The morning piano practice was one of the Winters household's ironclad rules—or rather, one of the many rules established by Margaret Winters that brooked no challenge.
When Carson mentioned it at the breakfast table, Amelia hadn't yet grasped its deeper meaning.
"The Steinway grand in the sunroom is available for family practice from ten to eleven a.m. on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays," the butler said from a respectful step behind her, his voice as steady as an airport announcement. "Mrs. Winters believes music is an essential component of cultivation. It was a tradition established by the late Mr. Winters in his youth."
Amelia set down her coffee cup. The real Amelia had once murmured from her sickbed: "They forced me to learn piano as a child. My fingers swelled, but no one ever listened to me play." Her voice had been faint then, a thread of breath, yet a mocking smile touched her lips. "They just wanted a daughter who could play piano for show. Whether she played well or not… who cared?"
"I already have an appointment this morning," Amelia said, recalling Howard's scheduled discussion about the so-called "social etiquette courses."
"Mr. Howard's meeting has been rescheduled for two p.m.," Carson replied. "Mrs. Winters specifically requested that you begin practice today. She said…" The butler paused, as if recalling the exact words, "…'Amelia has just come home. She should experience our family traditions.'"
It was an order, not an invitation.
At five to ten, Amelia pushed open the sunroom door. The tea service from the morning was long gone. The room held only sunlight, greenery, and the black Steinway grand dominating the center. The piano's surface was a mirror, the lid open, the keys starkly black and white like soldiers awaiting inspection.
She sat on the bench. Her fingers hovered above the keys, hesitant.
Of course she could play. Vivian Ellwood's childhood had included mandatory piano lessons. Her mother said, "Not to make you a pianist, but to teach you perseverance." Her father said, "Music keeps the mind clear." She'd passed the Grade 8 Royal Schools exams, could play Chopin nocturnes and Bach fugues with fluency. But that was long ago, so long that those melodies were dusty now, sealed away in memory's depths alongside broken family photos and auctioned furniture.
She took a deep breath and pressed the first chord.
The sound reverberated in the sunroom—full, resonant, with the distinctive metallic richness of a Steinway. Her fingers were stiff, her technique rusty, but muscle memory remained. She chose the simplest piece—Bach's "Minuet in G Major," practiced countless times as a child.
Notes flowed out, halting at first, then gradually connecting. Sunlight fell on the keys, her fingers moving through light and shadow. For a moment, she forgot this was the Winters house, forgot she was a counterfeit Amelia, forgot last night's dinner and this morning's probing. She was simply at a piano, as in countless childhood afternoons, playing, waiting for her mother to bring milk and cookies.
"Stop."
A young woman's voice cut through the music.
Amelia's fingers froze in mid-air, the last note dying abruptly. She turned.
A girl—no, a young woman, early twenties—stood in the sunroom doorway. She had carefully styled pale blonde curls, woven into a fashionable fishtail braid over one shoulder, secured with a tiny diamond hairpin. She wore a pink Chanel tweed suit with white trim, matching lambskin flats on her feet. Her face was petite and perfectly made up, but her pale blue eyes, identical to Margaret's, were filled with undisguised scrutiny and displeasure.
"Who are you?" the girl asked, her voice crisp with the distinctive uplifted tone of the Upper East Side. "Why are you playing my piano?"
Amelia stood. She was half a head taller, but it conferred no advantage—the girl stood there with the natural authority of the lady of the house.
"I'm Amelia," she said. "Winters. You are…"
The girl's eyebrows arched. "Oh—you're the one." She emphasized "the one" as if referring to something unclean. "I heard you were back. I'm Katherine Winters."
Katherine. Margaret's biological daughter, the late Mr. Winters's youngest, the only daughter raised in this house. The outline mentioned: after Amelia was sent away, she became the family's sole little princess.
"Hello, Katherine," Amelia said, keeping her tone even. "Nice to meet you."
Katherine ignored the pleasantry. She walked into the sunroom, her heels clicking sharply on the floor. She stopped by the piano, reaching out to lightly stroke the lid with a nude-polished fingernail.
"This is my piano time," she said, not looking at Amelia. "Ten a.m., Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays. Didn't Carson tell you?"
"He told me the piano was available for family practice during that time," Amelia said. "I thought…"
"You thought you could just use it?" Katherine finally turned to face her, a faint, elusive smile on her lips. "This Steinway was a gift from Daddy for my fourteenth birthday. I've practiced three hours daily for ten years. Last year, a Juilliard professor said my Well-Tempered Clavier was approaching professional standard." She paused, her eyes sweeping over Amelia. "You were playing the Minuet? A beginner piece?"
