The crystal chandeliers in the corridor cast a cold, unforgiving light. Evelyn followed behind the butler, each step sinking into the thick Persian carpet. The softness underfoot always reminded her of her father's old cotton coat—the one that could never be washed clean.
It was a texture that smelled of mold, sweat, and cheap tobacco.
It was the smell of the lower class.
Evelyn closed her eyes for a brief second, memories surging up like the tide of the Hudson River. She was born in this so-called "Land of the Free," but for the daughter of an Irish immigrant, freedom was nothing more than a wooden sign that read: No Dogs or Irish Need Apply.
She remembered the winter she was five. Her father, desperate to earn a few extra cents for the family, had gone to shovel snow for the rich in Uptown during a blizzard. She had followed behind him, her toes numb from the cold. Her father's tall, broad back was hunched against the wind and snow, like a bow pulled to its breaking point by life itself.
"Keep your head down, Evie," her father would always teach her, his voice rough and exhausted. "Don't look them in the eye. As long as we work hard, God will bless us."
Did God bless them?
No. God only watched as her father was crushed beneath the tracks of a train, leaving not even a whole body to bury. God only watched as her mother scrubbed the silk shirts of strangers in freezing water until her knuckles deformed and her lungs filled with the mold of despair.
From a very young age, Evelyn learned how to "read the room."
It was a survival instinct. She had to judge whether the baker was in a bad mood before he raised his stick, quickly switching to a fawning smile to beg for a crust of bread. She had to smell the danger before the street thugs surrounded her, diving into the sewer like a rat to escape.
She rolled in the mud, learning to swallow every insult.
And then there was that encounter.
It was 1889. She was eight years old. That day, she was lying on the side of Fifth Avenue, trying to pry a dropped penny out of the gutter.
A black carriage stopped in front of her. The wheels crushed a puddle, splashing muddy water all over her.
The window curtain was lifted by a hand gloved in pristine white.
A young William Ashford—he was only twenty then, fresh out of Yale, passing through this street for some unknown reason. He wore a coat that looked expensive even in dreams, spotless and immaculate. His profile was as cold and sharp as a marble statue.
Evelyn, clutching the mud-slicked penny, looked up blankly.
Their eyes met for a single second.
Just one second.
William showed no disgust. He didn't shout "Get away, you filthy brat" like the other rich folks. He simply swept a glance over her, indifferent, and then let the curtain fall back into place.
That look hurt more than any insult.
It was the way one looks at a stone by the roadside, at withered grass, at dust with no life value. In his eyes, she wasn't a suffering child. She wasn't even a specific "person." She was just part of this filthy background scenery.
In that moment, eight-year-old Evelyn understood what class was.
Class wasn't the penny in the mud. It was him sitting in the clouds while she lay in the gutter. He didn't even need to look down to crush her dignity.
In her past life, she had adhered to her parents' teachings: follow the rules, know your place, don't dream of things you shouldn't. She thought that as long as she did her job well and bent her back low enough, she could find a tiny corner of safety in this massive manor.
And the result?
She was kicked out like a dog, dying without a grave to her name.
"We're here," the butler's voice interrupted her memories.
Evelyn stopped, standing before the heavy oak door.
She looked down at her hands—rough from years of labor, but scrubbed painfully clean for this moment.
"Following the rules won't save us, Mama," she said silently in her heart, the last trace of weakness in her eyes replaced by icy determination.
The little girl looking for pennies in the mud was dead. The maid who believed in "hard work brings riches" had died on the last day of the last century.
If you don't want to be treated like dust, you must become the mountain.
If you don't want to be trampled underfoot, you must climb. Even if you have to use your teeth, your fingernails—you must climb to that man's side. You must use his power, use his arrogance, to forge armor for yourself.
Evelyn took a deep breath, adjusting the expression on her face.
When she raised her hand to knock on the door, her eyes had returned to the calm, submissive look of a still lake. But beneath that tranquility, the flame named Ambition was burning ferociously.
"Enter."
It was William's voice.
It was the trumpet call of her changing destiny.