𝚐𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚊 . a dependent, private, blog affiliated with trialofheartsrpg. featuring the darling as written by jess ( 28 , she / her , est ) please do not interact if not affiliated with the group.
masquerade! paper faces on parade . . .
masquerade! hide your face, so the world will
never find you!
masquerade! every face a different shade . . .
masquerade! look around - there's another mask behind you!
I WAS SO HAPPY TO BE WITH YOU. The hush before the music starts. The safety of silence in shared glances. Fingers tracing promises into skin. A glass of wine left half-finished on the windowsill. A name mouthed in sleep. The memory of laughter tucked between pages of old novels. Her favorite dress hung in his closet. Love notes scrawled on café napkins. A crown of clover she never dared to wear.
THEN •
TWO HALVES TRYING TO CONVINCE THE WORLD THEY WERE WHOLE. He made the world quieter, somehow. The chaos softened around him, like even her worst thoughts knew to hush in his presence. She memorized the way he laughed with his whole body, the curve of his shoulder when he leaned into her secrets. They weren’t perfect—but they were theirs. Secret glances across crowded rooms. Shared rituals that belonged to no one else. Nights tangled in sheets and soft-spoken dreams. He made her feel chosen, and for a time, that was enough. Loving him felt like dancing barefoot in candlelight—warm, foolish, and so damn beautiful it made her cry.
NOW •
SHE LOVES HIM STILL, BUT IT’S A BITTER KIND OF LOVE NOW—LIKE HONEY GONE SOUR. Loving him feels like rinsing blood from silk—slow, ruinous, and never quite clean. She tells herself it’s enough, still, just to have him near. To pretend. But the weight of pretending has begun to wear her thin. His silences speak louder than his promises, and every time he looks past her, she wonders if he ever really saw her at all. She resents the way he lingers in her bloodstream, like a ghost she invited in. Resents herself more for letting him stay. Because even as her heart folds smaller and smaller inside her chest, she clings to the fragments—of what was, what could’ve been, what she begged it to become. But the truth sits heavy in her lungs: it shouldn't hurt this much to be loved. And yet, she still waits for him in doorways. Still hopes. Still bleeds for the version of him that might love her back one day. Even as the part of her that believed it possible begins—slowly, painfully—to let go.
GOLD. The wash of light over every feature at sunset. The tarnished, gilt frame of an old mirror (with the cracks beginning to show). The wings of a butterfly, alight, on her bare shoulder. A collection of old postcards and letters. A handful of bright, wild daffodils. Bottled scents they curated for the other. The glint of heirloom wedding bands weighing heavily in his pocket.
THEN • Picture perfect, they had said. There was that quiet understanding between them - the strategy, calculation behind their relationship. A tactical business move. A joint venture that inspired envy. Nicolai did not expect it would offer him the comfort, the joy that it did. How Bella had transformed his everyday. How easy it was to play pretend.
NOW • He can no longer ignore the cracks spreading in the foundation of who they are to each other. Like a theater mask whose paint has chipped away, what truths exist underneath? He wants to protect her, to preserve this precious pocket of reality where their happiness could quietly blossom. Not another hopeless dream.
YOU’RE BY MY SIDE.
The hush between heartbeats when her name is spoken. A silk ribbon tucked between pages of a forbidden letter. A mirror that only reflects her when no one else is watching. The scent of old perfume pressed into the collar of a borrowed coat. A gaze too long to be friendly, too brief to be confessed. The curve of a smile shared beneath chandeliers, never kissed. A history of almosts, sealed tight with best-friend laughter. The softest secret, worn like a second skin. A love written in margins, never in ink.
THEN •
Then, she was just her best friend. The one who knew her favorite teas and the names of all her fears. Who braided her hair in silence, who held her hand under the table, who never asked why Bella flinched when others said love. Loving her meant pretending it was something else—something small. Bella never asked for more, not because she didn’t want it, but because she already had so much, and feared losing even that.
NOW •
Now, the silence feels heavier. Now, Bella watches her slip away, inch by inch, word by word. There’s a different name in Sarai’s mouth, a colder space in her gaze. And Bella—Bella is still smiling, still laughing in all the right places, but her grip is white-knuckled behind her back. She’s trying to be enough, be everything—friend, confidante, shield, anchor. But it’s starting to hurt. Desperation tastes like honey in her throat, sweet and cloying, sticking to every apology she doesn’t speak. She's terrified because if Sarai leaves, what remains of her? What will she be without the girl who made her feel real? She tells herself it's still enough—just to be near. Just to be needed. Just to be hers, in the quiet ways. Even if it means breaking quietly under the weight of what she’ll never be allowed to ask for.
𝐬𝐞𝐨 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲 . a legacy built in boardrooms and buried in bone china. founded by old money and maintained by spotless reputation, the seos are seoul’s most whispered-about dynasty. their wealth comes not just from ownership, but from *ownership of perception*—banks, luxury retail, real estate, and quiet influence stitched into every corner of korean society.
❝ REGISTRY OF MEMBERSHIP ❞
*all names listed by prominence within the hanseo dynasty
O1 seo jinhwan
patriarch | 56 | ceo of hanseo group
his affection is measured in acquisitions, not words. the kind of father who loves his children the way one loves a perfect asset—proud in silence, forgetful in praise.
O2 han sora
deceased | bella’s & jiho mother | former model & heiress
gone too soon, but never gone entirely. a covergirl turned wife, she loved bella the best way she knew how—softly, imperfectly, fiercely. bella keeps her perfume in a drawer and still forgets sometimes that she’s not coming back.
