The brilliant light of the hall seemed to gain weight, settling heavily over every corner. The invisible web woven by countless gazes tightened imperceptibly the moment Amelia stepped into the central space of the main room.
Yet, at the very center of this web, Amelia's steps remained unhurried, showing not a trace of hesitation or fluster. The hem of her deep blue gown whispered softly against the mirror-polished marble floor with her movement, like a midnight tide gently washing over sand. Her face held a nearly detached calm, as if all the prying, admiration, scrutiny, and even malice around her were separated by an invisible pane of glass.
She walked directly toward the core family group under the spotlight—the elder Mr. Winters in his wheelchair, eyes clouded yet straining to focus; Margaret with her perfect smile that didn't reach her suddenly chilled eyes; and Catherine, standing between her parents, her smile visibly stiffening, eyes nearly spitting fire.
A few steps away from them, she stopped. First, she turned to the birthday girl, the corners of her lips lifting slightly. Her calm eyes reflected the fragmented light of the chandeliers, her voice clear and gentle:
"Happy birthday, sister."
The blessing held no hint of reluctance, yet no excessive warmth either—like a glass of water at the perfect temperature, impeccably polite and faultless.
Then, she turned to Margaret and the elder Winters. A precisely measured hint of remorse appeared on her face at just the right moment, her voice softening, carrying a touch of unease born of her "lateness":
"Father, Mother, I'm so sorry I'm late. I... I wasn't aware the formal ceremony was being held in this main ballroom. I had intended to find a servant to show me the way, but the house is so terribly busy today—I couldn't find a soul upstairs or down. It took me quite a while to find my own way here, I'm afraid." She lowered her eyes slightly, long lashes casting a small shadow. "I do hope you and Father, and Catherine, aren't upset with me."
Her tone was sincere, her posture humble, perfectly portraying the image of a "returned daughter" new to the house, unfamiliar with its layout, and left floundering on a chaotic day with no one to guide her.
However, to the sharp ears and active minds of the surrounding guests, these words were like stones dropped into a still pond, stirring ripples of undercurrents.
*How could the esteemed Winters residence, hosting such an important birthday gala, be so short-staffed that the young lady of the house couldn't find a single servant to guide her?*
*This Miss Amelia has been back for some time now. Is it possible she truly doesn't know where the main ballroom is?*
*Was she genuinely not informed, or... was someone deliberately keeping her in the dark, perhaps even intending for her to get "lost," to be late, to make a small but public spectacle of herself?*
These thoughts flashed through the minds of several guests. Those invited here were no fools; they instantly grasped the subtle implications. Coupled with the whispers earlier in the sitting area about this young lady being "difficult" and "calculating," it now seemed more like deliberate舆论铺垫 (pre-cast rumors). The glances directed at Margaret lost some of their pure sympathy, gaining a more speculative edge.
Several older ladies studied Amelia closely. This girl before them stood tall and poised, her demeanor serene, her appearance striking yet devoid of any coquettishness, her speech modest and proper. Where was even a trace of the "crude," "spiteful" figure from the rumors? Especially the natural regret in her voice when mentioning "Father and Mother," and her sincere-sounding birthday wishes for her sister, clashed starkly with the sensational "matricide" accusation.
*A girl like this... could she have worried her own mother to death?*
Once planted, the seed of doubt took quiet root. The earlier, carefully guided impressions began to show fine cracks.
Margaret's expression had shifted almost imperceptibly the moment Amelia appeared. She saw it clearly: when that figure in deep blue entered the guests' line of sight, the entire hall had momentarily stilled. That was awe, surprise, proof of attention being forcibly captured. This was the last thing she wanted! Her meticulously cultivated, radiant Catherine was to be today's sole star! The very last thing she desired was for Amelia to steal even a sliver of her daughter's limelight in any way!
