As the grand party approached, the Harrowind estate buzzed with frantic energy. Celina took charge of the preparations ruthlessly, her voice echoing through the halls as she barked orders at the servants. The slightest mistake earned a harsh scolding, and the maids scurried like frightened mice to avoid her wrath.
Meanwhile, Emilia had just returned from her daily etiquette lessons; her posture was refined, and her expression was calm. As she made her way through the hall, Celina approached her with an unusually sweet smile.
"I had your outfit for tonight specially arranged," Celina said, her tone dripping with fake kindness.
Amelia gave her a polite smile, masking the suspicion flickering in her eyes. "Thank you," she replied smoothly. Then she turned to her maid. "Please take it to my room."
Without waiting for a reply, Amelia continued down the hall, cradling a stack of books in her arms. As she passed the stairway, she caught a glimpse of Celina and her mother whispering to each other, their smug smiles and quick glances confirming what Ameilia already suspected—they were up to something.
Back in her room, Amelia laid her books down and walked over to inspect the gown. Her eyes narrowed as she lifted it—there it was: the seam at the back had been deliberately torn.
She let out a soft, mirthless laugh.
"So, you plan to disgrace me?" she murmured. "Very well. Let's see how you like a taste of your own medicine."
Evening soon arrived, and the mansion was bathed in golden candlelight. The Viscount called Celina aside, his tone firm but gentle.
"You must behave tonight," he told her. "No outbursts. No scenes. This party is important for our family's standing. Be composed."
Celina nodded obediently and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. "Of course, Daddy. I won't let you down."
From across the hall, Amelia stood watching. A quiet ache curled in her chest. For a fleeting moment, she envied Celina—not for her wealth or her influence, but for something far more fragile. A father who held her. A family, even if built on illusions.
"What's the difference," she thought bitterly, "between being unloved and being an orphan?"
But the moment passed. She straightened her shoulders, her mask of calm slipping back into place. Tonight, she would not crumble.
Before the party began, Amelia pulled Beatrice aside in the quiet of her chamber.
"Make sure everything is ready," she said softly but firmly. "Tonight, I want no mistakes."
Beatrice nodded, sensing the weight behind her mistress's words.
Soon after, Amelia allowed her maid to help her dress. The gown she chose was not the one Celina had tried to sabotage—but a breathtaking blue ensemble that shimmered like moonlight on the sea. The fabric hugged her form gracefully, cascading down in waves that gave her an almost otherworldly elegance.
She turned to the mirror. "Style my hair carefully," she instructed. "I need to make an entrance they'll never forget."
As dusk deepened, the estate transformed into a scene of lavish beauty. Chandeliers sparkled overhead, and the scent of roses and fine wine floated through the air. Guests began to arrive—viscounts, barons, noble ladies, and esteemed merchants. Among them was Theodore, the Duke's trusted second-in-command. He walked with measured authority, his tailored coat bearing the Blackmoor crest.
He greeted the Viscount respectfully. "His Grace, the Duke, sends his regrets. Urgent affairs demanded his attention. But he's sent gifts in his stead."
Footmen carried in polished chests and velvet-wrapped parcels, each more extravagant than the last. Amelia's eyes drifted toward them with curiosity.
"Well," she mused to herself, "at least he's filthy rich. That's one good thing about this entire mess."
Her inner thoughts were interrupted by Celina's loud sigh nearby.
"I wanted to meet the Duke," Celina pouted dramatically. "That's why I went through all this trouble to look extra beautiful tonight."
Amelia turned to glance at her—and nearly let out a snort. Celina's gown was overdone and poorly fitted, and the makeup made her look older than she was. Emilia fought the urge to roll her eyes.
"No shame at all," she thought dryly. "And she still managed to look… painfully mid."
She smiled to herself, brushing invisible dust from her sleeve as she readied herself to descend the grand staircase.
Tonight wasn't just a party.
Just as the music shifted and murmurs of conversation floated through the grand hall, Amelia appeared at the top of the staircase.
She descended slowly, gracefully—each step measured, each movement deliberate. Her blue gown shimmered like starlight, catching the glow of the chandeliers. The fabric clung to her curves just enough to tease, then flared into soft waves that whispered with every motion. Her hair was styled with jeweled pins, coiled like a crown of sapphires. She looked less like a noblewoman and more like something conjured out of a fairytale.
Gasps echoed subtly across the room.
All eyes turned to her.
Even the Viscount paused mid-sentence, blinking with faint surprise.
Down below, Celina stiffened. Her smile twitched. Why isn't she wearing the dress I gave her?
Amelia, catching the flash of fury in Celina's eyes, offered her a polite but empty smile as she passed.
Standing by the main dais, Theodore—the Duke's second-in-command—caught sight of her. His expression shifted, intrigue stirring in his sharp gaze. He leaned slightly toward the Viscount.
"That must be the bride-to-be," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. Without hesitation, he made his way toward her.
Emilia kept her poise as he approached.
"My lady," Theodore said with a courteous bow, "on behalf of Duke Dorian, allow me to say… Esporia has never looked more radiant."
"Thank you, Lord Theodore," Emilia replied with a polite smile. "Your presence honors us."
Before more could be said, a woman dressed in sleek black stepped into the circle as though she'd been waiting for the right moment. Her gloves were lace, her smile charming—but her eyes, Emilia noticed, were just a bit too sharp.
"Darling Amelia!" the woman exclaimed, moving forward with arms half-open as though greeting an old friend.
Amelia blinked. "I'm sorry… have we met?"
The woman let out a light, amused laugh. "Oh dear, have you forgotten me already? It's me—Lady Rose. We used to exchange letters… talk about books, about poetry. I even gave you advice on your skin care routine once, remember?"
Advice on… skin? Amelia's thoughts raced. This woman knew the real Amelia. But she wasn't the real Amelia.
Still, she managed a graceful laugh. "Forgive me, Lady Rose. It's been a long season, and I've been dreadfully forgetful lately."
Lady Rose tilted her head, eyes narrowing just a fraction. "Mmm. I suppose war and betrayal do that to a girl."
Åmelia's smile stayed frozen, even as her heart gave a small lurch.
Who exactly is this woman… and how much does she know?