The small sitting area in the wing of the ballroom, with its partially opened French doors and relatively sparse crowd, became a brief refuge from the clamor. Sunlight filtered through sheer curtains into a soft gold, gently touching antique velvet sofas and gilded side tables. Here gathered ladies of Margaret's generation, of comparable social standing and close acquaintance, forming their own small circle. Amidst their low chatter and laughter, their eyes constantly swept the grand hall, missing no detail worth noting.
"Margaret, I heard that your… young lady raised out West has also returned this time?" The speaker was **Mrs. Hamilton**, wife of a banker, known for her opulent attire and sharp tongue. Holding a delicate bone china cup, the large emerald ring on her well-cared-for finger gleaming, she asked as if casually, though her eyes held unveiled curiosity and scrutiny. "I wonder if she'll make an appearance on this auspicious day?"
The question was clever, highlighting Amelia's "out-West" upbringing while subtly questioning her sense of propriety and suitability for such an important occasion. The surrounding ladies' conversations hushed slightly, their gazes settling on Margaret.
Margaret, in deep crimson velvet that made her skin appear flawless, maintained an elegant composure. At the words, a perfectly measured, gracious smile touched her lips—not overly warm, nor too cool. "Of course she will be here, Mrs. Hamilton. Amelia is my daughter, Catherine's sister. How could she miss such a significant family event?" Her tone brimmed with inclusive maternal love. But then, the smile took on an almost imperceptible hint of indulgent exasperation, her voice softening as if sharing a minor, harmless vexation. "It's just that the child, having traveled all the way from Illinois, must not have fully recovered from the journey. This morning… she seemed to rise a little late. She's likely still dressing upstairs now, perhaps will be a bit tardy. Young people always cherish their sleep."
Her words were impeccably polished, all surface understanding, yet terms like "rose late," "cherish sleep," "tardy" subtly sketched an image of **laxness, disregard for rules, requiring reminders and tolerance** within this society that prized etiquette and punctuality. More importantly, spoken from a "mother's" perspective, it added a layer of "helpless authenticity."
Indeed, upon hearing this, the surrounding ladies exchanged glances, their looks toward Margaret instantly tinged with **sympathy** and **understanding**. Married into wealth yet facing a stepdaughter from "outside," potentially lacking in refinement—they seemed to instantly "empathize" with the difficulty.
"Ah, Margaret, you truly have your hands full," sighed **Mrs. Willoughby**, a tall, slender woman married to a senior senator, setting down her teacup with her habitual air of moral judgment. "This Miss Amelia, absent for so many years, one wonders how much of New York's etiquette she still recalls? I vaguely remember her being somewhat… withdrawn as a child? Even then, quite young, she was said to be difficult to manage. Now, after all these years, raised in such… simple surroundings…" She left the sentence hanging, shaking her head meaningfully. The implication was clear—wildness hard to tame, likely even more difficult to integrate, perhaps even a source of trouble.
Margaret offered a perfectly timed, exceedingly soft sigh, light as a falling feather yet perfectly validating Mrs. Willoughby's "concern." She lowered her eyes slightly, thick lashes casting a small shadow, her flawless profile showing a trace of restrained strength. "Children always have their own minds. As long as she's safely returned, willing to come home, William and I… are simply relieved." She drew her "husband" into this "relief," further highlighting her own stepmotherly "challenges" and "sacrifices."
Catherine, seated beside her mother, had been playing the role of the sweet younger daughter. Now, her eyes bright, she interjected at just the right moment, her voice clear and innocent, as if simply speaking her mind. "Actually… Mother has always thought of sister. A few years ago, she even had me write to sister often, inviting her to visit. But sister rarely… replied." She furrowed her delicate brows slightly, looking puzzled and a touch hurt. "Not until last month, when Papa suddenly fell gravely ill. Somehow, Uncle Howard called her… and then she returned." She stopped abruptly, leaving infinite room for imagination.
*Invitations ignored for years, returning promptly when her father fell gravely ill, as inheritance matters loomed.*
The implication was as precise and venomous as a serpent's strike. Which of these society matrons wasn't shrewd? They instantly grasped the "deeper meaning." Glances exchanged, a shared judgment silently formed.
Indeed, **Mrs. Stone**—wife of a publishing magnate, known for her love of gossip and blunt speech—fanned herself slightly, lowering her voice just enough for those nearby to hear. "I'd say this Miss Amelia is rather… resourceful." She imbued "resourceful" with layers of meaning, hinting at calculation, scheming, and considerable "effort" expended for her return and potential aims—no simple character.
