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He always knew.

Because he was born beautiful, too.

Sharp jaw. Movie star eyes. The kind of presence that walked into a room five seconds before he did.

People saw my father and assumed things about the untouchable Marat Volkov they couldn’t have possibly known.

Power. Danger. Lust.

They built their stories around his face before he ever opened his mouth.

And now I live in that same cage.

Because what the rest of the world doesn’t realize? What they never want to realize?

Is that beauty can feel like a prison.

A glass box where everyone can see you, judge you, desire you, but no one really knows you.

I’m stuck playing a role I never auditioned for.

I didn’t choose to be the sultry heiress, the fantasy on every screen, the perfectly filtered cover girl at every event.

But that’s who they see.

So that’s who I have to be.

If I look too hard, if my gaze lingers too long, the world calls me a bitch.

Uptight. Cold. Calculating.

Just another icy rich girl with an attitude problem.

And the press? God, the press will eat it up.

The headlines practically write themselves.

“Volkov Heiress Snubs Charity Host,” “Lucy Volkov Glares Her Way Through Gala Dinner.”

Every time my gaze lingers too long it costs my family something.

Every frown I make in public adds a zero to a bill somewhere.

It’s like every single thing I do is being tallied by some auditor hellbent on ruining my life.

And if I look too soft?

If I smile too wide or laugh too easily?

Then I’m naïve.

Fake.

A spoiled little playgirl with too much money and not enough sense.

The kind who’s probably high on champagne and Daddy’s credit card, fluttering through life with no real depth.

God forbid I show an interest in someone—anyone.