At half past five in the morning, New York's light had not yet fully broken free from the grip of night, only a cold, fish-belly white tinged the eastern skyline. 840 Fifth Avenue lay submerged in a silent, luxurious stillness, like a slumbering beast.
Amelia—no, in these private moments of dawn, she allowed herself to be Vivian—opened her eyes.
She hadn't slept. Perhaps she'd lost consciousness for a short while around three a.m., but it was not sleep. Liam's shocked face, Chloe's arm linked through his, the cold light glinting off the silverware on the dining table… These images were like shards of broken glass, cutting into her nerves each time she closed her eyes. With every breath, she smelled the room's lingering scent—a blend of antique furniture, expensive diffusers, and emptiness.
She sat up. The silk sheets slid away, and cool air immediately crept up her arms. The room was too large, so large it felt unsafe. Last night, she'd tried to lock the door, only to find the heavy mahogany door had no interior lock—here, privacy was a privilege one requested, not a right.
Bare feet on the Persian rug, the soft wool against her soles was the only truly warm sensation in the room. She walked to the window and drew back the heavy velvet curtains. The rear garden revealed itself in the grey-blue dawn light: geometrically precise lawns, immaculately trimmed boxwood hedges, silent white marble statues. No weeds, no fallen leaves, even the fountain was still. Everything was perfectly, lifelessly perfect.
Just like this mansion. Just like this family.
She needed coffee. Food. To feel her icy fingers again. And, most of all, a plan.
Last night's breakdown was real, but also a luxury. She couldn't afford it daily. Amelia hadn't entrusted her with the rest of her life so she could be crushed by memories and fear in a Winters guest room.
The woman in the bathroom mirror was pale, with faint shadows under her eyes. But those eyes—after a night of tears and struggle—were clearer, harder. She turned on the tap, splashing her face with cold water again and again until her skin stung and flushed with color. Then she began combing her hair, carefully, meticulously, smoothing out every tangle that symbolized vulnerability and chaos.
A row of newly delivered clothes hung in the walk-in closet. Howard's efficiency was staggering, or perhaps the Winters machine simply operated with flawless precision. She flipped through the tags: Loro Piana, Brunello Cucinelli, The Row. All top-tier, but the styles were uniformly understated, neutral, fitting the image of a long-lost, 'simply-tasted' illegitimate daughter. Another layer of carefully designed disguise; even her wardrobe had to match their pre-set persona.
She chose a simple cream cashmere sweater and charcoal grey wool trousers. No logos, the fabric impossibly soft, the price likely her entire previous year's living expenses. Putting them on, the feeling of being wrapped in expensive material wasn't comfortable; it felt like another invisible constraint.
At a quarter past six, she quietly pushed open her bedroom door. The hallway was empty, sconces dimmed, only dawn light filtering through a stained-glass window at the far end, casting dappled shadows on the carpet. Relying on yesterday's memory, she cautiously descended the main staircase. Her soles made no sound on the thick runner.
The kitchen was at the end of the west wing on the ground floor, requiring a journey down a long service corridor. She wasn't sure if she was allowed there, or if any staff would be around at this hour. But hunger and the craving for hot coffee drove her on.
Just as she passed the second-floor landing, a voice came from the shadows.
"An early riser, Miss Winters."
Amelia froze, her heart lurching. She turned to see Carson emerging from a concealed side door, holding a silver tray with neatly folded newspapers. He was still in his impeccable black uniform, hair perfectly in place, as if he hadn't slept all night, or was perpetually ready to begin the day.
"Mr. Carson," she said, striving for steadiness. "Good morning. I… was looking for some coffee."
The butler's sharp eyes lingered on her face for a moment. Amelia wasn't sure if he noticed her slightly puffy eyelids, but he said nothing, merely giving a slight nod.
"Breakfast will be served at seven-thirty in the morning sitting room. However, I can have the kitchen prepare coffee for you now." He paused. "Or, if you wish, you may accompany me. The kitchen is quiet at this hour. You could wait there."
It was a choice, and a test. To wait like a proper young lady in the sitting room to be served, or to enter the servants' domain like an 'ill-mannered' outsider.
"The kitchen would be fine," Amelia said. "Thank you."
Carson's expression didn't change. He simply stepped aside with a 'please' gesture. He led her through a narrow door she hadn't noticed yesterday, papered in a dark pattern, into a narrower, plainer corridor. No marble here, no paintings, just bare walls and utilitarian lighting.
