Before the Friday dawn had fully chased the night from Fifth Avenue, the Winters residence was jolted awake—or rather, forcibly roused by a tense, feverish bustle.
Starting late Thursday night, the entire house had become a precision machine wound tight, every cog spinning rapidly. In the corridors, maids in uniform scurried, arms laden with stacks of freshly starched and ironed linen tablecloths and napkins; footmen carefully maneuvered massive floral arrangements and additional crystal ware. The air was thick with the scent of fresh-cut flowers, polish, and a faint, pervasive tension. Outside, workers made final adjustments to lighting and sound equipment, their low murmurs and the clink of tools barely audible.
Amidst this clamorous overture for Catherine Winters' twenty-second birthday, Amelia's presence felt like a speck of dust accidentally brushed into a corner, growing ever more silent and unnoticeable. No one came to ask if she needed help preparing her gown, no one confirmed her schedule for the day, and even her usual maid, Anna, had been requisitioned to help in the ballroom, only managing a hurried mention the night before that breakfast might be irregular.
Thus, when Amelia descended the stairs about half an hour later than usual, around half past eight in the morning, she was met with a kitchen scene that felt like the aftermath of a party.
The vast commercial kitchen still held the residual warmth and aromas of the earlier rush—mingling scents of toast, fried bacon, and coffee—but the long central island was a battlefield of used dishes and cutlery. The chefs had long since decamped to the ballroom's service kitchens, preparing the more intricate luncheon and dinner courses. Only two young kitchen helpers remained by the sink, scrubbing a mountainous pile of pots, the sound of rushing water filling the space as they whispered about party gossip, completely oblivious to the figure in the doorway.
The small breakfast nook was bare. The warming trays were off, even the bread basket held only crumbs. A coffee pot sat with a cold dreg at the bottom.
Amelia stood for a moment, her fingers lightly brushing the cool, polished marble of the countertop. It was an expected slight, yet a hollow chill still touched her stomach. She was about to turn and leave, perhaps to find a spare tea bag in her room, when a voice tinged with sarcasm came from behind her:
"Seems we've both become residents of the corners forgotten by this grand 'celebration.'"
She turned to see Theodore leaning against the narrow doorway to the pantry. He was unusually dressed in a relatively formal dark blue shirt, sleeves casually rolled to his elbows, but his hair was still somewhat disheveled, a faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, exuding an air of lazy defiance utterly at odds with the day's atmosphere. He held a brown paper bag and was pulling something from it.
"Morning, Theodore," Amelia nodded.
Theodore walked over and dumped the contents of the bag onto a clean corner of the island—several mostly intact pastries: a slice of lemon pound cake with icing, an almond croissant, and a dense-looking chestnut cake. The edges were slightly dry, clearly leftovers from yesterday's preparations or tastings.
"Here, spoils of war," he said, picking up the chestnut cake and handing it to Amelia. He tore off half the croissant and stuffed it into his own mouth, chewing as he continued, his words slightly muffled. "It's just a birthday party, but they're acting like a state visit. Both Winters daughters, yet the favoritism is so blatant, as if afraid people won't know who's the legitimate heir and who's the one from 'outside.'" He emphasized the word "outside," his grey-green eyes filled with undisguised mockery.
Amelia took the chestnut cake. It was cool to the touch but still soft. She didn't eat it immediately, only said calmly, "Catherine has always been the cherished one. Her birthday is a significant event, especially with so many notable guests. The Winters naturally can't afford any lapse; appearances must be impeccable." Her tone was detached, as if stating an objective fact unrelated to herself.
Theodore swallowed his food, his gaze lingering on Amelia's face, examining her more closely than usual. Morning light slanted through the high window, outlining her profile. In these days at the Winters', Margaret hadn't dared to skimp overtly on necessities. Better nutrition and rest (however mentally taxing) had gradually brought a healthier glow to Amelia's once-pale skin, fading the tired shadows under her eyes. Her features were naturally fine and pleasant—clear brows and eyes, a straight nose, lips a natural pale pink. Today she wore a simple pearl-grey knit dress, her long hair loosely pinned up with a plain silver clasp, a few strands falling by her ears. She wore no other adornments, yet possessed a clean, unadorned beauty. Especially when she lowered her gaze slightly to the cake in her hand, that serene focus reminded Theodore inexplicably of the unfinished portrait of Elizabeth in his studio—not in likeness, but in some elusive, timeless quality of spirit.