Now, hearing Amelia's apology that seemed contrite but was laced with implication, alarms blared in Margaret's mind. Her reaction, however, was swift. She immediately stepped forward half a pace, her gracious smile unchanged, even growing gentler. She reached out, lightly taking Amelia's cool hand, her tone brimming with maternal affection and tolerance:
"Silly child, what nonsense. Of course we wouldn't blame you?" She gave Amelia a chiding look, then turned to explain softly to the elder Winters. "William, you heard her. The child simply lost her way; it wasn't intentional. The house is rather chaotic today. I should have considered sending someone to fetch her earlier." She took on a share of the responsibility, striking the perfect posture—maintaining family dignity ("not intentionally late") while displaying her own "oversight" and "magnanimity" as hostess.
The elder Winters, seated in his wheelchair, slowly shifted his gaze from Catherine to Amelia's face. His clouded eyes strained to see this daughter he hadn't laid eyes on for years. Deep down, he naturally favored Catherine, the lively, charming girl who had grown up by his side, the brightest color in his twilight years. But this Amelia before him…
*So alike.*
The eyes, the shape of her face, especially that serene yet detached air—it was almost identical to her mother Elizabeth in her youth. The floodgates of memory were forced open a crack; past events surged up with old dust. Back then, he and Elizabeth had indeed been engaged. She was a woman he had genuinely loved in his youth—beautiful, talented, like a cool, elegant poem. But family pressure, calculations of interest… In the end, he married Margaret, whose background was a better match and more advantageous for his career. Elizabeth became the unseen mistress, bore Amelia, and eventually faded away in depression and illness. It was his lifelong regret, a hidden pain he avoided.
Now, seeing Amelia standing graceful and composed before him, her appearance and bearing outstanding, holding her own without a hint of stage fright before this full hall of guests, even subtly overshadowing Catherine (though he was loath to admit it), a complex, indescribable emotion welled within him. There was a hazy recollection of old feelings, a strangeness toward this daughter, but more than anything, there was a… **secret pride**. *Look, this is Winters blood. Even raised elsewhere, she still shines, not losing out to any carefully nurtured society belle.* This "excellence," at such a crucial social event, undoubtedly reflected well on him, on the Winters name.
Thus, his slight annoyance at Amelia's "lateness" largely evaporated. A vague grumble came from his throat. He raised a hand with effort, a sort of acknowledgment, his gaze toward Amelia now holding an indescribable gentleness.
Catherine saw it all.
That momentary daze in her father's eyes, followed by that "gentleness," felt like a red-hot needle driven straight into her heart! That was the affection she had enjoyed exclusively for over twenty years! What right did Amelia have?! Just because of that face resembling her dead mother's?
Rage churned in her chest, threatening to burst through the carefully maintained sweet facade. She stared fixedly at Amelia, searching for any trace of what she expected to see—**envy**. Envy for her grand birthday gala, envy for being coddled by their parents, envy for everything she possessed! *That* was what Catherine Winters should see! That was the reaction the "outside" bastard should have!
Yet, there was none.
Amelia simply stood there quietly, a slight, seemingly genuine smile for her sister's happiness playing on her lips. Her gaze swept over the hall's lavish decorations, the mountain of expensive gifts, the envious looks directed at Catherine—all with undisturbed calm, as if viewing a rather nice painting unrelated to herself. No grievance, no envy, certainly no jealousy.
The surrounding guests were also covertly observing Amelia's expression. How would this young lady, rumored to have returned with "sinister intentions," react to such a stark contrast in treatment (herself ignored, her sister the center of attention)? A strained smile? Poorly concealed disappointment?
Yet she simply watched, so calm, so… indifferent. As if all this glittering commotion were merely a play she had stumbled into.
Catherine, while maintaining her stiffly sweet smile and following the protocol to thank her parents and guests, kept her peripheral vision locked on Amelia like a poisoned hook. The calmer and more composed Amelia appeared, the more certain Catherine became—
*She's faking it! All of it! That hypocritical bitch! She must be seething with jealousy inside!*
A wave of fury surged to her head, nearly making Catherine lose control. She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms, leaving crescent-shaped red marks.
