Gossip is like New York's autumn fog—formless, weightless, yet it seeps into every corner without a sound, casting a vague, grayish film over everything.
The rumors about the "mysteriously returned" illegitimate daughter of the Winters family, Amelia, had long been fermenting and morphing within certain circles, finally weaving together into a vivid, kaleidoscopic image: arrogant, ignorant, crude, filled with jealousy and malice toward her stepmother and half-sister—a wild child whose refinement had been ground away by the rough life of the Midwest, leaving only a body of sharp thorns. This image was so concrete that many who had never met her had already conjured up a vision of a woman with bared claws and a spiteful gaze.
On Wednesday morning, Mrs. Eleanor Weston, the exclusive jewelry designer who had served the Winters family for over twenty years, entered the foyer of 840 Fifth Avenue with precisely this expectation in mind. Around fifty, she was dressed in an impeccably tailored charcoal gray suit, her hair perfectly in place, carrying her signature black crocodile skin toolkit. She had arrived early today not only to finalize the details of the ruby set Miss Catherine would wear for her birthday gala but also to steel herself for dealing with the rumored "extremely difficult" Miss Amelia—who was said to be impossibly picky about jewels and apt to publicly humiliate anyone who displeased her.
Carlson led her to the small second-floor drawing room where Margaret and Catherine were already waiting. Sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, bathing the room in a soft, warm gold.
"Eleanor, there you are," Margaret rose, her smile gracious as she took the designer's hand and gave it a gentle pat. "We're troubling you again. Catherine here is so nervous about her look for the birthday, she insisted you come personally for a final check."
Catherine sat beside her mother, wearing a soft pink cashmere cardigan, a picture of sweetness. "Mrs. Weston, about the ruby earrings, I think the drops should be just a millimeter longer, don't you agree?" Her tone was girlish, yet her request was precise down to the millimeter.
As Eleanor opened her toolkit, laying out the designs and several finished pieces, she patiently responded. All the while, her peripheral vision remained fixed on the doorway—the "Miss Amelia" was reportedly due to appear as well, to select or modify her own jewelry. She had even adjusted her breathing, bracing for any potential confrontation.
Yet, minute by minute, the anticipated stormy figure failed to appear.
Just as Eleanor was helping Catherine try on the adjusted earrings, there was a light knock on the half-open door before it swung wider.
A woman in a simple, fluid dress of pale oatmeal cashmere walked in. The cut elongated her slender, upright frame. Dark brown hair was loosely swept up at her nape, revealing a smooth forehead and an elegant neck. Her skin was pale—the kind of porcelain fairness that spoke of little sun—but it wasn't sickly. Her features were gentle, unassuming, especially her eyes, a quiet color somewhere between deep brown and forest green. When she looked at you, her gaze was clear and calm, holding a natural, effortless focus.
She carried a thick hardcover book, as if she'd just come from the library. Seeing visitors, she paused, then offered a faint, polite smile, nodding to Margaret. "My apologies for interrupting. I was returning this book. I didn't realize you had company."
Her voice was neither high nor low, its texture clear and smooth, carrying a measured rhythm that was pleasant to the ear.
Eleanor froze. This was… the legendary "wild child"? The "spiteful bastard daughter" who supposedly threw tantrums over a dull diamond? The woman before her exuded a quiet, bookish grace. The elegant reserve in her manner couldn't be faked by someone truly crude. She even seemed less artificially polished than many society ladies who prided themselves on their breeding, possessing instead a natural, innate composure.
The smile on Margaret's face didn't waver; if anything, it grew gentler. "Amelia, perfect timing. This is Mrs. Weston, our family jeweler. Mrs. Weston, this is my eldest daughter, Amelia."
Eleanor felt her throat tighten slightly. She quickly set down her tools and stood. Professionalism swiftly restored her demeanor, but the shock within her rippled like a stone dropped into a still pond. "Miss Winters, good day," she greeted, her tone more cautious than usual, carrying a hint of unspoken reassessment.