The kitchen, however, was unexpectedly spacious and bright. A huge commercial stainless-steel island, professional-grade ranges, a whole wall of copper pots gleaming warmly in the morning light. The air still held the faint, sweet scent of last night's baking. A young kitchen maid was peeling potatoes in a corner and scrambled to her feet upon seeing them.
"Martha, prepare coffee for Miss Winters, and fetch some croissants," Carson instructed, his tone slightly gentler than in the main house, but still distant.
"Yes, sir."
Amelia sat at a small wooden table by the window. The view showed another angle of the rear garden—the tool shed, the compost bins—the less perfect parts. Carson set the tray on the island but didn't leave. He opened the lid of the silver coffee canister, inspected the beans, then began operating the complex espresso machine himself.
"Mr. Howard instructed last night," he said, his back to her, voice even, "that you are to join Mrs. Winters—your stepmother—for morning tea at ten o'clock."
Amelia's fingers curled slightly on the tabletop. "I understand."
"Morning tea will be in the sunroom on the third floor. Mrs. Winters typically prefers to begin at ten sharp, for approximately forty-five minutes." Carson tamped the ground coffee with precision, like a surgeon. "She favors Darjeeling, with lemon, no sugar. The refreshments are usually finger sandwiches and scones, but you may request alternatives according to your taste."
He was giving her intelligence. About timing, location, the stepmother's preferences.
"Thank you," Amelia said, then added after a beat, "She… Mrs. Winters. What is she like?"
Carson pressed the extraction button. Coffee dripped slowly into the cup with a soft hiss. He didn't answer immediately, not until a perfect shot of espresso was complete. Turning, he placed the small cup before her. The dark liquid bore a perfect layer of crema.
"Mrs. Winters," he said slowly, "is a lady who values… propriety and order a great deal. She has presided over this household for twenty years."
A very official answer, but Amelia heard the subtext: valuing propriety meant despising scandal; valuing order meant hating surprises. And she, Amelia Winters, a suddenly-appearing illegitimate daughter, was both scandal and surprise.
Martha brought croissants and a small dish with butter and jam. The croissants were fresh and flaky, the butter a pale yellow, soft-textured. Amelia took a bite. The creamy, rich butter and the sweet flour melted on her tongue—the first warm, earthy food she'd tasted since entering this house.
"Mr. Carson," she set down the croissant, looking up, "how long have you worked here?"
The butler was wiping down the espresso machine's sink with a white cloth. "Twenty-eight years, miss. Since the late Mr. Winters purchased this residence."
"Then you must have known… my mother." She tested the word, her heartbeat quickening slightly.
Carson's movements halted for half a second. Brief, but Amelia caught it.
"Lady Elizabeth," he used a more formal address, "yes, I did. She stayed here for a short time."
"Could you… tell me about her?" Amelia tried to sound like a daughter longing to know her mother, not an impostor gathering intel. "Amelia—I mean, I—she was already very ill by the time I have memories. I remember almost nothing."
This was true. The real Amelia had said from her sickbed that her mother was always tired, always coughing, the room forever smelling of medicine.
Carson turned, hands clasped before him, resuming his standard butler's posture. His gaze went past her, to some distant point outside the window.
"Lady Elizabeth… was very quiet. She liked to read, or paint, in the sunroom. Her painting supplies were always kept very tidy." He paused. "She didn't adapt well to New York winters. Always said it was too cold."
That was all. Polite, restrained, devoid of real information. But Amelia noticed the faintest change in his tone when he said "too cold"—not just a recitation, but his own agreement.
"I heard," she continued cautiously, "she died of illness?"
"Yes, miss. Pneumonia." Carson's reply was swift and precise, like reciting a medical record. "It was the winter of 2015. Particularly harsh."
Amelia calculated quickly. The real Amelia would have been sixteen. After her mother's death, she was sent away.
"Thank you for telling me," Amelia said softly, deciding not to press further. Pushing too hard would raise suspicion.
The coffee was finished, the croissant eaten. She stood. "I think I'd like to take a walk before morning tea, if that's permissible."
"The gardens are accessible, miss. But please avoid the east greenhouse; it's under repair." Carson said. "Shall I have a coat fetched for you?"
"No, thank you. I'll get one from my room."
