Victória

7 years ago.

I was dreaming—it had to be a dream. The moment my body awakens, I feel the warmth of his body beside me, and every memory of the previous night comes rushing back with overwhelming force. I had dreamed of this day for years, dreamed of this exact moment, and even if it didn’t happen quite the way I had imagined—even if we were both so drunk that I can barely piece together every single detail—it happened.

Yesterday I turned eighteen, and as expected, I threw the biggest birthday bash Curitiba had ever seen. It was in all the papers: ‘Paper Heiress Celebrates 18th Birthday in Grand Style.’ The party was held at my parents’ mansion and featured everything imaginable: bartenders, the country’s most famous DJ, dancers on pedestals. The only rule was: no photos allowed. Every guest had their phone confiscated at the entrance, and journalists and photographers were strictly barred. The only authorized photographers were hired directly by me under a contract with a million-reais penalty if they dared leak a single image. Why? Because I had grown up as the perfect little princess, and this party was the exact opposite.

Okay, let’s get one thing clear. I really am a little princess, but the party was a statement; I wanted my classmates and everyone in town to talk about me and my party for months. I had always been treated like a fragile princess—nobody ever looked at the girl behind the facade—so I decided to make an impact. Yesterday was the first time in my life I drank alcohol, and I can safely say I have no desire to repeat the experience anytime soon.

It was also the day I gave myself to the man I’ve been in love with for ten years. I remember like it was yesterday the day I saw him walk into our house following my brother, Vinícius. They were coming over to do homework together, and that was all it took—one look. I was eight years old at the time, and he was thirteen. I never kept my feelings completely secret, but I was rejected every single time—until yesterday.

I wish I hadn’t drunk so much so I could remember every detail clearly. I only remember walking down the hallway toward the kitchen when someone pulled me in and began kissing me wildly. My first instinct was to push him away, but the moment I realized who it was, I surrendered completely. My body craved his touch, dreamed of the taste of his lips—which on that occasion tasted like vodka, energy drink, and something sweet. After that, everything turned into a blur. We went up to my bedroom using the back stairs; surprisingly, no one saw us, and I’m sure no one missed us either.

The moment we reached my room, our clothes were torn off. I can’t say if there was any foreplay—probably not. I remember the pain of penetration, the exact moment I stopped being pure and virgin and became his. I hope we used protection; even though I take birth control, my body was untouched, while his belonged to half of Curitiba—probably half the state of Paraná.

I feel his body stir beside me and open my eyes. He wakes up slowly, passing his hands over his face. I pull back slightly, but my movement is enough to wake him completely, and in that exact second, my heart begins to break into a thousand pieces. I wasn’t naive enough to think he dreamed of this as much as I did, and I know he was likely driven by alcohol, but what I see in his eyes destroys me. Surprise. Disgust. I don’t know if it’s disgust for himself or for me.

He leaps out of bed and looks around, recognizing the room, recognizing me.

“What...” he stammers, stopping mid-sentence. I feel the rejection before it’s even spoken.

I want to say something, but no sound comes out. I know the second I part my lips, I’ll be incapable of holding back my tears.

“No, no, no,” he mutters, shaking his head, looking around as if this were a nightmare or a cruel joke. “This couldn’t have happened.”

But it did happen.

The bucket of ice water poured over me is the worst feeling in the world. Everything seems to crumble around me. I clutch the bedsheet to my chest, trying to cover my body, trying to protect myself from his eyes filled with disappointment and disgust.

“What the fuck did I do?” he keeps muttering while frantically searching for his clothes around the room. “Nobody can ever know about this, do you understand me? Nobody!” He turns to me, pointing his finger at my face, and all I can do is nod.

“This was a massive mistake. I don’t know what you did to me, what you put in my drink, but this should never have happened.”

The accusations cut through the pain, and rage sparks inside me. How dare he accuse me of that? He’s known me for years; he should know I would never do something so despicable. If I were capable of that, I would have done it long ago.

“Do you really think I would do something like that? You kissed me in the hallway while I was going to the kitchen!” I snap back defensively.

“You’ve always had this ridiculous crush on me! I have never felt the slightest bit of attraction toward you!” His words wound me, but I refuse to let him see me break.

“That’s not what it seemed like last night!” I shoot back, keeping my expression as hard as possible while falling apart inside.

“I don’t know what you think happened between us, but this—” he points at the bed where I sit wrapped in sheets “—meant nothing. I have a reputation to maintain; I can’t be seen with someone like you.”

“A person like me?” I ask, shocked and deeply offended.

“Yes, Victória. You’re ugly, you wear glasses, you have braces, your body has no shape whatsoever, and you don’t care about your appearance. You go against every single standard I have for a woman.”

Bastard. Son of a bitch.

Even if I wanted to jump out of bed and punch his face, every insult hits its mark. He knows me too well; he knows I’ve always struggled with insecurity about my looks. What he doesn’t know is that I have enough money to change all of that—unlike him, who lacks character, something no store in the world sells. In that moment, caught between fury and agonizing pain, I make a promise to myself: no man will ever make me suffer like this again. I will turn myself into the most beautiful woman money and sheer determination can create.

My body is trembling. My heart has been shattered, trampled, crushed. The pain is so deep it feels like it’s tearing me in two. The moment he steps out of the room and shuts the door behind him, I surrender to the tears.

I don’t know how long I lay in bed crying. My brother came to check on me at some point, and I only remember yelling at him to leave. Mrs. Alves, our housekeeper—who was hired to care for Vinícius when he was born and stayed ever since—came in. When she saw me, I knew she realized something was terribly wrong; I rarely cried or stayed bedridden. But she didn’t ask questions. She simply picked up my clothes from the floor, opened the windows, and left a breakfast tray that remained untouched.

My suitcases are packed on the other side of the room. Tomorrow I will board a plane and move to São Paulo. After endless arguments with my brother, he finally caved and agreed to let me study Business Administration in the capital. It was the best decision I ever made. I would be incapable of remaining in this house, knowing he lives right next door in the pool house.

--

Not long after that fateful day, I put my promise into action. The moment I arrived in São Paulo, I hired a personal trainer, a nutritionist, and a fashion consultant. I sculpted every curve of my body to my liking. After a year of intense workouts, strict dieting, multiple visits to the dentist to remove my braces, and switching glasses for contact lenses, I felt pretty. No—I felt stunning. Clothes now contoured my newly acquired curves, highlighting my best features and softening any flaws.

My brother supported me in the end. He was there during my cosmetic procedures and during the first days of recovery at my apartment—not that he was particularly useful; we hired a nurse for basic care, and he mostly stayed to remind me with every wince of pain that it was my own choice. But as soon as I was cleared and put on a bikini for the first time, I felt complete.

What unfortunately couldn’t be fixed was the damage he had done to my heart. The space that was once meant to love someone remained hollow. I won’t claim I have no heart at all because I still love my brother unconditionally, but any capacity I had for romantic love died right there.

Since that day, I haven’t been able to get emotionally involved with anyone. I can’t keep a relationship for more than a few months. Once I achieved the body I wanted, finding men to worship it became easy. But whenever their adoration tries to move beyond the bed and infiltrate my life, I cut them loose.

I simply feel nothing. Sometimes I tried to want it—I could feel feelings growing in the other person, fed by my false hopes—but in the end, I was incapable of returning them.

It took me a while to realize this might be an irreversible state, so I decided to embrace it and use it. Over time, I discovered that what gives me pleasure is the thrill of seduction, the chase, and bit by bit, I perfected the art.