"Mrs. Weston, a pleasure," Amelia inclined her head slightly. Her eyes politely swept over the designs and the glittering rubies on the table, a flicker of appreciation passing through them. "A beautiful design. The rubies suit Catherine's complexion perfectly." The compliment was natural, devoid of hollow flattery or hidden barbs, stated as a simple fact.
Catherine gave an almost imperceptible sniff and looked away.
Amelia seemed not to notice. She turned back to Margaret. "I'll leave the book here. If there's nothing else, I won't disturb you further."
"Wait, dear," Margaret called, her tone solicitous. "Mrs. Weston is here so rarely. Perhaps you should see if you need anything? For the birthday gala, you ought to have some proper jewelry as well." She glanced at Eleanor. "Eleanor, do see if you have anything suitable for Amelia?"
Eleanor responded promptly. "Of course. Miss Winters, if you have any preferences or issues with your current pieces, please feel free to say." Her words still held a thread of wariness, waiting for the expected挑剔.
Amelia, however, shook her head, her smile apologetic. "Thank you, but that won't be necessary. I have no need for additions at the moment. What I have is quite sufficient." She was referring to the pieces Margaret had "lent" her. Her refusal was neat and dignified, neither seeming impoverished nor displaying excessive eagerness or disdain for the jewels.
"As you wish," Margaret didn't press, her smile unchanged. "Go on with your day."
Amelia offered another polite nod to Eleanor and then withdrew from the drawing room, quietly closing the door behind her. Throughout, she hadn't lingered over the expensive gems, made no requests, hadn't extended her stay by a second.
After the door clicked shut, a brief silence settled in the small room.
Eleanor sat back down, her movements slightly slower. She couldn't help but glance once more at the closed door. The entrenched image of the "villainess" in her mind was dissipating, crumbling like mist under direct sunlight. This was not arrogance or ignorance. This was… propriety, restraint, even a detachment beyond her years. The stark chasm between rumor and reality left even this seasoned designer, accustomed to the dramas of the wealthy, feeling a sense of absurdity and confusion.
Margaret, as if unaware of her distraction, smoothly steered the conversation back to the length of the ruby earring drops. Only, deep within that smile, something seemed to cool, just for an instant.
Almost simultaneously, on the other side of the mansion, another conversation was unfolding in the study.
The heavy study door was shut, muffling the faint sounds from outside. Behind the dark walnut desk, Matthew Winters was reviewing a document, his brow slightly furrowed. Seated across from him on the sofa was Ryan Donovan.
Ryan was dressed in a perfectly tailored suit of deep navy blue, the fabric catching the light with a subdued sheen. Beneath it was a light gray shirt, no tie, the top button undone revealing a glimpse of his collarbone. His posture wasn't rigid; he leaned back against the sofa with a casual air, one leg crossed over the other, but that relaxation hinted at a latent, coiled energy. His features were sharply defined in the cool light from the window—a high nose, a clean jawline. Most striking were his eyes, a dark brown so deep it was nearly black. They often held little emotion, like still, deep pools, but occasionally a glint of sharpness would flash through, seeming to pierce through any facade.
He held a crystal whiskey glass, amber liquid swirling slowly within. He listened to Matthew's low explanation about overseas asset allocation, but his gaze seemed unfocused, drifting idly to a lush monstera plant in the corner.
Matthew's assistant, a sharp-looking young man in gold-rimmed glasses, stood nearby operating a tablet, ready to pull up information. His eyes strayed to the window, where through the slats of the blinds, he could see a gravel path connecting the main house to the gardens.
On the path, a figure in an oatmeal-colored dress walked slowly past, still holding the thick book. She walked with her head slightly bowed, her pace unhurried. Sunlight filtered through the trees, casting dappled, shifting light on her. She carried an aura of tranquility that felt utterly alien to the busy, bustling mansion.
The assistant watched, momentarily distracted, and murmured under his breath, "Which distant relative of the Winters is that? Remarkable presence. Haven't seen her before."
Matthew, interrupted, shot his assistant an annoyed glance.
