Helena Fairchild took a step forward, reaching out as if to grasp Selene's hand.
"Sweetheart, I'm Helena. Your mom, Mariah, was my dearest friend. Seeing you now… it's like I'm seeing her all over again. I can't tell you how happy that makes me."
Selene shifted smoothly, sidestepping the contact with the calm, measured precision of someone who'd faced far deadlier games. Her face remained impassive, eyes glinting with a faint, mocking amusement as she observed Helena's performance.
Helena's hand froze mid-air, her sorrowful expression faltering for the briefest of beats. Sharpness flickered in her eyes.
This little brat—she actually dared to brush her off?
Almost instantly, Helena restored her carefully rehearsed smile, retracting her hand and dabbing at invisible tears with her silk scarf. "You must be tired from the trip. Right, Lila? I asked her to bring you the Valentino couture gown I picked out. Didn't she give it to you? Why aren't you wearing it?"
Her words sounded considerate, but every syllable dripped venom.
As expected, Julian Voss's brows furrowed slightly, his eyes flicking to Selene with an unease he barely concealed. Helena's "kindness" made Selene seem inconsiderate in comparison, subtly twisting Julian's guilt into irritation. Family image mattered to him more than his own conscience.
Selene noted every flicker of his expression. A hint of a smile curved her lips.
"I'm not comfortable with strangers in my space," she said mildly. "So I sent Lila back. As for the dress, I prefer wearing something that feels like me. Clothes should fit the person, not the other way around."
A direct jab at Helena—the message unmistakable: lavish clothes do not mask emptiness.
Helena's smile collapsed completely, color draining from her face.
She despised comparisons to Mariah. Worse, anyone hinting that she was shallow struck at her very core. And now, this girl was openly doing just that.
"Selene, that's no way to speak," Helena said, her tone dropping slightly. "I understand you grew up away from the family, without proper guidance. But now that you're back, you must observe the Voss way. You can't just do as you please. We have guests tonight—what kind of impression are you making? It puts your father in a difficult position."
Blame, framed delicately, striking Julian's obsession with appearances directly.
Sure enough, his face darkened. His voice carried pressure as he turned toward Selene. "Selene, Helena meant well. Tonight's event is important—you—"
"Rules?" Selene cut him off gently, her eyes blazing with cold clarity, eerily reminiscent of Mariah. "What rules? Playing dress-up in ill-fitting clothes? Smiling politely at people pretending to care?"
Her gaze fixed on Helena. "Ms. Fairchild, my mother passed away a long time ago. I never got to know much about her friends. Could you perhaps tell me exactly when and where the two of you became so close? Share a few meaningful stories?"
Helena faltered, blindsided. The carefully thrown line, meant to charm and disarm, had backfired spectacularly. Her face cycled through shades of pale and flushed.
Selene didn't offer her an escape. "If not, it's probably best not to speak on the dead's behalf. Clinging to someone's memory just to earn pity points… that's a bit much."
"You—!" Helena's fury boiled, her whole body trembling. Her usual gentle mask almost slipped.
All her life, she had lived in Mariah Caldwell's shadow. That woman's photo had a place of honor in her husband's study. Even in sleep, Julian whispered her name. And now, Mariah's daughter had returned—sharper, colder, and far more untouchable than anyone had expected.
Swallowing her bitterness, Helena forced her practiced, concerned smile and turned to Julian. "Honey, I'm not trying to make things difficult for Selene. She's just… nothing like Vivian or Marcus. I worry—this is a big event. She might not be prepared for proper etiquette…"
Julian understood. Selene had grown up far from society's polished rules. If she stumbled tonight, the entire plan to forge alliances could unravel.
Seeing Julian waver, Helena pushed harder. "Julian, even Master Arden will be arriving from Arden City. If something awkward happens and he changes his mind… all of Vivian's work to attract his attention would go to waste."
Mentioning Arden caused Julian to reconsider. He squeezed Helena's hand slightly. "What do you suggest? It's last-minute. Even if Selene begins learning etiquette now, she might not have enough time."
"Actually…" Helena paused, feigning thoughtfulness, "I might have an idea. If she's willing…"
Julian leaned in eagerly. "Go on. Don't leave me hanging."
"Do you remember one of my relatives from the Fairchild side? She's an etiquette professor at University A—amazing reputation. She's trained countless high-society girls like Vivian. Everyone praises her. If Selene's willing, I can arrange a meeting. She'll agree—surely for my sake."
Julian, pragmatic and goal-oriented, nodded. "Alright. Take her to rest first. We'll hold the banquet until she's more familiar with the household."
Helena's inner smirk betrayed her satisfaction. Victory. Control. Selene, under her hand, would be moulded into putty.
"Okay, Selene," she said sweetly. "Come with me. I'll show you to your room."
But the second she turned, her expression hardened. Cold calculation replaced softness, eyes glinting with venom.
Just wait, Selene.
You'll humiliate yourself in front of everyone who matters.
And just like your mother… you'll disappear from this world.
Across the room, Selene cast Julian a single glance. Stone-cold. Expressionless.
So this was the man who was supposed to be her father. Weak. Ineffectual. Good. That would only make things easier.
The grand family celebration would go on, but the spoiled country girl—Selene—wouldn't perform as expected.
By evening, Vivian and Marcus finally made their appearance, returning from a round of golf at the Magnolia Links with Asher. Naturally, they intended to throw subtle shade at Selene.
The moment she descended the stairs, her long, straight legs commanding attention, the siblings collided with her at the landing.
Funny enough, neither shared much resemblance with Julian. Selene, like Mariah Caldwell, radiated untouchable elegance. Vivian and Marcus, however, reflected Helena: sharp brows, calculating eyes, flawless pretense.
Marcus, Helena's little prince, had always been groomed for advantage. Vivian had followed suit, meticulously rehearsing her charm and cunning.
Yet they underestimated one thing: Selene had faced far deadlier forces than spoiled siblings. The Mafia, international threats—she had never flinched.
Vivian leaned closer, voice low, just loud enough for Selene to hear. "Your mom's gone. So why are you here? Really think there's a place for you in this house?"
Classic manipulation—try to provoke, make her snap, reveal herself as unrefined.
Only problem? She had picked the wrong opponent.
Selene didn't even flinch. Calm, composed, untouchable—she had already won this battle before it had even begun.