London – Night
The room echoed faintly with the hum of a piano recording playing from an old phonograph. The notes spilled out gently, but Isabelle stood firm in the center, shoulders tense, one hand at her throat.
She could feel it—the soreness.
Every high note scratched against her vocal cords like splinters. Her voice was worn, her throat raw. But the manager's voice rang louder in her head than the pain.
"You miss two shows and you're off the lineup."
"Pretty girls don't last long if they can't sing."
So she kept practicing.
Again.
And again.
She swayed, let the music wrap around her like armor, even if her knees felt weak beneath the pressure. Her jaw clenched as her voice cracked slightly, but she didn't stop.
There was no space for weakness in this world.
Only one image kept her from collapsing—the soft lines of Mary's smile. The warmth of her letter. Her eyes like storm clouds trying to hold back sunlight.
Isabelle coughed once, turned off the music, and stood in the silence of her empty room.
Her chest heaved. Her eyes burned.
But her voice—hoarse and tired—still whispered:
"One more night, for her."
Whitmore Estate – Morning
Sunlight pooled through Mary's window like honey, soft and gold. The scent of paint and lavender filled her room. She sat cross-legged on the rug, a canvas perched against the wall, her fingers gently smudged with blue and peach tones.
She wasn't a trained artist.
But her hands moved with memory, not skill.
With emotion, not precision.
The brush danced across the canvas, dipping into soft brown for the eyes—deep, soulful, lined with mystery. Then a touch of red at the lips—not too bold, just enough to hint at the fire behind them.
Long black curls, loose over the shoulder. A half-smile, caught between trouble and truth.
She was painting Isabelle.
Every stroke brought her closer. Every inch of paint made her heart beat a little louder.
"Mary?" a voice called from the doorway.
She startled slightly. It was her mother, stepping in with folded linens in her arms. "You're painting?"
Mary nodded quickly, lowering the brush. "Just something to pass the time."
Lady Whitmore tilted her head, examining the figure on the canvas.
"Oh…" she said softly. "She's… beautiful. Who is she?"
Mary blinked once, the lie already forming.
"Just a girl," she said with a casual shrug. "Someone I saw in a dream."
Her mother smiled, a distant sort of fondness in her eyes. "Then perhaps she's an angel, dear."
Mary smiled faintly and looked back at the portrait, her heart whispering louder than her words.
"She was indeed an angel…"
But not the kind that lived in heaven.
No.
Her angel lived in smoky bars and wore red lipstick like war paint.
Her angel had survived fire and still learned how to sing.