What surprised him more was her overall bearing. The lingering tension and wariness from her arrival seemed to have been replaced by something deeper, more contained. Her movements were still graceful and proper, but no longer as painstakingly cautious as before; they held a newfound fluidity. Like a plant slowly putting down invisible roots in unfamiliar soil.
Theodore was lost in his observation until Amelia looked up, a slight question in her eyes. "Is something on my face?"
He jolted back to the present, a rare flicker of embarrassment crossing him. To cover it, he immediately switched to his customary, flippant tone, raising his voice slightly. "Nothing. Just thinking… it's this late, and no one's come looking for us. For me, it's normal—they know I can't stand these pretentious affairs, I'd avoid them if I could. But you—" he drew out the word, looking at her pointedly, "could it be they… simply don't want you to attend?"
His words weren't entirely in jest. Indeed, as the party hour approached, the main house swarmed with activity, yet not a single person—not Margaret, not Catherine, not even the butler, Carlson—had come to inform or remind Amelia to prepare. For a truly sensitive, acceptance-craving Amelia, this would likely have caused panic, grievance, and doubt about being utterly excluded. After all, with her infamous past rumors (true or not), it seemed a perfectly reasonable precaution for a family like the Winters, so protective of their reputation, to "sideline" her at such a crucial social event to avoid any "potential impropriety."
Upon hearing this, however, Amelia only offered a faint smile. She picked up the chestnut cake and took a small bite. The rich flavor of chestnut puree and the soft cake melted on her tongue, perfectly sweet.
"They won't," she said after swallowing, her voice clear and steady, betraying no panic. "Even if every person in this house, deep down, wishes I weren't at today's party, there is one person who will definitely 'want' me there."
Theodore raised a brow. "Who?"
"My stepmother, Mrs. Margaret." Amelia set down the remaining cake, picking up a napkin to slowly wipe her fingertips. "The stage is set—lights, scenery, audience all in place. If an important 'piece' like me doesn't appear, how can her meticulously orchestrated play proceed? A one-woman show always lacks flavor."
As if to confirm her prediction, the door connecting the kitchen to the main hallway opened just then. Butler Carlson entered with measured steps. He was impeccably dressed in his black uniform, silver hair perfectly in place. Seeing Amelia and Theodore standing together by the island, his expression showed no surprise. He gave a slight bow.
"Miss Amelia, Master Theodore." His voice was even. "I see you are here. The gala is about to commence; guests have begun to arrive. Madam instructed me to remind Miss Amelia to proceed with her preparations and join the main hall. It is Miss Catherine's birthday, and many distinguished guests will be present. Madam, Master Matthew, and Miss Isabella are already receiving guests and await you."
He turned to Theodore, his tone still respectful but carrying a note of understanding. "Master Theodore, Madam also mentioned that if you find the hall too tedious, the east sitting room in the garden has been prepared with quiet refreshments for your use. Of course, should you wish to make an appearance in the main hall, it would ease Madam's task should the Master inquire in a lucid moment."
Theodore snorted, waving a hand. "Alright, Carlson, I know what to do. You go about your business." He clearly had no intention of joining the throng.
Carlson said no more, giving another slight bow to Amelia. "Miss, please do not delay." Then he turned and left the kitchen, his steps still measured, as if he'd merely completed a routine errand.
Quiet returned to the kitchen, broken only by the faint sound of water from the sink.
Theodore looked at Amelia, a meaningful smile touching his lips. "Seems you were right. The 'stage manager' came to hurry the actor along."
Amelia tossed the napkin into the bin, smoothed her skirt, her expression unreadable.
"Yes," she said softly, a glint of something deep in her eyes. "The play is finally about to begin."
***
By noon, the ballroom and adjoining chambers of the Winters residence were a scene of shimmering silks, murmuring voices, and animated chatter. Enormous crystal chandeliers cast a brilliant glow, the air thick with the mingled scents of expensive perfume, fresh floral arrangements, and exquisite cuisine. A string quartet played light, elegant melodies in a corner, the notes weaving through the hum of conversation and laughter.
Today's guest list was a veritable who's who of Upper East Side society and old East Coast money. There were bankers and industrialists with close ties to the Winters' business interests, along with their families; venerable family friends like the Vanderbilts (Chloe's parents were present), branches of the Rockefellers, and members of the Cabot family from Boston; political figures—a senior New York senator and his wife, along with two city council members; and notables from the arts and culture scene, including the previously encountered Sir Aston, the current director of the Metropolitan Museum and his wife, and two highly regarded contemporary artists.