She left the kitchen, retracing her steps through the service corridor. Martha whispered "Goodbye, miss" behind her. Amelia turned and gave the girl a smile. Martha blushed and quickly looked down, resuming her potato peeling.
At nine-fifty a.m., Amelia stood outside the third-floor sunroom door.
She had changed—into a light grey knit dress, knee-length, with a neckline that was neither prudish nor provocative. Her hair was in a simple low chignon. Small pearl studs adorned her ears (found in the closet, likely spare accessories for guests). In her hands was a slim volume of poetry—found in Amelia's canvas bag, its edges worn, a few pages dog-eared.
This was her carefully crafted persona: a somewhat bookish, simply-dressed illegitimate daughter trying to be proper but not fully versed in upper-crust rules.
The sunroom door was slightly ajar. She could hear gentle classical music inside—Debussy's Clair de Lune. She took a deep breath and knocked softly.
"Come in," a gentle female voice answered.
Amelia pushed the door open.
The room lived up to its name—three walls of floor-to-ceiling windows, the morning sun pouring in unimpeded, gilding everything in gold. The space was exquisitely appointed: wicker furniture, silk cushions, lush green plants spilling over near the glass walls. The air smelled of fresh coffee, pastries, and some expensive floral note.
At a small round table in the center of the room sat a woman.
Margaret Winters looked younger than Amelia had imagined. Perhaps in her early fifties, well-preserved, her blonde hair elegantly swept back, revealing a long neck. She wore a pale lilac suit, a matching pearl necklace and earrings, and a large but understated diamond wedding band on her finger. Her features were soft, fine laugh lines at her eyes, her mouth naturally upturned as if ready to offer a warm smile.
Now, she set down her bone china teacup and looked toward the door. Her eyes were a pale blue, like a winter sky, clear and cold.
"Amelia," she said, her voice indeed gentle as Carson had described. "Come in, dear. Don't linger in the doorway."
Amelia entered, closing the door softly behind her. "Mrs. Winters. Good morning. Thank you for inviting me."
"Please, call me Margaret. We're family now." Margaret smiled, indicating a chair. "Sit. The tea is just ready."
Amelia sat in the wicker chair opposite, placing the poetry book on her lap. A maid materialized silently to pour tea. Darjeeling, clear-colored, steam rising in delicate tendrils.
"Did you rest well last night?" Margaret asked with concern. "Jet lag is always a torment. When I moved from Paris to New York, I didn't sleep properly for a full week."
"Well enough, thank you." Amelia said, accepting the teacup from the maid. She noted the cup's quality—so thin it was almost translucent, the gold trim flawlessly delicate. "The room is very comfortable."
"I'm glad. Carson mentioned you needed some clothes. Were they delivered? If anything doesn't fit, or if you dislike the styles, you must tell me." Margaret picked up a delicate finger sandwich. "Howard can be rather… rigid. His selections might lack… liveliness. A girl your age should wear more cheerful colors."
She was criticizing Howard's taste while implying: I know all the arrangements made for you. Even your wardrobe is under my purview.
"The clothes are fine. They fit well," Amelia said. "I tend to dress simply."
"Do you?" Margaret took a small, precise bite of her sandwich, chewing thoughtfully before continuing. "Your mother—Elizabeth—also preferred simple styles. She always said clothes should serve the person, not the other way around." She sighed, her eyes taking on a perfectly measured hint of sorrow. "She was a woman of strong ideas. A pity…"
Amelia raised her teacup, using the motion to mask her expression. Here it was. The entry point through the mother.
"My mother rarely spoke of the past," she said, keeping her tone neutral. "She was always unwell."
"Yes, I know." Margaret nodded. "William—your father—was very worried about her then. The New York climate was too harsh for her. Doctors suggested she recuperate in the South, but…" She paused, leaving the sentence suggestively unfinished. "Ah, but that's all in the past now."
But what? Amelia's mind sharpened, catching the hesitation. Why didn't she go? Because the late Mr. Winters forbade it? Because Margaret didn't want her to stay?
"Did you know my mother long?" Amelia asked.
Margaret smiled, the expression gentle yet not reaching her eyes. "Not terribly long. She came to New York after William and I were already engaged. We met a few times, at family gatherings. She was quiet, always kept to the corners. But I remember she painted beautifully, didn't she? Once she painted the roses in the garden. William had that painting hanging in his study for a time."