Just then, a gaze that seemed gentle but held a severe warning came from Margaret. Catherine stiffened. Meeting her mother's still-smiling but now ice-cold blue eyes was like having a bucket of icy water dumped over her.
She realized with a jolt how close she'd come to losing her composure. She took a deep breath, barely calming her racing heart and churning emotions. *No. Not here. Not in front of all these people. Mother said the real show is yet to come…*
Thinking of the "surprise" awaiting Amelia, of the scene Mother had arranged to utterly ruin the bitch, Catherine's earlier resentment and frustration transformed strangely into a kind of eager **excitement**. She could hardly wait for that moment!
The proceedings continued. The elder Winters said a few brief words, his voice weak but his affection for Catherine evident. Margaret then gracefully thanked all the guests, displaying perfect hostess etiquette. Next came another highly anticipated segment of the birthday gala—**unwrapping the gifts**.
The long table was already piled high with exquisitely wrapped boxes of all sizes, each representing the giver's status, sentiment, and wealth. Servants began methodically presenting the gifts to Catherine one by one. The guests, temporarily distracted from the earlier微妙气氛 (subtle tension), watched with keen interest.
In high society, gifts were never just gifts; they were displays of power, taste, and connections. Precious jewels, limited-edition luxury handbags, rare antique art pieces, even deeds to properties in scenic locations… It was a dazzling, staggering array. Each unwrapping elicited soft gasps or knowing murmurs of approval. Catherine's face regained its glow as she reveled in the attention and the pleasure of being surrounded by lavish presents, momentarily pushing aside her irritation with Amelia.
Finally, a servant picked up a deep blue box tied with a silver ribbon. It was medium-sized, its packaging not the most extravagant but certainly精致 (refined). A simple card was attached.
Catherine's eyes fell on the box. The corners of her mouth immediately curved into an abnormally bright, almost exaggerated smile of delight. She took the box, her voice rising with deliberate excitement and intimacy as she turned to Amelia:
"Sister! Is this from you? May I open it now?"
She blinked her large blue eyes, her face a picture of "eagerness" and "being overwhelmed by the honor," as if reveling in profound sisterly affection and anticipation.
Meeting her "eager" gaze, Amelia smiled slightly and nodded, her voice still even. "Of course, Catherine. I hope you like it."
With permission granted, Catherine's smile grew even more brilliant, though her movements became oddly "clumsy" yet "full of joy." She almost fumbled as she tugged off the silver ribbon and lifted the deep blue lid—
Inside, on black velvet lining, lay the "Vanstar" ruby and diamond hair set. The forehead comb and side clips were neatly arranged. The rubies refracted a brilliant, though not ostentatious, fire under the lights; the diamond-outlined vines and leaves were exquisitely delicate. The set was in perfect condition, the craftsmanship superior. While not a priceless heirloom, it was undoubtedly a proper, valuable, and thematically appropriate gift, especially matching Catherine's ruby theme today, showing the giver's thoughtfulness.
However, the instant Catherine's fingers touched the hairpiece—
The brilliant smile on Catherine's face froze, as if a fine mask had suddenly shattered. She recoiled as if bitten by something horrifying or filthy, the box nearly slipping from her grasp. Her eyes widened, her mouth fell open, and a short, sharp gasp of what seemed like extreme shock escaped her throat. Then, a piercing shriek, raised to an ear-splitting pitch, filled the abruptly silent ballroom—
"Ah—!!!"
She flung the opened box onto the nearby gift table as if shaking off a hot coal, the impact producing a clear, though not loud, *clatter*. Her face turned ashen, "terrified" tears rapidly welling in her blue eyes. Her body even trembled slightly, like a leaf in the wind.
In that instant, the entire ballroom fell deathly silent.
All gazes, all attention, shifted abruptly from Catherine to the deep blue box lying open on the table, its exquisite contents exposed—and to the figure still standing quietly beside it, Amelia Winters, whose calm expression had finally been replaced by a precisely measured look of "bewilderment" and "confusion."
The hem of the deep blue gown seemed to stop moving in the dead air.