It was then that Ryan slowly turned his head, his gaze also shifting to the window. He looked for only a moment before turning back, taking a sip from his glass, his Adam's apple bobbing. Then, in his usual flat, unhurried tone, he uttered three words:
"That's Amelia."
"Amelia?" The assistant blinked, then his eyes widened in surprise, almost choking on his words. "That's *the* Amelia Winters?" The image from the rumors and the woman before him were worlds apart. His disbelief was palpable. "But she looks nothing like… The rumors said she was…"
"Rumors are unreliable," Ryan cut him off, his tone still devoid of inflection. He swirled his glass, watching the liquid spin. "Though she is… passably attractive, I suppose." He used the highly qualified "passably," as if making a grudging concession.
Clearly unsatisfied with such a bare-bones assessment, the assistant couldn't help pressing. "But how did you know it was her?"
Ryan looked at him, a glance that made the assistant instinctively shrink back. "We've met." He was characteristically brief, showing no interest in elaborating on *how* they'd met or *what* his impression was.
The assistant sheepishly rubbed his nose, looking back out the window where the figure had vanished behind a trellis. He clicked his tongue softly, a young man's instinctive appreciation for beauty surfacing. "Passably? I'd say she's quite… striking. Has a sort of scholarly air about her. Distinct. Different from the other Miss Winters's, Catherine's, kind of beauty." Catherine's beauty was vivid, flamboyant, like a carefully cultivated rose; the woman he'd glimpsed was more like a lily of the valley—quiet, aloof, inhabiting her own world.
"Catherine?" Ryan let out a barely audible snort through his nose. He threw back the remainder of his drink, his throat working again, and set the glass down with a soft *thud* on the wooden table. "Common and gaudy." Four words, delivered without mercy, laced with unmistakable weariness.
The assistant was stunned into silence by this blunt, biting review. He certainly wouldn't dare to comment on the young mistress of the house himself. His eyes darted, and he suddenly recalled another, older piece of gossip. Lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, he ventured, "Speaking of which, this Miss Amelia's mother, the late Elizabeth Murray… now *she* was the acknowledged great beauty and talent of New York society in her day! A pity, gone too soon… I heard she was—"
"You want me to comment on a dead woman?" Ryan interrupted again, his voice cooler this time. Those deep-pool eyes swept over him, holding no anger, yet they made the assistant freeze, a fine sweat breaking out on his back.
Ryan turned his attention back to Matthew, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his empty glass. "Catherine's birthday is next week," he remarked, as if offhand. "It'll be quite the event. Mrs. Margret must have been planning for ages."
Matthew looked up from his papers, rubbing his temples. "Yes, she's invested in it. Good, it's one of the few things lately that seems to lift Father's spirits." He paused, his gaze settling on Ryan, tone growing more serious. "Around the birthday, security and guest traffic will get complicated. There's something I need you to look into discreetly."
Ryan's brow arched slightly, signaling he was listening.
"Check into Mrs. Margret's financial transactions over the past six months. Especially anything channeled through her brother's art investment firm." Matthew's voice was very low, audible only to the three in the room. "And her pre-marriage social connections in Boston… Keep it quiet."
It was no simple request. Ryan was silent for a moment, his finger pausing on the glass rim. Outside, the faint sound of the fountain restarting carried on the cool autumn air.
"Understood," he finally nodded, his face expressionless, as if accepting a routine task.
But deep within those unfathomable eyes, something sank, almost imperceptibly.
Night fell, and Amelia returned to the quiet of her room.
She didn't turn on the main light, only twisting on the small reading lamp by the bed. Its warm, yellow glow pooled over a corner of the bed, leaving the rest of the room to deep shadows.
She walked to the dressing table, pulled open the bottom drawer, and took out the small dark blue velvet box. Opening it, the sapphire ring lay nestled on its black cloth. In the warm light, the royal blue hue seemed richer, deeper, as if starlight swirled slowly within.
She picked up the ring. An icy chill spread instantly from her fingertips. She didn't put it on immediately, only tracing the outline of the stone, the curve of the band, the almost worn-away, faint engraving on the inside.
