Catherine's piercing shriek was like an ice pick abruptly bursting the surface froth of the gala's glittering facade.
Time seemed cleaved by that scream. First, a dead silence, even the background string quartet faltering for a few notes. Then, all gazes—curious, shocked, gleeful—snapped like spotlights onto Catherine's trembling, upraised hand, where unnatural red welts were already rising on her fingertips, and onto the open, trap-like gift box before her.
"My hand… something in the box stabbed me! It hurts! Like thousands of needles!" Catherine's voice held genuine pain (the sting of fiberglass is indeed hard to bear) and exaggerated sobs. Tears streamed down her face, once lovely as a flower, now deathly pale. She leaned limply against Margaret, who had swiftly moved to support her, like a rose battered by a storm—a pitiful sight.
"Cathy! Good heavens!" Margaret slipped into her role instantly, the color draining from her face, her ever-gracious mask showing its first "genuine" alarm. She held her daughter tightly, her sharp gaze sweeping to the butler, Carlson. "Call the doctor! Immediately!"
No further instructions were needed. The "prepared" family doctor—a stern-looking middle-aged man with gold-rimmed glasses—emerged swiftly from the periphery, medical bag in hand. The guests instinctively parted, a tide of murmurs rising.
Under the watchful eyes of the crowd, the doctor carefully examined Catherine's reddened, painful fingers with tweezers and a magnifying glass. He even extracted from her skin a few almost imperceptible, **extremely fine, transparent fiber fragments** that caught the light. He placed them on a sterile gauze pad, his brow furrowed, his tone clear and grave as he announced:
"Fiberglass. Industrial grade. Very fine and sharp. Penetration causes acute pain, redness, allergic reactions. If it enters the eyes or respiratory tract, the consequences could be far more serious." He turned to the gift box and, with gloved hands, carefully parted the intact top layer of velvet to reveal the **specially lined padding** beneath, which looked normal but hid the danger. Under the light, the padding's surface showed an abnormal, faint crystalline shimmer. "The issue is with this padding. The top layer is ordinary velvet, but the underlying weave contains fiberglass fragments. Pressure or friction causes them to protrude."
A wave of shock rippled through the room.
*Concealing industrial material capable of causing injury inside a birthday gift?!*
This was no simple prank or lapse of taste. This was **premeditated harm**! And the method was so insidious, so concealed!
All eyes shifted instantly from the victim, Catherine, and the dreadful box, to shoot like icy arrows at the giver of the gift—Amelia Winters.
She remained where she stood, her deep blue gown like a pool of still, cold water. The initial "bewilderment" had faded from her face, leaving only a near-terrifying calm. She didn't even look at the sobbing, screaming Catherine or the box the doctor was treating as a biohazard. She merely lifted her gaze slightly, her eyes sweeping lightly over the faces filled with shock, disdain, or schadenfreude.
"Amelia…" Margaret, holding the weeping Catherine, turned to look at Amelia. Her pale blue eyes now brimmed with heart-wrenching disbelief, confusion, and a hint of tightly reined "anger." Her voice trembled, losing its usual composed gentleness for a note of maternal anguish and accusation pushed to the brink. "You… you tell me, what is the meaning of this? Why would you… put something like this in a gift for Catherine?" She paused, as if remembering something, her expression growing even more complex, her voice dropping with a tone of heartbroken "understanding" and "attempted exoneration." "Is it… because of Elizabeth? Do you still harbor resentment over what happened to your mother all those years ago? Resent this family? But Catherine is innocent! She's your own sister! If you have grievances, direct them at me. Why resort to this…"
She skillfully steered the "motive for harm" toward Amelia's alleged "bitterness" over her mother's death and "hatred" for the family, while painting herself as the tragic stepmother "willing to bear all blame." This speech simultaneously cemented Amelia's "malice," highlighted her own "victimhood" and "magnanimity," and violently plucked at the sensitive, guilt-ridden chord concerning Elizabeth's death in everyone present—especially the elder Winters.
