When I Stopped Pretending

My name is Nova Sullivan. Before I met Sigmund Locke, my life was like a glass of plain, tasteless water. He came from a prominent family, strikingly handsome, with an effortless air of nobility in everything he did. The first time I saw him was at a business cocktail party. I came along with my boss to run errands, wearing an ill-fitting suit, standing awkwardly in the corner, holding a glass of champagne I'd just received from a waiter. He was not far away, surrounded by a crowd, his side profile sharp and smooth; the light falling on him as if it had gilded his entire figure with a golden edge. In that moment, I could hear my heart pounding. Later, because of work overlaps, we had more chances to interact. He wasn't exactly close to me, but he was gentle—sometimes patiently listening to my reports, sometimes calmly pointing out my mistakes when I slipped up. I know there's a vast chasm between us. He's never lacking for remarkable women around him—those socialites and ladies, each with flawless makeup, elegant charm, and an aura that fits his world perfectly. But me? I come from an ordinary family, with average education, barely understanding even basic social graces. Still, I can't help but like him. I love the intense focus in his eyes during meetings, the faint smile he sometimes gives me, the delicate scent of his cologne. I began to wonder if maybe, just maybe, if I improved myself, I could draw a little closer to him. By chance, I overheard his assistant chatting and found out that Mr. Locke prefers women who are pure and clean; he doesn't like those who are too flashy. That sentence was like a ray of light, shining into my confused heart. After searching for a long time, I discovered a secret Socialite Training Class. On the day I signed up, the instructor who welcomed me sized me up from head to toe, with a hint of disdain in her voice: "This isn't a place for just anyone. Are you sure you can afford the tuition?" I pulled out every penny I had saved over the years and bit my lip, saying, "I'm sure." Life in the training class is tougher than I'd imagined. Every day, before dawn, I have to get up to practice my posture, wearing ten-centimeter heels and standing for two hours straight. My soles are covered in blisters, the pain sharp and piercing. During the day, I study etiquette—everything from how I walk and the tone of my voice to dining rules and social skills—each detail has to be polished over and over. At night, I cram knowledge on finance, art, and fashion—every field a socialite needs to know—I have to explore them all. There were several times when I was so exhausted, I wanted to give up. But whenever I thought of Sigmund Locke, I gritted my teeth and pushed through. I set his photo as my phone wallpaper; whenever I felt tired, I'd glance at it and tell myself, just hold on a little longer, and you'll be one step closer to him. Half a year later, I graduated from the training course. The girl in the mirror was no longer the timid and uneasy young woman I once was. I wore my long, straight black hair down to my waist, dressed in a simple, elegant dress, spoke softly, and my eyes were clear and pure—perfectly matching the innocent image Sigmund prefers. I deliberately engineered a few "accidental" encounters with him. At the coffee shop below his office, I quietly read a book; in the park he frequents, I took slow walks with my headphones on. Finally, he noticed me.