Murmurs of agreement rose softly. In this circle, Margaret had cultivated a flawless image over the years, her social web intricate. Those present owed her favors or shared interests. Naturally, they followed her lead, pinning the absent, already "ill-reputed" illegitimate daughter to the pillar of shame—"lacking manners," "difficult," "sinister intentions." Rumors, like invisible mycelium, began to quietly sprout and spread in this warm, opulent little corner.
From a nearby armchair, the Comtesse de Durand heard it all. Her hand holding the teacup was steady as rock, but her storm-grey eyes, seasoned by life, now held cold fury and deep contempt. She recognized the speaking ladies, knew their ties to Margaret, and was all too familiar with this game of seemingly casual chat that was actually character assassination—common and effective in so-called "high society." She wished to speak in defense of her old friend's daughter, to correct the blatant misdirection. Yet, surveying the group of avid, consensus-formed women, she knew any words now would fall on deaf ears, might even alert the prey and draw more concentrated malice and scrutiny onto Amelia. She could only suppress her indignation, a faint, deeply scornful and disdainful smile touching her lips, revolted by this performance of pretense and schadenfreude.
Just as these undercurrents swirled, a male servant in crisp livery, grey-haired but erect—**Robert, the elder Mr. Winters' personal valet**—walked steadily through the crowd to Margaret. He gave a slight bow, his voice clear but unobtrusive. "Madam, the Master is ready. He is being escorted by the nurse to the main hall now. His spirits appear quite good."
The smile on Margaret's face instantly brightened, becoming more genuine. She rose gracefully, apologizing to the surrounding ladies. "Please excuse me. William is coming. I must greet him." She naturally took Catherine's hand. "Cathy, come. Papa is here. Today, you are the star."
Mother and daughter departed together, leaving behind a trail of soft praise—"Such a devoted couple," "Margaret takes such good care of William," "Catherine is such a dutiful and lovely girl"…
With the elder Winters' imminent arrival, the gala officially entered its climax.
***
In the main ballroom, the crystal chandeliers blazed with intensified brilliance. The guests naturally quieted somewhat, their gazes converging on the entrance.
First appeared the nurse pushing the wheelchair. Then, the elder Mr. Winters, seated in the wheelchair, slowly came into view. He looked even more gaunt than during his lucid moments, his face still pale, dressed in expensive dark silk pajamas under a velvet robe, his white hair neatly combed. But his eyes, once sharp as a hawk's, though now somewhat clouded, were wide open, trying to take in the splendor before him. His arrival lent the hall an air of formal gravity.
Margaret immediately went forward, bending to whisper something gently in his ear, then carefully adjusting the light blanket over his knees. The elder Winters gave a slight nod, his gaze slowly sweeping the crowd.
Then, tonight's undisputed star—Catherine Winters—at her mother's gentle prompting and under her father's expectant gaze, moved like a meticulously adorned songbird toward the specially illuminated space at the center of the hall.
She was undeniably stunning. Her pale pink gown seemed woven from moonlight and rosy clouds, layers of tulle and intricate crystal embroidery making her look like a princess from a fairy tale. The ruby set around her neck blazed, echoing the crystal sparkles on her skirt. Her golden hair was elaborately braided into a fashionable, intricate updo, the main comb of the "Vanstar" ruby hair set tucked at her temple, the small rubies winking like stars caught in golden waves. Twenty-two, at the peak of youthful bloom, her skin flawless, her eyes blue as a clear sky, her face radiant with the unapologetic joy and pride of one abundantly cherished. She held her chin slightly high, basking in the admiring, envious, complimentary gazes from all sides.
What the elder Winters and Margaret had instilled in her since childhood was not just material luxury, but that deeply ingrained **sense of refinement** belonging to a true heiress—an innate perception of beauty, rigorous training in poise, an instinctive grasp of how to showcase her advantages. Standing there under the lights, she was like a flawless work of art—vivid, luminous, brimming with vibrant appeal, instantly standing out as **exceptionally brilliant** amidst the room full of bejeweled guests.
Beauty is often comparative.
Not far away, also exquisitely dressed, Chloe Vanderbilt-Carter in her bright yellow gown was certainly eye-catching, her jewelry dazzling enough. But she carried an air of **willful petulance**, and currently, a hint of **agitation and sharpness** born of her foul mood marred her naturally pretty features. Compared to Catherine's natural, love-nurtured **radiance and confidence**, she immediately seemed somewhat **forced and insubstantial**, like a vividly colored silk flower lacking a soul, paling in comparison.