Sure enough, the elder Winters in his wheelchair gave an almost imperceptible start at the name "Elizabeth." The slight gentleness and secret pride he'd felt moments before, born of Amelia's striking appearance and bearing, vanished like smoke in a gale. In its place came heavy disappointment, the anger of a touched nerve, and… the deep-seated guilt and helplessness over Elizabeth's early death, now sharply recalled. *Yes, this daughter carries Elizabeth's blood, but perhaps also… inherited the obsession and resentment from that misfortune?* To take out her grievances with fate on an innocent Catherine? Using such a vile method?
Only then did Amelia slowly turn her gaze to Margaret. The corner of her mouth lifted faintly, like a smile, yet not. "Margaret," she said, not even using the title "Mother." Her voice was clear and steady, like ice marbles dropping into a jade bowl in the silent hall. "This gift was purchased, packaged, and wrapped by me personally this morning at the **Vanstar Jewelers** counter on Madison Avenue. The receipt and credit card transaction records exist." She paused, her gaze shifting to the quarantined poison box. "Vanstar, as a century-old premier jewelry house, is renowned for its fine, safe velvet linings. Using industrial fiberglass as padding material? That is not Vanstar's craftsmanship, nor was it the packaging I received upon purchase."
Her rebuttal was logical and grounded, directly questioning the box's authenticity.
"Ha!" A shrill, derisive laugh cut through the air. Chloe Vanderbilt-Carter pushed forward a step from the crowd, her face alight with undisguised mockery and voyeuristic excitement. Her critical gaze swept over Amelia, her red lips curling. "Purchased at the counter? Transaction records? Miss Amelia, everyone knows you've just returned to New York, that your pockets are likely empty. Do you even know which way the door to Vanstar opens? We can all 'understand' the feeling—being jealous of little sister Catherine's grand birthday while you yourself lack any decent jewelry." She loaded the word "understand" with sarcasm. "But even if you're green with envy, resorting to such cheap, dangerous tricks is rather tasteless. It seems staying in those… provincial backwaters for too long leaves one with crude, unsophisticated methods of malice." Her words were venomous, disparaging Amelia's financial means and character while again emphasizing her "outsider" status and "inferior" nature.
This was like throwing a torch onto dry tinder already smoldering with suspicion and distaste. The looks directed at Amelia grew even darker.
The elder Winters' face hardened completely, his chest rising and falling with anger. His clouded eyes fixed on Amelia with a patriarch's unquestionable authority and offended fury, his voice rasping but forceful. "Amelia! What more do you have to say?! Apologize to your sister at once! Apologize for this malicious, idiotic act!"
An apology meant admission. If she bowed her head now, the charge of "premeditated concealment of harmful objects in a birthday gift, with intent to harm her own sister" would be branded onto her forever, a mark she could never erase. What Margaret wanted was never mere temporary humiliation, but to utterly destroy Amelia's last foothold in this circle, in this family, clearing every obstacle for her beloved Catherine, even… paving the way for a potential match between Catherine and Ryan.
Amelia's gaze swept slowly over the faces of her so-called "family."
The elder Winters' anger and distrust.
Margaret's icy calculation beneath her "heartbreak."
Catherine peeking from her mother's embrace, her eyes triumphant and venomous.
Matthew's frowning, detached indifference.
Isabella's glance of mild distaste.
Theodore… standing somewhat apart, hands in his pockets, face expressionless, but his grey-green eyes fixed intently on her, turbulent with complex emotion, yet silent.
*Not a single person stepped forward to say they believed her.*
A cold, yet oddly burning sensation spread from the deepest part of her being. Not grievance, not rage, but a near-absurd **sense of irony**. *This* was the "home" she had returned to as "Amelia." *These* were her "kin" by blood.
She smiled, a faint, barely-there curve of her lips. It held no warmth, only desolation.
"Why should I apologize?" she asked, her voice not loud but carrying a steely clarity and chill. "For this farcical play in which I had no part? For this clumsy frame-up?"