The insult was direct and naked. Amelia felt her cheeks flush but forced calm.
"I was just warming up," she said. "It's been a long time."
"That much is obvious." Katherine walked to the bench. Amelia instinctively moved aside. The girl sat, placing her hands on the keys—hands that were pale, slender, with perfectly manicured nails, born for the piano.
She didn't begin playing immediately. Instead, she tilted her head and asked in a tone of near-innocence: "Mummy said you've lived… modestly all these years. A Midwestern town, right? Were there any proper piano teachers there?"
"No," Amelia answered truthfully. "I practiced on my own."
"Self-taught?" Katherine gave a light laugh, silvery yet grating. "No wonder. With piano, without proper instruction, one easily develops bad habits. Hand posture, control of dynamics, pedal technique… every detail requires years of correction." She turned back to the keys. "But for you, I suppose it doesn't matter. It's just… a pastime."
She began to play. Chopin's Étude Op. 10, No. 12, the "Revolutionary."
Notes like a storm swept through the sunroom. Katherine's fingers flew over the keys, almost a blur. Dynamics, speed, emotional expression—flawless. She was genuinely superb, enough to make any music lover hold their breath.
Amelia stood aside, watching this girl several years her junior display her talent. Sunlight caught Katherine's blonde hair, the diamond pin glittering. She was so confident, so dazzling, so occupying this space, this piano, the role of the family's "talented youngest daughter."
As the final chord faded, vibrations lingering in the air, Katherine slowly withdrew her hands. She turned to Amelia, a faint flush on her cheeks—natural after the exertion of performance, or perhaps satisfaction from the display.
"Well?" she asked, her tone ambiguous between genuine solicitation and further demonstration.
"You play brilliantly," Amelia said. It was true.
Katherine seemed momentarily surprised, some of the smugness fading. "Thank you." She stood. "Will you continue? I can yield the bench—though you've disrupted my practice schedule for today."
"No need," Amelia said. "I should go."
She turned and left the sunroom, closing the door. In the last instant before it shut, she saw Katherine settle back onto the bench, back straight as a proud little queen.
At two p.m., Amelia arrived punctually at Howard's office.
The lawyer looked more exhausted than yesterday, deep shadows under his eyes behind his glasses. A stack of files sat before him. Seeing Amelia enter, he merely gestured for her to sit.
"Miss Winters," he began without preamble, "given that you will be residing in New York long-term and may participate in certain family social engagements, Mrs. Winters deems it necessary to arrange some… supplemental education for you."
He pulled a printed schedule from the pile and slid it across the desk.
The schedule was packed:
Mon, Wed, Fri Mornings: Piano Practice (Sunroom)
Tue, Thu Mornings: French Lessons (Tutor: Madame Nancy)
Mon, Wed Afternoons: Social Dance (Waltz, Tango, Foxtrot)
Tue, Thu Afternoons: Art Appreciation & Collecting Primer
Fri Afternoons: Charity Foundation Management & Operations
Sat Mornings: Equestrian Basics (Long Island Stables)
Sun Mornings: Church Service, followed by Family Brunch
Amelia stared at the paper, feeling a wave of absurd suffocation. It was more crowded than a high school timetable.
"Are these… all mandatory?" she asked.
"Mrs. Winters believes it is for your benefit," Howard adjusted his glasses. "You have been absent from the family for too long. You lack familiarity with New York's social codes and family responsibilities. These lessons will facilitate your integration."
"But I'm an adult," Amelia said. "I have my own…"
"Your own what?" Howard interrupted, his tone still calm but carrying undeniable pressure. "Lifestyle? Interests? Miss Winters, please understand. You are no longer merely Amelia Winters. You are a member of the Winters family. This means you must adhere to family rules, assume family responsibilities, and uphold the family image."
He paused, then added: "Naturally, all associated costs will be covered by the family trust. You need only… attend."
Need only attend. Like a puppet on strings.
Looking at the schedule, Amelia suddenly understood Margaret's intention. This seemingly considerate arrangement was another form of control. Filling her time left no opportunity for her own pursuits, for investigation, for thought. Simultaneously, it was a reminder: You lack refinement. You need to be remade.
"French lessons begin tomorrow," Howard said. "Madame Nancy is descended from French aristocracy. She has taught the children of New York's elite for thirty years. She is strict but effective."
"The social dance instructor is a former Russian ballet dancer, now a professional ballroom coach. She will come to the residence."