Feeling the focus of attention and the almost palpable praise, Catherine's heart swelled with supreme pleasure, as if drinking the sweetest wine. Her red lips curved into a perfect, practiced, brilliant smile, her blue eyes crinkling into crescents. She was just about to address her parents and the guests with thanks—
Yet, at that precise moment, she keenly sensed it: those gazes, firmly fixed on her with admiration and wonder, **shifted almost imperceptibly**. Some guests' eyes, as if drawn by an invisible magnet, **drifted subtly, past her**, toward a direction behind her.
There, at the arched doorway connecting the main hall to another corridor.
The perfect smile on Catherine's lips froze for an instant. Almost instinctively, with a trace of imperceptible panic, she followed those drifting gazes with a sidelong glance.
And then, she saw.
Amelia was walking slowly from the slightly dimmer corridor.
She wasn't standing under a spotlight like Catherine, nor did she strike any deliberate, attention-seeking pose. She simply walked forward calmly, as if entering an ordinary room.
Yet, the moment she stepped into the brilliant light of the main hall, it was as if an intangible aura unfurled with her.
The dress she wore was still that deep blue evening gown, simple in cut, even somewhat conservative. But now, the serene blue seemed like the deep sea under night sky, profound and encompassing, perfectly highlighting her **slender, elegant neck** and **delicate collarbones**. She wore no eye-catching jewelry, only the faint gleam of pearl studs at her ears and an exquisitely antique silver hairpin in her hair, its head a small, polished moonstone shimmering with a soft, hazy glow.
Her long hair wasn't elaborately braided like Catherine's; it was loosely gathered at her nape, a few dark strands naturally falling, brushing her pale cheeks. Her makeup remained light, brows naturally dark, lips naturally tinted, but her skin under the lights showed a **luminous, fine porcelain white**, flawless. Most arresting were her eyes, calm as deep wells yet clear to their depths, now meeting the many gazes directed at her without timidity, without ingratiation, only a **detached composure and serenity**.
Her beauty was utterly different from Catherine's vibrant, attention-demanding kind. It was a **quiet, reserved** beauty, one that **withstood closer inspection and lingered in memory**, a unique quality born of an innate **elegance interwoven with a scholarly air**. She didn't speak, merely stood there quietly, yet seemed to carry her own sphere of tranquility, gently pushing back the surrounding glitter and noise.
Her posture while walking was also exquisite—spine straight, steps light yet assured, her skirt swaying with minute ripples. The high side slit occasionally revealed a glimpse of a beautifully shaped calf, an ephemeral,subtle yet striking flash.
Time seemed to stretch.
Many guests, especially the older gentlemen weary of flamboyant beauty and the critically discerning ladies, found their eyes irresistibly drawn. Catherine's beauty was the dazzling sun, hard to look at directly and tiring; Amelia was like the moon quietly rising, its serene light offering a sudden moment of peace amidst the clamor, a pleasant surprise for the aesthetic senses.
Even the elder Winters, initially focused on his daughter, seemed to clear for a moment, his clouded gaze settling distantly on the figure in deep blue, his lips moving almost imperceptibly.
The Comtesse de Durand, watching from afar, finally allowed her tense lips to relax, a flash of **unconcealed admiration and pride** in her eyes. *This* was more like Elizabeth's daughter.
The perfect smile on Margaret's face stiffened almost imperceptibly for a fraction of a second before quickly melting back into place. But the fingers resting on her husband's wheelchair tightened slightly.
Catherine remained standing, her smile still clinging to her face but its curve growing strained. She could feel it—the exclusive glory and focus she had commanded mere moments ago was being silently, irrevocably **shared**, even… **surpassed**, by that quietly appearing figure in deep blue.
A chill of mingled jealousy, fury, and resentment shot up her spine from her feet.
And Amelia seemed utterly unaware of it all. Her gaze swept calmly across the room. First, she met the elder Winters' distant gaze, giving a slight nod. Then, her eyes drifted almost incidentally over Catherine's rigid expression, over Margaret's inscrutable smile, over Liam's complex look and Chloe's livid face in the distance, before finally, seemingly by chance, briefly meeting the eyes of Ryan Donovan, who stood in the shadows of the second-floor gallery overlooking the scene below, a glass in hand.
Ryan's face showed no expression, but those unfathomably dark eyes **narrowed almost imperceptibly** the moment he saw her appear, like a hawk locking onto its quarry.
Then, slowly, he drained his glass.
Amelia withdrew her gaze, her steps never faltering, walking composedly toward her family—and toward the very heart of the gala's vortex.
The hem of the deep blue gown swept over the polished marble floor, soundlessly.
Yet it had already stirred unseen ripples in this opulent hall—ripples potent enough to overturn many expectations.