Margaret appeared shocked by her "stubborn refusal to repent" and "counter-accusation," shaking her head with what seemed profound sorrow, yet her tone was nauseatingly "lenient." "Amelia! Still obstinate at a time like this! Your father is angry, but you are his own flesh and blood! If you would only admit your mistake, sincerely apologize to Catherine… we could consider this a misunderstanding, let it pass, alright?" She advanced by retreating, presenting "apology" as the sole path to redemption, which was in fact a noose.
"I believe Amelia."
An aged, yet exceptionally steady, commanding female voice rang out clearly, like a rock dropped into boiling oil.
All heads turned. The Comtesse de Durand stepped forward from the crowd. She still wore her impeccably tailored Chanel suit, pearls gleaming softly at her neck, her grey-white chignon immaculate. Her face showed no agitation, only the calm authority of one who has seen much. She didn't even look at Margaret, turning her gaze instead to Amelia. It held the scrutiny of an elder, but more than that, **a trust based on knowledge of the mother**.
"Madame la Comtesse…" Margaret clearly hadn't expected this reclusive, distinguished guest to take a definitive stand now. The "heartbreak" on her face froze for an instant before shifting into a mix of "embarrassment" and "respect." "You… may not be fully aware. The evidence is quite clear…"
"Clear evidence?" The Comtesse raised a brow slightly, her tone even but carrying intangible pressure. "A questionable piece of padding and a few conjectures? The daughter of the Elizabeth Murray I knew would never use such base means to harm anyone. Her pride would not permit it." She invoked Amelia's mother directly, using her personal endorsement of Elizabeth's character to implicitly vouch for Amelia's.
Margaret's face tightened. The Comtesse's social standing and past friendship with Elizabeth made her impossible to dismiss or refute casually like Chloe. She forced her smile to remain, her tone soft yet pointed. "We understand your compassion for your old friend's daughter, Madame. However… given the present circumstances, a convincing explanation is needed. If Amelia claims the box she purchased is not this one… then where is the genuine gift and its box? Who can verify that?"
The pressure returned to Amelia. More direct proof was needed.
Amelia gave the Comtesse a look of silent, profound gratitude. Then, her gaze returned to the incriminating box. This time, she showed no fear or disgust. Instead, she took a step forward. The doctor moved instinctively to block her, but she waved a hand, indicating she would be careful.
She didn't touch the dangerous padding. Instead, her eyes, sharp as blades, meticulously examined **the deep blue box itself**—its material, color, folded edges, even **the way the silver ribbon was tied**.
Then, her gaze fell on the ruby hair set Catherine had thrown onto the table. Carefully using a handkerchief, she picked it up, holding it under the brilliant light of the chandelier, tilting it slightly to examine the gem's facets, the setting's craftsmanship, the details of the metal mount.
Seconds ticked by in the utterly silent hall. Everyone watched her movements, holding their breath, unsure of her intent.
After a moment, Amelia set down the hairpiece, wiping her hands with the handkerchief. She looked up, her gaze clear as she addressed the crowd, her voice unnervingly calm:
"This box is a replica. The color is half a shade lighter than Vanstar's true deep blue. The card stock's weight and texture show subtle differences. Most importantly," she pointed to the ribbon knot, "Vanstar's signature ribbon uses a specific 'rose knot.' This is a simple single-loop knot."
She paused, picking up the hair set again. "As for this jewelry… it's also counterfeit. The ruby color is too uniform, too flat, lacking the lively fire and subtle inclusions of a natural gemstone. The prongs on the diamond settings are slightly crude, with faint tool marks. And the vine motif of this Vanstar series has a tiny, hidden brand abbreviation at the leaf joints. This set… lacks it."
Her tone was as matter-of-fact as commenting on the weather, yet each word carried a **bone-deep certainty and expertise in authenticating luxury goods**. This wasn't the discernment of a nouveau riche or a pretender; it was the **taste and knowledge** cultivated through years of genuine immersion in privilege. In that moment, the serene, scholarly air about her suddenly revealed the **unshakeable confidence and radiance** that belonged to the "jewel of the Ellwood family."