Memories surged uncontrollably, carrying faded warmth and long-solidified pain.
She remembered the first time she saw Liam Carter. It was in the university library, deep autumn, maple leaves like fire outside the window. He sat by the window, sunlight gilding his flaxen hair, frowning at a heavy law tome, his fingers unconsciously curling a corner of the page. Back then, he was a slender, somewhat bookish young man, his eyes clear, his smile touched with shyness.
She had noticed him first. Or perhaps her father had mentioned him first—"That Carter boy in law school, sharp, but his background's weak. Holds down three jobs, I hear." Her father's tone was flat, like listing an item's pros and cons. Yet, she was moved by the resilience implied in "three jobs."
Approaching him, getting to know him, falling in love—it all happened with disarming simplicity. Liam was initially apprehensive; the daughter of Judge Ellwood belonged to another world. But he was genuine. He'd scour half the city for an out-of-print book she'd mentioned in passing. Under her father's intense scrutiny, his palms would sweat, but he'd still straighten his back.
They had their sweet times. Huddled in their rented apartment sharing a bowl of instant noodles, dreaming of the bright future after he passed the bar. He'd hold her hand, his eyes shining. "Vivian, once I'm on my feet, I'll give you the best life. You'll never want for anything again." Back then, she believed him. Wholeheartedly.
She married him against her father's wishes. Her father had said, grim-faced, "Carter is clever, but not steady. He might be a good partner in fair weather, but when storms come, the cowardice and indecision in his bones will be the death of you." She'd thought her father was being snobbish, cruel. She believed love could conquer all—background, class, human frailty.
At their wedding, her mother placed this sapphire ring on her finger, tears in her eyes. "May it guard your happiness, my child." In that moment, she felt like the happiest person alive.
But her father had been right.
When the shadow of the family's ruin fell, when crushing debt and her father's wrongful conviction pressed down like a boulder, the light in Liam's eyes slowly dimmed. He grew quieter, more agitated. He began to complain—about the pressure, the bleak future, why *he* had to bear this. She comforted him, encouraged him, even sold the ring her mother gave her, just so he could study in peace, buy supplements for his health, which was suffering under the strain. She thought this was marital support, proof of weathering the storm together.
Until the day he stood there with his brand-new law license, his eyes avoiding hers, his voice dry. "Vivian, we… we should part ways. Everything Chloe can offer… you can't. I'm tired. So tired."
He hadn't even had the courage to say the word "divorce." He simply pulled away the last piece of driftwood in her life and watched her drown. Later, she learned how much of his "failing health" and "study pressure" had been exaggerated to wring the last bit of use from her; how his new life had already been quietly paved under Chloe Vanderbilt's wing, long before their marriage ended.
Cowardly? Perhaps. But it was more selfishness, a calculated abandonment after weighing the pros and cons. What her father had seen through was precisely this instability and self-interest at his core. Love had proven fragile against the weight of reality and the lure of something better.
The cold ring pressed into her palm, a distinct ache. Amelia closed her eyes, drew a deep breath, and let it out slowly. The familiar, twisting pain in her chest was still there, but it was no longer the drowning despair or heartrending agony of the beginning. It had settled, hardened into something colder, buried deep within, becoming the bedrock of all her actions and resolve.
She opened her eyes. In the dim lamplight, her gaze was clear. That past love was long dead, buried alongside the naive Vivian Ellwood who had believed in it, in that rainy night and the Midwestern soil.
What lived now was Amelia Winters. She picked up this ring not to mourn lost warmth, but to remember the lesson of betrayal, to remind herself of her purpose here.
She slowly slid the ring onto her left ring finger. It was a little loose now; the years of upheaval had left her thinner. The gem glimmered with a deep light on her hand.
Outside the window, the New York nightscape glittered like an eternal river of stars, tirelessly performing its symphony of glamour and desire.
And inside, the woman sat quietly in the lamplight, the sapphire on her finger like a drop of solidified, azure resolve.
The night was long. And so was the road ahead.