Margaret was undoubtedly one of the day's most radiant hostesses. She wore an opulent gown of deep crimson velvet with a matching diamond set, her makeup flawless, her smile gracious and poised as she navigated the guests, embodying both warm hospitality and the Winters' dignity. Catherine was the princess at the center of it all, in a custom-made pale pink gown encrusted with crystals, the ruby set around her neck sparkling. Her face glowed with the bright, cherished smile of someone utterly adored, accepting blessings and gifts from all sides. Matthew and Ian handled discussions of current affairs and business with the male guests, while Isabella chatted with the ladies about charity, fashion, and the latest social tidbits.
Amelia arrived neither early nor conspicuously late. She wore a safe choice—an evening gown Margaret had provided earlier but which she hadn't worn before. It was a somewhat conservative deep blue, simple in cut, well-fitted, but unremarkable. Her hair was pinned up, and she wore small pearl studs, nothing more. Her makeup was light, her expression calm, doing her best to blend into the background, quietly observing.
Her appearance caused no major stir. Most guests offered a polite, brief glance, some perhaps with a hint of curiosity, but their attention quickly shifted back to their own conversations. In this glittering assembly, an unremarkable, simply dressed "returned illegitimate daughter" was hardly enough to hold sustained interest. This was precisely what Amelia desired at this moment.
However, not all eyes were so dismissive.
In a relatively quiet seating area to one side of the ballroom sat a woman in her sixties, possessing an air of exceptional elegance. She wore a beautifully tailored haute couture suit, a strand of luminous South Sea pearls at her neck, her gray-white hair styled in a classic chignon. Her face still bore traces of youthful beauty, her eyes intelligent and serene. This was **the Comtesse de Durand**, widowed, from an ancient French aristocratic family, a well-known patron of the arts and philanthropist. She had befriended Amelia's mother, Elizabeth Murray, in their youth in Paris, bonded by a shared love of art. They had maintained correspondence even after Elizabeth married the elder Winters. After Elizabeth's death and Amelia's departure, the Comtesse's contact with the Winters had dwindled. Her attendance today was largely to see her old friend's daughter with her own eyes.
Her gaze traveled across the room and settled on Amelia, standing quietly near a column. A complex emotion flickered in those experienced eyes—concern, scrutiny, and deep nostalgia. She did not approach immediately, merely observing from a distance like a cautious spectator.
Elsewhere, near the bar, the atmosphere was more charged.
Liam Carter stood in an impeccable black tuxedo, a glass of champagne in hand, but his expression was strained. His eyes kept straying uncontrollably toward Amelia's direction, each time snapping back quickly, his fingers tightening on the stem of his glass. Since the disastrous end of the charity gala, Chloe had returned home and a fierce argument had plunged their relationship into a deep freeze. Today, Chloe had not arrived with him but had come early with her parents. She now flitted like a social butterfly among a circle of young society women, her laughter bright, as if completely unaffected. Yet, the occasional icy glance she shot toward Liam spoke volumes.
Chloe was also exquisitely dressed in a vibrant yellow gown that highlighted her vivacity, but a persistent shadow in her eyes and moments of sharpness seemed at odds with the festive mood. She had, of course, noticed Amelia, her lips immediately tightening into a displeased line. Especially after observing Liam's distracted, furtive glances, a wave of fury surged within her. She almost couldn't restrain herself from marching over to do something, but held back due to the occasion and a warning look from her mother, channeling her anger into the nearly-crushed juice glass in her hand.
To an outsider, the party atmosphere was warm and harmonious. Fine wine, exquisite food, laughter, and clinking glasses. The Winters displayed their wealth, their (surface) family values, and their extensive social network.
Yet, beneath this glittering facade, countless gazes intersected, assessed, evaluated; old grudges, present calculations, and future schemes churned like undercurrents beneath the dazzling lights.
The Comtesse de Durand set down her teacup, seemingly having reached a decision. She rose gracefully and began making her way toward where Amelia stood.
Simultaneously, Margaret, all smiles, was guiding several important female guests, seemingly casually, toward the very center of the ballroom, the most crowded spot where Catherine was surrounded by a group of young people, her laughter tinkling like silver bells.
Amelia seemed to sense something. She lifted her eyes.
Her gaze met the approaching Comtesse calmly, then swept, seemingly by chance, over Margaret's crimson-clad figure in the distance, and further still, over Liam's flustered, evasive eyes and Chloe's smoldering glare.
The light from the crystal chandeliers caught in her serene eyes, reflecting a cold, hunter's glint.
The gala's symphony had reached its brilliant crescendo. But the true drama was perhaps only just beginning.