Soft gasps rose from the guests. Some of the truly knowledgeable ladies and collectors nodded involuntarily, their regard for Amelia shifting.
The elder Winters was stunned. Watching Amelia methodically, coolly point out the flaws of the counterfeit, her demeanor… reminded him so much of Elizabeth long ago in a gallery, instantly spotting a forgery. Could it be… she was truly wronged? If the gift had been switched from the start… then the fiberglass padding…
A belated mix of chagrin and doubt slowly crept into his mind. Even favoring Catherine, he had no wish to see a Winters daughter branded with such a malicious charge at a major event—it shamed the entire family! Things had clearly taken a… peculiar turn.
In Margaret's and Catherine's eyes, a flash of barely concealed **panic** darted. They hadn't anticipated Amelia's eye being so sharp, able to identify the box and jewelry as fakes on the spot! This disrupted their plan to "insist the gift was the original item from Amelia."
Amelia ignored their shifting expressions. She frowned slightly, as if straining to recall. "Before coming to the ballroom today, I handed the wrapped gift to **the footman in charge of receiving and cataloging gifts in the side parlor**. He was in standard livery, average build, unfamiliar face. I don't recall his name." She looked at Carlson. "Mr. Carlson, who was assigned to gift reception today?"
Carlson bowed immediately. "Miss, that would be **Thomas**, a footman temporarily brought from the Long Island estate to assist." He gestured, and soon a young man in his early twenties, looking nervous, was brought forward.
Amelia looked at him. "I gave you a deep blue Vanstar box with a silver ribbon tied in a rose knot, correct?"
Thomas nodded nervously. "Y-yes, miss. I logged it and placed it in the area marked 'Gifts from Winters Family Members.'"
"And after that? Who had access to that area?"
Thomas thought. "After that… Mrs. Helen came over. She said she needed to verify the gift list, in case of omissions. She… she spent some time in that area."
**Helen.** Margaret's personal maid, her most trusted confidante.
All clues seemed to point tentatively in one direction.
The elder Winters' face grew even grimmer. He looked at Margaret, his eyes filled with shock and suspicion. Margaret, fighting to maintain composure, spoke quickly. "Helen is always meticulous. Verifying the list is part of her duties. Amelia, what are you implying? That Helen switched your gift? What possible reason would she have?"
Amelia didn't answer her, didn't even look at her. She merely stood quietly, her deep blue gown like a silent, deep sea. Her chin was slightly lifted, her calm gaze sweeping over the crowd with its varied expressions—the elder Winters' regret and doubt, Margaret's forced calm and underlying chill, Catherine's thwarted disappointment and resentment, the guests' renewed interest and speculation…
She seemed to take it all in, yet as if none of it truly touched her.
The corner of her mouth even curved upward the faintest, most imperceptible degree.
It wasn't a smile of victory, nor of mockery.
It was more like… a **curious, detached smile, as if watching a play that involved her, yet didn't**.
She had guessed Margaret and Catherine's game the moment Catherine screamed. Proving her innocence? That was merely step one.
What she aimed for was never just to cleanse herself in this mire.
She wanted to stir the muddy waters until they churned. To make certain people jump in of their own accord.
The play was only at its intermission.
She raised a hand lightly, brushing at non-existent dust on her sleeve, the movement elegant and composed.
"Mr. Carlson," she said, her voice not loud but clear in the silent hall. "Call the police. An incident of malicious framing and attempted harm against a family member within the Winters residence exceeds the scope of a family dispute. We require a professional investigation to determine the origin of this counterfeit box, the fake jewelry, and this dangerous fiberglass padding—and who handled them."
She paused, her gaze finally settling on Margaret's face, which had suddenly turned ashen. She smiled. That smile, under the dazzling lights, held a breathtaking, icy beauty.
"After all, until the truth emerges, every person here—myself included—remains under suspicion, doesn't she?"