"Art appreciation will be conducted by a guest curator from the Met, specially engaged by Mrs. Winters."
Every arrangement was impeccable, radiating benevolent intent. But Amelia heard the subtext: You know nothing. We must teach you from scratch.
"I see," she finally said, taking the schedule.
Howard nodded, seemingly satisfied with her compliance. "One more matter. The Vanderbilt Foundation's annual Spring Charity Gala is next week. The Winters family is a major patron. Mrs. Winters wishes for you to attend."
Chloe's foundation again. Amelia's heart sank.
"What preparations do I need?"
"Attire will be arranged. You need only…" Howard looked at her, "…mind your conduct. It is one of the most significant events of the New York social season. The press will be present. Mrs. Winters particularly emphasized her hope that you would use the occasion to demonstrate family unity."
Demonstrate family unity. On Chloe's turf, before Liam's wife.
"I will," Amelia said.
After leaving Howard's office, she didn't return to her room. She needed fresh air, an escape from the house's pervasive oppression. She remembered Carson saying the gardens were accessible.
The rear garden was larger than it appeared from above. She walked slowly along the gravel path, past the rose garden (bare stems, no blooms yet), the fountain basin (dry, not operational until spring), the maze-like boxwood hedges (too neatly trimmed to feel mysterious). Finally, she reached a massive old oak tree with an iron bench beneath.
She sat, closing her eyes. Afternoon sun filtered through bare branches, casting dappled light on her face. The air was cold but clean, smelling of earth, fallen leaves, and the distant city.
"Hiding out here, playing hooky?"
Amelia opened her eyes. Theodore Winters leaned against the boxwood hedge a few meters away, a sketchbook in hand, that trademark sardonic smile on his lips. Today he wore a forest green corduroy jacket over a rumpled cotton shirt, khaki pants dotted with paint stains.
"Theodore," Amelia straightened.
"Relax, I'm not here to drag you back to class." Theodore walked over and sat on the bench, leaving a polite gap between them. He opened the sketchbook; Amelia glimpsed loose, evocative sketches of the garden.
"You're drawing?" she asked.
"Attempting to capture the winter garden's… tedium." Theodore shrugged. "But it's so tedious, even my pencil is bored." He glanced at her sideways. "Heard your piano session was interrupted by Katherine today?"
News traveled fast. Amelia thought. In this house, there were no secrets.
"Not interrupted," she said. "I just wasn't playing well."
"Katherine is a skilled pianist," Theodore said, his tone ambiguous—praise or something else. "It's the one thing she truly controls." He paused. "You know, she actually idolized Amelia when she was little—the real one."
Amelia's heart skipped. "Really?"
"Mm-hmm. Amelia was a few years older, good at drawing, told great stories, always let Katherine tag along. After Amelia was sent away, Katherine cried for days." Theodore twirled his pencil. "Then she became… this. Concerned only with her piano, her parties, her social ranking. Mummy molded her into the perfect Miss Winters."
His voice was flat, but Amelia detected a thread of irony.
"You seem… not to approve," she ventured.
Theodore laughed, genuine mockery in the sound. "My dear sister, in this house, approval is the cheapest currency." He closed the sketchbook. "I just think everyone's playing a role someone else wrote. Dad was the stern patriarch, Margaret the perfect hostess, Matthew the burdened heir, Isabella the socialite, Katherine the talented princess…" He looked at Amelia. "And you? What role will you play? The prodigal lamb returned home?"
The question was sharp, but Amelia saw no malice in his eyes, only curiosity.
"I don't know," she answered truthfully. "I'm still learning the rules."
"Rules," Theodore repeated the word as if hearing a joke. "The rule here is there are no rules—or rather, the rules change depending on who's making them." He stood. "A piece of advice: don't take Margaret's 'kindnesses' too seriously. Every gift from her comes with a price tag."
With that, he turned and left, leaving Amelia alone on the bench.
She watched his back disappear behind the hedge, the tight cord within her loosening just a fraction. Theodore might be the only person in this house willing to speak truth—or perhaps he was merely playing the role of truth-teller.
Returning to her room at dusk, Amelia found a gift box on the bed.
Deep blue silk wrapping, tied with a silver ribbon, a small card attached. She opened it. Margaret's elegant script read:
Dearest Amelia,
Thinking your wardrobe might need bolstering as you settle in, I picked out this little gift for you. I do hope you like it.
I look forward to seeing you shine at the gala.
With affection,
Margaret
Amelia untied the ribbon and opened the box. Inside was an evening gown.
