The following morning, the sound of the zipper echoed in the stillness of the hotel room as Jillian finished dressing. Her gown—midnight blue, understated but elegant—hugged her figure with quiet power.
She'd chosen it intentionally, not flashy, not submissive, but strong. The invitation still sat open on the dresser, the inked lettering stiff with formality. Her name was nowhere on it—but she'd been expected.
The car ride to the venue was silent. Outside, the city gleamed with the usual brilliance of Orwell's high society, but tonight, everything felt exaggerated—like the city was watching itself in a mirror.
As she stepped onto the marble steps of the grand hall, cameras clicked, flashes danced, but no one called her name. She moved through the crowd unnoticed, just how she liked it.
Inside, the banquet hall glittered with chandeliers and luxury. A string quartet played softly in the corner. Every table was adorned with crystal glasses and gold-trimmed name cards. Jillian scanned the room, her steps slow but sure. She didn't belong here anymore—but she wasn't afraid to stand in it.
Her gaze landed on Celeste.
She stood in the center of the room like a queen on her throne. Her red gown shimmered with tiny sequins that caught every flicker of light, a statement piece for someone who had grown up learning how to shine.
She laughed politely, greeted guests with confidence, her movements rehearsed to perfection. Camilla stood beside her, radiating triumph.
Jillian found herself a corner near a marble pillar, silently observing.
She watched her father—Harlond Smith—clinking glasses with businessmen, engaging in deep conversation with political faces and old money families. He looked up only once and met Jillian's eyes. A beat passed. He didn't smile. He turned back to his companions.
Jillian blinked slowly, letting the sting pass. She didn't expect warmth, but the coldness still bit.
A waiter passed. She took a glass of champagne and sipped slowly, the bubbles sharp on her tongue. Conversations drifted past her ears like smoke—talks of mergers, future weddings, international investments. Her name floated through once, followed by the words "the heart surgeon" and "odd she's here."
Still, she remained quiet, composed. The contrast between her and Celeste had never felt sharper. One polished for society. The other hardened by life.
Then came a moment—a pause in the music, a collective glance toward the center. Celeste was being introduced officially, praised for her beauty, her poise, her future. Guests applauded. Some turned to Jillian, realizing her presence. A few smiled politely. Some whispered.
Jillian raised her glass slightly in response, not moving from her post.
In that glittering sea of gowns and money, she had never felt more like an outsider. And still, she stood tall—because she wasn't here for validation. She was here for answers.
And they were coming.
The hall shimmered with golden chandeliers and soft jazz, silk gowns sweeping over marble floors. Jillian stood near the edge of the ballroom, quietly watching the crowd, the curve of her posture poised but unpretentious.
Her deep blue dress fit elegantly, tailored to her, but not loud—not a cry for attention like many others around her. She had no need for spectacle. Her presence alone was striking.
Across the room, a group of women gathered—Celeste's friends, well-heeled and pampered by the world. Daughters of tycoons and politicians, their every move whispered luxury and control. As their eyes caught sight of Jillian, something shifted.
The tallest among them, draped in a lilac silk gown embroidered with crystals, leaned toward her circle with a smirk. "Isn't that the sister from the countryside Celeste mentioned? The doctor?"
"The one who left and came back for the wedding?" another added, laughter bubbling behind the words. "I thought this was a black-tie banquet, not a provincial reunion."
They walked over, pretending to admire the flowers near where Jillian stood. But it was clear—Jillian was their target.
"Well, look who's graced us with her presence," said the one in lilac, her voice honeyed with venom. "You must be Jillian. Celeste's sister… from another life."
Jillian turned slowly to face them, expression unreadable. "Yes. I am."
The third girl laughed under her breath. "Bold of you to come. The city must be a bit… overwhelming after your time away."
More laughter. Eyes flicked toward her hair, her jewelry, her posture—measuring, judging. Jillian met their gazes calmly.
From across the room, Celeste stood with a group of older socialites. She noticed her friends circling Jillian like sharks. Their laughter had that tone—the kind you only use when you think someone doesn't belong. Her eyes briefly met Jillian's. For a moment, everything stilled.
But Celeste didn't move. She simply turned her head and smiled at something else, letting her friends continue.
Jillian's jaw tightened slightly. The silence from her own blood felt heavier than the insult itself.
"Some say you're brilliant," the woman in lilac continued, her tone shifting mockingly sweet. "But I always think people who work too hard are just running from something."
"I agree," Jillian replied softly, her voice cool and even. "And it must be exhausting running from your own insecurities into the arms of other people's approval."
The laughter died instantly.
For the first time, they faltered. Jillian didn't gloat, didn't smirk. She turned slightly toward the floor-length window, her reflection blending with the city lights.
"Here's the thing," she added, barely above a whisper. "You don't have to like me. I didn't come here for you."
The women stood in awkward silence before slowly stepping away, muttering excuses and casting glares that didn't land.
Alone again, Jillian exhaled.
Some wounds don't bleed. They press against the skin in silence, waiting for strength to outgrow them. Jillian wasn't here to reclaim space—she had never lost it. She was simply walking into what had always been hers.
The murmurs softened as the lights above dimmed slightly, casting a warm amber glow across the grand banquet hall. A string quartet began to play in the corner, their delicate notes weaving a sense of elegance and anticipation into the air.
The ceremony was beginning.
Guests took their seats around tables adorned with crystal glasses, gold-trimmed menus, and towering floral arrangements. The master of ceremonies took the stage, offering a polished welcome that echoed across the hall. Applause followed, refined and brief.
Jillian sat at a table a little farther from the center, her expression unreadable as she clapped politely, her mind half-present. From her position, she had a clear view of Celeste, who stood glowing under the chandelier's light, flawless in a custom gown that shimmered like the sea under moonlight. She was radiant—every bit the socialite she had been molded to be.
Beside her stood Harlond Smith, proud and commanding, his hand resting on Celeste's back as he addressed the guests. Camilla was nearby too, her smile as sharp and practiced as ever, eyes constantly scanning the crowd.
As the speech moved toward the heart of the night—the announcement of Celeste's engagement match—Jillian's chest tightened. She wasn't sure if it was nostalgia, regret, or simple discomfort… but she felt it nonetheless.
Flashbulbs sparkled as Celeste's name was officially linked to that of her future fiancé—a rising political heir from one of the nation's elite families. The two exchanged symbolic gifts, and the hall erupted into applause.
Jillian joined in, her hands moving, but her eyes focused on Celeste's smile. Perfect. Effortless. Familiar.
And yet, a flicker crossed Celeste's face when she glanced in Jillian's direction—so brief it might've been imagined.
But Jillian saw it.
She always did.