Meeting Him

Natacha's POV

The soft clicking of high heels echoed of my room. Clara, the maid, was doing her usual routine, drawing open the thick velvet curtains that covered the large windows. She always insisted on bringing light into my room as if the sunlight could cure all that was wrong. The harsh light seeped through, chasing away the shadows, but I couldn’t shake the sense that nothing could ever fix what was broken inside me.

"Good morning, Miss Natacha," Clara’s soft voice rang through the room as she pulled open the heavy drapes. "You need to prepare for school."

I groaned into the pillow, the comfort of the soft linens and the quiet peace of my room too alluring to leave behind. The sunlight felt cold against my skin, sharp and unwelcome, like everything else in my life. "I don’t want to go to school today," I muttered, rolling over onto my back. "Mom and Dad aren’t home anyway. They won’t know if I don’t go."

Clara sighed, a sound that was too patient for my taste. "But Miss Natacha, you need to go to school. You’ve missed a lot already, and I don’t think it’s right for you to stay home again."

Her words were like an echo, something I had heard too many times before, but it didn’t matter. I didn’t care. I didn’t want to care. School was just another thing I had to endure, another thing that didn’t really matter. It wasn’t as though my parents cared whether I did well or not. No one ever checked my homework, no one ever asked about my grades. No one, except Clara, seemed to give a damn.

I could feel the bitterness rising in me, and the words slipped out before I could stop them. "Who are you to care if I go to school or not?" I snapped. "Are you my parents? No. So I’m not going, and that’s final."

There was a pause, a beat of silence where Clara seemed to hesitate, as if she were searching for something. But then she just sighed again, a quiet, resigned sound, and walked out of my room.

Alone again.

The quiet crept back in, and I couldn’t help but feel the weight of it pressing against my chest. It was a constant companion. It had been since I was little. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, letting the silence wash over me, my thoughts drifting. The light from the windows changed, casting shifting shadows on the walls, but I couldn’t bring myself to care about anything other than how heavy my own heart felt.

I remember a time when I used to dream about this house, about my life, when I was small and unaware of how cold and empty everything really was. I used to think that one day, things would change. Maybe my parents would wake up and realize that I needed them. Maybe they would look at me, really look at me, and finally see their daughter, not just a child they were responsible for.

But that was a long time ago. I was five years old the first time I felt the distance between us. My parents had been busy, as usual, but that day they had promised to take me out, just the three of us. I remember waiting in my room, the excitement building in my chest, but as the hours ticked by, I grew more restless. By the time they finally walked through the door, they had no intention of keeping their promise. They were dressed in their party clothes, laughing, their arms around each other, oblivious to the fact that I was waiting, alone, in my room.

"Sorry, sweetheart," my mom had said, as if it were the most casual thing in the world. "Maybe another time."

Another time. That was the lie I would hear over and over again for the next several years. Only, there was never another time.

Our house was massive, too big for just the three of us. It was more of a mansion than a home, full of empty rooms and cavernous hallways. The marble floors were cold under my bare feet, the walls covered in large, lifeless paintings that only served to remind me how little I truly belonged here. My parents had filled the space with objects that were supposed to signify wealth, but it all felt so hollow, so sterile. The house had no warmth, no life. There were no moments of shared laughter, no games, no family dinners. There were only the noises of distant footsteps, the sound of my father’s business calls in the office, and the clinking of glasses at one of my mother’s many parties.

And I was always alone.

I remember walking through the grand hallway one afternoon when I was about eight years old, my fingers brushing the banister as I moved past the stairway. I had seen my parents together so little that I couldn’t even picture what it might look like if they were ever truly happy. What would it be like to hear them laughing together? What would it feel like to sit at the table and eat a meal with both of them? To feel their arms around me, to hear the words, "I love you," even if it was just for once?

But those moments never came.

At five, I already had a black credit card, a set of keys to several cars, and houses all over the world in my name, but what use were any of those things? What good was wealth when I had no one to share it with? No one to guide me, to love me. At the end of the day, no amount of money could fill the empty space in my heart. All the luxury, all the things they thought would make me happy, had only made me more isolated.

I had always been a lonely child. I grew up with nannies, maids, and housekeepers, but they were just there to do a job. They weren’t there to love me. They didn’t know how to talk to me about the things I wanted to say, the things I needed to say. I spent hours in my room, surrounded by toys and books, but none of it mattered because no one ever really saw me. They didn’t see the girl who wanted nothing more than a simple hug, a kind word, a parent who cared.

No matter how many things I had, how many cars I drove, how many houses I owned, I was still just a child craving attention, craving love. And it wasn’t just from anyone. It was from the two people who should have been there for me the most.

And then, one day, it all fell apart.

I had just turned eleven when my mother disappeared. I didn’t realize at first that it was going to be permanent. She had been gone before, for short stretches of time, but this time was different. This time, there was no returning.

She walked in one afternoon, after being away for over a month, looking just as glamorous and distant as always. She had always been beautiful, her high heels clicking on the floor, her perfume so strong that it made my eyes water. She was like a ghost that flitted in and out of my life, never staying long enough to make a real impact. She walked past me without even acknowledging I was there.

"Mom, you’re home?" I called out, standing up from the couch, hope rising in my chest for the first time in a long while.

But she didn’t even look at me. She just kept walking, like I wasn’t even there.

I watched her as she moved around the house, her expression always blank, always unreadable. She was packing. But this time, it wasn’t like the other times when she would be gone for a few days. This time, she was packing for good.

"Mom, where are you going?" I asked, walking into her room, my heart pounding in my chest. "Why are you packing?"

Her words hit me like a slap. "Your father and I are getting a divorce. I’m moving out."

I could barely breathe. The world stopped for a moment, and all the color drained from my face. Divorce. The word hung in the air, filling the space between us with a cold finality. She wasn’t just leaving, she was leaving me.

"When? How? I don’t understand," I stammered. My mind raced as I tried to make sense of it. But nothing made sense anymore.

She didn’t stop packing, didn’t even look up at me. "It’s over, Natacha. I’m leaving."

I felt my world shatter in that instant. I had always hoped, despite everything, that they would come together, that they would see me, love me. But now I knew. I had been waiting for something that was never going to happen.

"Mom, please. I can come with you. I can stay with you," I pleaded, my voice trembling. I just wanted to be loved. Was that too much to ask?

"No, Natacha. You’ll stay here with your father. I’ll send someone for the rest of my things."

I stood there, frozen, as she continued packing. Just like that, my mother was gone.

I was eleven years old, and the person who should have loved me the most had walked out of my life without a second thought. And I was left standing in the empty room, abandoned. My heart felt like it was made of glass, and the cracks ran deeper than I could ever fix.

I had always known that they didn’t care, but hearing the finality in

her voice made it real. She was never coming back.

And I was alone.