Amelia's fingers tightened slightly. The real Amelia had never mentioned her mother painting. Was this true, or was Margaret fabricating details to test her?
"I'm not sure," she answered cautiously. "Mother painted very little later on. She said her hands shook, she couldn't hold a brush steady."
That was true. The dying Amelia had said her mother couldn't even hold a glass in her final months.
A flicker passed through Margaret's gaze, almost too fast to catch. "Yes, her condition deteriorated quickly." She sighed again. "But let's not dwell on sad things. Tell me about you, Amelia. How was life in Illinois all these years?"
The focus shifted to her. Amelia was prepared.
"Quiet," she said. "I lived in a small town, not far from Chicago. Did odd jobs—cafes, bookstores. Took some art classes at the community college, but didn't stick with them." She deliberately allowed a note of self-deprecation into her voice. "I suppose I lack follow-through."
"Art classes?" Margaret seemed interested. "Your mother would have been pleased. She always wanted formal training, but… the timing was never right." She deftly circled back to Elizabeth. "What sort of art do you favor?"
"The Impressionists," Amelia said, drawing on Vivian's own preference—a safe choice. "Monet, Degas. The colors are beautiful."
"A classic choice," Margaret remarked, neither endorsing nor dismissing it. "New York has many wonderful galleries. I must have Isabella take you sometime. She's on the board at MoMA now."
A display of her daughter's resources and status, while also scheduling Amelia's social calendar—through her daughter.
"Thank you, that would be lovely," Amelia said, internal alarms ringing. A solo outing with Isabella? That would be a far more challenging test.
The maid brought a tray of scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam. Margaret prepared one for Amelia herself, the movements as elegant as a ritual.
"Try one. Cook's specialty. William was fond of them."
Amelia accepted the scone and took a bite. It was delicious, the cream rich, the jam sweet but not cloying. But she tasted nothing.
"Last night's dinner," Margaret mentioned casually, "did you manage? It must have been overwhelming, meeting so many at once."
"A little," Amelia admitted. "Everyone was… very kind."
Margaret gave a light laugh, like wind chimes—clear but hollow. "Kind? Oh, dear, you are sweet. Does Matthew's face have anything to do with 'kindness'?" She shook her head, as if sharing an inside family joke. "But don't mind him. He carries the weight of the entire Group on his shoulders. The pressure has atrophied his smiling muscles."
She was attempting to create intimacy by poking fun at another family member.
"Theodore was quite interesting," Amelia offered, deciding to bring up a less sensitive figure herself.
"Theodore," Margaret's tone became complex, a mix of affection and exasperation. "He's the family artist. Never follows the script. You'll learn—with him around, one is never short of 'surprises'." She paused, looking at Amelia. "He seemed quite taken with you last night. What did you speak about?"
Here it was. She was gathering intel on everyone's reaction to Amelia.
"Nothing in particular. He asked what I thought of New York." Amelia told the truth but omitted Theodore's added "colder, too" comment.
"He does enjoy that question," Margaret smiled. "Like a social anthropologist, observing every new 'specimen'." She sipped her tea, then as if remembering: "Oh, Liam and Chloe were there last night too. Had you met them before?"
The question came suddenly, sharp and precise, aimed at the most tender spot.
Amelia's heart clenched violently, but her face remained calm. "No. Last night was the first time."
"Was it?" Margaret tilted her head slightly, her pale blue eyes filled with harmless curiosity. "Yet Liam mentioned to me afterward that you reminded him of someone he once knew. He specifically asked about your background."
Her blood seemed to freeze. Liam had already made a move, and gone directly to Margaret.
"Really?" Amelia worked to sound merely intrigued. "Who did he say I resembled?"
"He didn't give a name. Just a… feeling." Margaret watched her reaction closely. "You know, a lawyer's intuition is often acute. He's one of the most perceptive young men I've known. Chloe is fortunate to have him."
Praising Liam while reminding Amelia: Liam is 'Chloe's husband', claimed. And he is perceptive.
"Perhaps I just have one of those faces," Amelia shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "When I worked at the cafe, customers often said I looked like their cousin or neighbor."
Margaret laughed, this time the smile seeming more genuine. "You're too modest, dear. You have exceptionally distinctive eyes." Her gaze rested on Amelia's face, the appraisal no longer concealed. "Exactly like Elizabeth's. William must have noticed it the moment he saw you."
