There was a time—so long ago it almost felt like a dream—when Helen D'Angelo could walk into any room and own it without saying a word.
She didn't need to smile. She didn't need to try. The moment she entered, everything shifted. Eyes followed her like moths drawn to flame. Conversations paused mid-sentence, laughter stuttered into silence. The air itself seemed to still, thickening with a palpable anticipation. She was the Rose of the Rosenthal Empire, after all—poised, untouchable, devastatingly radiant.
And she knew it.
That damned silver hair of hers cascaded like liquid moonlight over her shoulders, every strand too perfect to be real, framing a face that could command nations. Those icy blue eyes—glacial, piercing—looked through people, not at them. Her beauty wasn't the warm, inviting kind. It was cold, aloof, the sort that felt almost unfair to behold. The kind that made people worship her... and hate her in equal measure.