O3 park minseo
stepmother | 49 | chairwoman of hanseo luxury division
beautiful, brutal, and almost always polite. minseo plays her part with silver-tongued precision and has never let bella forget that she was not her daughter. praised hana. pitied bella. underestimated both.
O4 seo byeol
the darling | 26 | current heiress apparent
bella never wanted the crown, but now that it’s hers, she wears it like a necklace made of pearls and penance. she's soft when it suits her. steel where it counts. her smile could start a war—or end one.
O5 seo hana
half-sister | 29 | former successor
firstborn. favored. and once, bella’s greatest comfort. now her greatest regret. ambition sharpened hana into something brilliant—and unforgiving. bella never meant to take her place. but she did. and hana never let her forget it.
O6 seo jiho
younger brother | 23 | university student, publicly apolitical
quiet, artistic, kind to a fault. jiho is bella’s true heart—what’s left of her that hasn’t been touched by the family’s sharpness. the one person she would destroy everything to protect. he still asks if she’s okay like he doesn’t already know the answer.
the image she slipped into her scrapbook didn’t look like much at first.
blurry. unfocused. a bit too dark.
⸻
taken just past midnight, when she’d crept to the kitchen for something sweet and ended up outside instead, the chill of the villa’s garden tugging at the hem of her nightgown. she hadn’t meant to use the camera. it was there, warm in her hands like it had been waiting for her.
that’s when she saw them.
a figure—barefoot, barely more than a silhouette—slipping between hedges and moonlight, quiet as a ghost but fast. too fast. bella called out, a soft little hello?, and they ran.
all she could do was lift the camera. click.
the photo caught the shape of them in motion, just before they vanished behind the stone path’s curve. no face. no name. just movement and a glimpse of bare feet in the dirt. when she turned the corner, they were already gone.
she pressed the photo into the next page of her scrapbook—right beside a pressed gardenia—and left no caption. but in the space beside it, she later wrote:
even ghosts leave footprints if you catch them quick enough.
theme: soft gold, sharp edges. wither beautifully.
partnered look: subtle coordination with nicolai arlay-sinclair — power couple packaging with a fairytale finish. @honeyedking
⸻
01. dress — vera wang archive gown
a golden-beige silk organza gown from vera wang, aged like pressed petals and sculpted to cling like a second skin. the soft draping at the waist mimics fragility, but its structure speaks of control. this is bella’s armor—romantic, whisper-thin, and unyielding beneath the surface.
style note: chosen to complement nicolai’s black-tan tailored ensemble. together, they look like they were stitched from the same dream—refined and impossible to touch.
02. shoes — vera wang strappy heels
delicate yet deceptive. gold satin straps wrap like ribbons across her feet, understated elegance laced with the threat of blistered truths. these aren’t shoes you run in—bella doesn’t plan on running.
style note: coordinates with the sheen of nicolai’s lapel pin. a detail that says we see each other.
03. earrings — artisan gold & pearl embedded sculptures
one-of-a-kind earrings, raw in their beauty. the uneven gold frames capture crushed pearls—relics of innocence suspended in time. bella doesn’t wear symmetry; she wears meaning.
style note: echoes the antique cufflink style nicolai’s wearing.
04. rings — cartier stack in gold
three gold rings: one classic band, one carved, one signet. worn across two fingers like vows she never made. she’ll smile sweetly as they glint under candlelight.
style note: worn opposite nico’s dominant hand—so when they hold hands, they match.
05. clutch — manolo blahnik sculpted gold shell bag
a golden seashell clutch that gleams like buried treasure. it doesn’t hold much—but it doesn’t need to.
style note: the only “pop” in the look, designed to mirror the gilded edge of nicolai’s watch face. they’re coordinated, not copy-pasted—she’s not an accessory. she’s an equal.
⸻
overall styling vibe: the picture-perfect couple who might just poison the toast.
she glows. he broods. together, they look like legacy sculpted in soft gold. matching without begging for attention—because people already look. and this way, they’ll remember.
{ ✦ } Where did you last see THE TRAGEDY? Or when did you last hear of THE TRAGEDY?
“His name was Vincent. It is—disrespectful, honestly—that you won’t say it.
We had lunch the day before. Nothing dramatic, nothing tense. Just... quieter than usual. He was distracted. Kept looking at his phone like it owed him an answer. I remember thinking something felt off, but I didn’t ask. That’s on me.”
{ ✦ } Where were you at the time of death of THE TRAGEDY? And what were you doing?
“In my room. I’d just gotten back from unpacking the last of my things. I was trying—unsuccessfully—to reach my sister. I called twice, maybe three times. No answer. I left a voicemail. I didn’t know anything had happened to Vincent until someone came knocking. That was the first moment I felt cold all night.”
{ ✦ } Who can attest to your alibi?
“Sarai can. She was helping me settle in. And my driver Damon — he brought the last of my bags up around midnight. He stayed outside the room, but he was on the floor long enough to confirm I never left until we were done.”
{ ✦ } The SOCIETY requires your verdict on THE TRAGEDY's demise: Was it the calculated hand of murder? The cruel whim of accident? Or the final, desperate act of self-annihilation?
“If I have to choose… then self-annihilation. Even with everything I’ve said — even with my suspicion — I can’t truly imagine someone here doing it. Not like that.He wasn’t himself the last time I saw him. He kept checking his phone, couldn’t finish a sentence, like he was bracing for something. It just wasn’t like him.
Maybe this… was his way out. From whoever or whatever had him so afraid.”
The microphone glows red, recording every tremor of her voice. The woman across from her — dark hair, patient smile — says nothing, just waits. Byeol folds her hands neatly in her lap.
Like a good girl. Like a darling.
She clears her throat once before speaking.
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