightest star, Jasmine was already gone—erased, buried beneath applause and lies.
And yet…
Even then, in the darkness, Jasmine still dreamed of music.
Because fire destroys—but it also forges.
And somewhere deep inside the girl they tried to erase, a phoenix was already stretching her wings.