Have We Met

Prologue

Have We Met: Prologue

No one ever really paid attention to me.

I guess I've been living like this for as long as I can remember.

In this chateau—what my grandparents fondly call home—I wander through its endless hallways to the muffled sounds echoing from far away. The walls are lined with antique vases and ancestral portraits of every size imaginable. My fingertips trace the cold marble surface as I walk, feeling the history breathing through the cracks. The eyes in those portraits follow me—unyielding, silent, and watchful. I've always felt that way whenever I come here.

At the very end of the corridor hangs the largest portrait of them all.

It feels like a reward for surviving everyone else's stare. A small smile tugs at my lips as I admire it—our family portrait.

It was taken the day my parents gave us our necklaces—a family tradition passed down for generations. Every White must bear a flower symbol, gifted as an accessory. In the photograph, my parents' faces glow with pride. Absentmindedly, my hand rises to the jade pendant resting against my chest: a lily of the valley, carved delicately into the shape of a flower.

"Mom! Please don't make me do this!"

My sister's desperate voice echoes through the hall.

Cornelia? Begging? Oh, please.

"Cornelia White! Listen to yourself! I did not raise you to beg for a choice. You make the choice!" My mother's voice—stern yet composed—reverberates like the crack of a whip softened by silk. Ophelia White, elegant as ever, stands tall with her golden-blonde hair cascading in perfectly styled waves, kissed with blush undertones that warm her complexion. Her deep cerulean eyes could pierce through the strongest of hearts; they carry both storm and serenity. Once a supermodel, she still moves like a goddess of wind—beautiful, untouchable, and dangerous.

I pause behind the doorway, quietly observing.

Being alone most of my life, I've learned to narrate the world like a novel—drawing from books I've read and the few people I've met. That's how I make sense of things.

What could they be fighting about this early in the morning?

"Mom, please. I know I made a mistake keeping him a secret, but don't do anything to him!" Cornelia pleads, clutching our mother's arm, her voice trembling.

Him? Who could possibly make my sister—the Cornelia White—beg like this?

"Cornelia, our business is at risk. That man is our only chance. You are the perfect opportunity," Mother declares coldly, pulling away as if Cornelia's touch might stain her.

"Why not Euphemia?" Cornelia's tear-streaked face turns defiant, her voice trembling but resolute.

Me?

Mother exhales sharply, tilting her head with a look that could cut glass. Her eyes find Cornelia's, but her words are a blade aimed at me.