She was emphasizing bloodlines, the resemblance to the mother—both an acknowledgment and a warning: Every one of your features is under our observation and comparison.
The morning tea continued, a seemingly light exchange laced with unseen blades. Margaret asked more about Amelia's past: the kind of house she lived in, friends, reading habits, illnesses… Each question was like a feather's touch, but Amelia knew needles lay beneath.
She answered succinctly, truthfully (based on Amelia's information), or deflected with "I don't recall well" or "It wasn't important." She observed Margaret too: the eternally perfect smile, the polite gaze that never held eye contact for more than three seconds, the hands with nude polish always resting lightly on the cup's edge or her own knee.
This woman was a piece of exquisite porcelain, smooth and温和 on the surface, but possibly hollow inside, or filled with poison.
At ten forty-five, Margaret glanced at the small Patek Philippe on her wrist. "How time flies. I have an appointment with my hairdresser at eleven. I'm afraid we must end." She wore an expression of regret. "I do wish we had longer."
Amelia stood. "Thank you for the tea, Margaret. The pastries were wonderful."
"I'm glad you enjoyed them." Margaret also rose, giving her a light hug. It was weightless, transferring almost no body heat, though her perfume was strong—something expensive with sandalwood and iris notes. "We're family now, Amelia. If you need anything, come to me. If you're lonely, you're always welcome to join me for tea here. I'm here most mornings."
"I will," Amelia said.
She left the sunroom, closed the door, and stood in the long hallway outside. Sunlight from the window at the end cut bright bands across the dark carpet. She walked slowly back to her room, each step feeling unsteady, exhausting.
Back in her room, she locked the door (knowing the lock was likely useless) and slid down with her back against it. The forty-five minutes of morning tea had drained her more than the two hours at last night's dinner. Margaret Winters wasn't an overt enemy like Liam; she was an intangible, gentle, omnipresent pressure. She didn't attack directly but wove a net with concern, reminiscence, and seemingly harmless questions.
And Liam had already spoken to her.
Amelia buried her face in her knees. She needed to catch her breath, to regroup. But time wasn't waiting. Howard was seeing her this afternoon to discuss the 'educational supplementation plan'—doubtless a euphemism for cramming her full of upper-crust etiquette. There would likely be other arrangements tonight.
She remembered the book of poetry. Picking it up, she opened to the dog-eared page. In the margin, in Amelia's handwriting, was a faint pencil note, almost erased:
"All mirrors lie, until you learn to see yourself in the glass."
She stared at the line for a long time. Then she stood, walked to the bathroom mirror, and looked at the woman there again.
Pale face, tense mouth, but fire in the depths of her eyes.
"You are Amelia Winters," she whispered, her voice creating a faint echo in the empty bathroom. "You will survive. You will win."
The woman in the mirror blinked. The look in her eyes was no longer just determination. Something else was there—something cold, taking shape.
She knew Margaret was testing her, gathering information. Well, she could do the same.
What had the real Amelia left behind? Beyond the canvas bag and the photo, what else? She needed to search this room thoroughly, find more clues about Amelia's past, Elizabeth's death, any secrets Margaret might be hiding.
She also needed allies. Theodore had shown interest and a degree of kindness last night. The cousin (whom she hadn't met) might be a potential supporter. Ryan Donovan—the man working at the Winters Group, a key character according to the outline—she needed to find a way to reach him.
And Liam… he was a double-edged sword. His suspicion could expose her, but his guilt and fear could also be used.
Outside, New York's sky was fully bright now, the sun glaring but the temperature still cold. Traffic on Fifth Avenue was thickening, the city's murmur seeping faintly through the thick glass. In this silent mansion, a war without gunpowder had already begun.
Amelia changed out of the fine cashmere, into a more comfortable old t-shirt and sweatpants. She began systematically examining the room: tapping walls, opening every drawer, checking the linings of the wardrobe, even kneeling to look under the bed.
In the bottom drawer of the nightstand, her fingers found a slight protrusion. Pressing it, a small panel of wood sprang open, revealing a hidden compartment.
It was empty, save for a little dust.
But someone had hidden something here once.
Amelia's fingers traced the smooth edge of the wooden slot. Suddenly, she felt that perhaps the real Amelia understood this house, and how to survive in it, far better than she'd imagined.
She might not be the first to hide secrets in this room.
And she wouldn't be the last.