Champagne-colored silk, a strapless bodice, the skirt layer upon layer of tulle dotted with tiny crystals. Beautiful. Expensive. And… youthful. The sort of dress a girl in her early twenties would adore—sweet, dreamy, with a touch of naive sensuality.
She held it up against herself in the mirror. The color complemented her skin tone, the cut was impeccable. But—
It was too much. The Vanderbilt Foundation Spring Gala, however important, hardly called for such an extravagant gown. And the style… completely unlike Margaret's or Isabella's mature elegance, closer to Katherine's taste.
She recalled Theodore's words: "Every gift from her comes with a price tag."
A knock sounded at the door.
"Come in," Amelia said, returning the dress to its box.
Katherine entered. She had changed out of her daytime suit into a soft cashmere lounge dress, her hair down around her shoulders. Seeing the gift box and gown, her eyes lit up.
"From Mummy?" she asked, walking to the bed and running her fingers over the crystal-dusted tulle. "Lovely. It's from the early spring collection. I saw it in a magazine last week."
"Is it?" Amelia said. "I don't follow fashion closely."
"That's apparent." Katherine withdrew her hand, turning to face Amelia with a sweet smile. "But it suits you. Champagne is a difficult color. It looks dowdy on anyone not fair-skinned, but you'll manage."
Another sugar-coated barb.
"Margaret is too kind," Amelia said. "I could have managed a dress myself."
"Oh, don't be like that," Katherine blinked. "Mummy means well. She's always so thoughtful, takes care of everyone." She paused, as if an afterthought. "By the way, I'll be wearing a new dress to the gala too. Daddy—our father—always said we sisters should coordinate when we attend events together. It looks better."
Sisters. She used the word.
"You mean… we'll be dressed like a matching set?" Amelia asked.
"Something like that." Katherine's smile widened. "Didn't Mummy mention? She picked champagne for me too, but a shorter style. She said with our height difference, one long, one short, we'd look harmonious together." Her smile deepened. "She especially asked me to look after you that night. It is your first event of that caliber, after all."
Amelia understood. Margaret wasn't just dictating her attire; she was orchestrating a "sisterly bond" performance with Katherine. Before everyone, they would be the harmonious sisters, a symbol of Winters family unity.
And Katherine was clearly delighted to play the part of the "doting little sister guiding her country-bumpkin sibling."
"How wonderful," Amelia said, infusing her voice with sincere gratitude. "I'll be much less nervous with you there."
"Don't worry," Katherine patted her hand—a gesture so light it was almost imperceptible. "I'll stick with you. Oh, and many people will want to meet you. You are, after all… well, the mysteriously returned Winters daughter. Just stay close. I'll introduce you to the right people and steer you clear of the wrong ones."
She was marking territory. Defining who was "right" and who was "wrong."
"Thank you, Katherine," Amelia said.
"You're welcome." Katherine walked to the door, pausing before leaving. "Oh, one more thing. Mummy asked me to remind you—best not to mention your past Midwestern life at the gala. Some people… might misunderstand. Think the Winters family neglected you."
She left, the room falling silent save for the presence of the champagne gown.
Amelia stood in the center of the room, looking at the beautiful dress. In the dim light, the crystals glittered coldly.
She knew what Margaret and Katherine were doing. They were crafting a role for her: the poor, illegitimate daughter who needed saving, teaching, displaying. They would envelop her in kindness, buy her with gifts, bind her with rules until she became what they wanted—docile, grateful, forever aware of her "inferiority."
But they didn't know the woman inhabiting this body wasn't the timid, real Amelia.
She was Vivian Ellwood. She had known betrayal, known death, known rebirth clawing from the dirt. She knew the face of true malice, knew how sharp a blade could be behind a gentle smile.
She walked to the window, watching night fall over New York. City lights winked on one by one, like an inverted starfield.
The gala. She would wear the champagne gown, play the part of the obedient Winters daughter. She would smile, nod, follow Katherine like a bewildered country girl.
She would let them see what they wanted to see.
And then, at the right moment, she would show them something they never expected.
Outside, the streetlamps of Fifth Avenue flickered on in sequence, transforming the avenue into a river of gold. Traffic flowed, pedestrians wove their patterns, each bound for their own night, their own story.
In this cold, silent mansion, Amelia Winters—or rather, Vivian Ellwood—smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from the gown's skirt. Catching her reflection in the windowpane, she allowed a faint, icy smile to touch her lips.
The war had begun. And the first battle would be fought at next week's charity gala.
She was ready.