The illusion of perfection

ELARA

***Flashback***

The Moretti mansion always looked like a dream from the outside.

The gates stood tall, guarded by black iron twisted into elegant designs of roses and vines. The driveway curved like a ribbon of stone, lined with cypress trees cut into perfect shapes. On summer mornings, the gardeners trimmed the hedges so carefully that not a single leaf dared stick out of line. Guests who arrived always gasped when they saw the white marble steps, polished until they glistened in the sunlight, and the grand double doors with golden handles that sparkled like treasure.

I used to stand on those steps as a little girl and wonder if people who walked past thought I was a princess. Sometimes, I even pretended I was one—locked away in a palace, waiting for a fairy godmother to appear. From a distance, everything seemed perfect.

But once you stepped inside, the air changed.

The halls were wide and shining, filled with chandeliers and oil paintings of our family, but they never smelled of warmth or food or laughter. They smelled like wax and old wood. If you listened closely, you could hear silence—heavy and sharp, as though the house itself was holding its breath. That silence could break at any moment with my stepmother’s voice.

Giulia Moretti.

In public, she was the woman everyone wanted to be. Her dresses were always flawless, her heels clicking like music on marble floors, her lipstick never smudged. She carried herself like she had been born for wealth and power. People admired her, envied her. They whispered about her elegance at galas, smiled at her in church, begged for her approval.

But behind closed doors, she became something else.

I learned that lesson early.

“Don’t slouch, Elara.” Her voice cut through the silence of the dining room one evening when I was seven. “Do you want people to think you’re weak?”

I quickly straightened in my chair, the fork shaking in my hand. My plate was filled with food I didn’t even want to eat—tiny cuts of veal, asparagus spears arranged like artwork. I wasn’t hungry, but Giulia’s eyes were sharper than knives.

“Yes, ma’am,” I whispered.

Her manicured hand reached out, gripping my chin. She tilted my face toward her, her perfume strong and suffocating. “And smile,” she ordered. “Smile prettier.”

I stretched my lips, trying to obey.

Her painted mouth curled. “Not like that. You look desperate.”

My father sat across the table, sipping wine, his eyes on the newspaper as if nothing was happening. He didn’t even glance up. To him, I was invisible. To her, I was clay she could mold—or shatter.

That was how life in the mansion felt. I was always being measured, judged. The way I walked. The way I breathed. Even the way I held a spoon.

One afternoon, she made me practice balancing a book on my head while walking across the hallway. The book slid off three times. The third time, it hit the ground with a loud thud, and I froze.

Giulia’s eyes narrowed.

“You will never be anything if you walk like a peasant,” she said coldly. “Do you think men respect clumsy women? Do you think your father worked this hard for you to embarrass us?”

My cheeks burned with shame. I wanted to cry, but I bit the inside of my lip so hard that I tasted blood.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“Sorry doesn’t fix ugly habits,” she snapped. Then she smiled, a smile so sweet it made my stomach twist. “Now pick it up, darling, and do it again.”

So I did. Again and again, until my head throbbed from holding it straight and my shoulders ached from the effort. When I finally managed it without dropping the book, she clapped her hands lightly, as if I were a trained dog that had performed a trick.

“See? You can be perfect when you try,” she said, turning away.

But her words didn’t feel like praise. They felt like chains.

I lived for scraps of affection. A rare “good girl,” a pat on the shoulder when guests were around, a smile that lasted long enough to give me hope. I craved it like a starving child craves bread. But it always came with conditions.

Eat less. Smile more. Walk softer. Don’t embarrass me.

The mansion, with all its chandeliers and shining floors, was nothing but a gilded cage. And Giulia was the warden who made sure I stayed small and silent inside it.

Yet, even as a child, some tiny part of me resisted. A part that whispered late at night, when I lay awake staring at the ceiling. What if I stopped trying to be perfect? What if I stopped caring about her approval?

But those whispers never lasted long. The fear always returned. Fear of her cold eyes. Fear of my father’s indifference. Fear that maybe I really was as unworthy as she said.

One memory stays sharp in my mind.

It was the night of a dinner party. Politicians, businessmen, their wives—all gathered in our glittering dining hall. I was dressed in a pale blue gown with lace at the sleeves. Giulia had picked it out for me herself.

As we stood at the entrance to greet the guests, she leaned close and whispered in my ear, her nails pressing lightly into my arm.

“Remember, Elara,” she murmured, her smile bright and false for the people watching. “You are to look sweet and graceful. Nothing more. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Don’t laugh too loudly. Don’t chew like a horse. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I whispered.

“Good girl.” Her grip loosened. She glided forward to welcome the guests, and I followed a step behind, like her shadow.

That night, I smiled until my cheeks ached. I stood still and straight, silent unless someone asked me a polite question. When they did, I gave short, sweet answers. Yes, sir. No, ma’am. Thank you.

Everyone complimented me. What a well-mannered young lady. Such elegance for her age. Giulia, you must be so proud.

Giulia glowed, her hand resting lightly on my shoulder. “Yes,” she said, her voice filled with honey. “She’s learning.”

But when the guests were gone and the doors closed, her hand fell heavy on my shoulder.

“You almost tripped when walking down the stairs,” she hissed. “Do you know how humiliating that would have been for me?”

I lowered my head. “I’m sorry.”

“You should be.” She turned away, her heels clicking on the marble. “Next time, practice before you embarrass us again.”

Her words carved into me like knives.

I wanted her love. I wanted her to look at me the way she looked at people in public—with admiration, with pride. But I began to realize that love in my house wasn’t free. It was a prize you earned by being flawless. And even then, it was never enough.

Sometimes, when I walked through the halls, I would glance at the family portraits on the walls. My father always looked powerful, Giulia elegant. And me? I looked like a doll dressed in silk, with painted lips and empty eyes.

The perfect daughter. The perfect lie.

It was in those moments that I began to understand: the mansion was not a dream. It was a stage. And I was an actress forced to play a role.