Madame Nancy's grey-blue eyes performed a full appraisal of Amelia the moment she entered the sunroom. It was the gaze of a measuring tape, sweeping over her shoulder line, waist, posture, finally settling on her face with a slight frown.
"So, you are the… new Miss Winters." Madame Nancy's French carried a flawless Parisian accent, her voice like silk over glass—smooth and cold. She was perhaps sixty, slender, dressed in a perfectly tailored dark grey suit, hair in a severe chignon, a simple strand of pearls at her neck.
"Yes, Madame," Amelia replied in French, striving for accurate pronunciation. Vivian had minored in French in college; the basics remained, though rusted with disuse.
Madame Nancy's eyebrow lifted, a flicker of surprise. "Your pronunciation… is passable." She sat on a wicker chair, withdrawing two hefty hardcover books from her crocodile handbag. "But we must begin from the beginning. Mrs. Winters was quite specific. You require… comprehensive social French, not merely conversational."
She slid one book toward Amelia. The title: Etiquette and Elocution of the French Nobility.
"We shall start with forms of address." Madame Nancy opened the book, her finger tracing dense annotations. "In formal settings, how does one address persons of varying rank? What is the order of precedence between a Duchess and a Marquise in conversation? What subtle linguistic distinctions must one observe when speaking with individuals from Belgian or Swiss Francophone circles?"
Amelia looked at the complex entries, feeling dizzy. This wasn't a language lesson; it was a crash course in deciphering the codes of social class.
For forty-five minutes, Madame Nancy did not smile once. She corrected every intonation, criticized Amelia's gestures as "too Midwestern," and sighed softly when Amelia mistakenly used the informal 'tu' instead of the formal 'vous'.
"Miss Winters, you must understand," Madame Nancy said, closing the book at the session's end, her tone polite yet laced with unmistakable superiority, "in New York's upper social spheres, French is not merely a language. It is a marker of standing. An incorrect title, an inelegant colloquialism… can make one seem… decidedly out of place."
She paused, adding: "Mrs. Winters is deeply invested in your integration. She specifically instructed me to hold you to the highest standard."
Specifically instructed. Again. For your own good.
Leaving the sunroom, Amelia felt a dull throb at her temples. In the hallway, she encountered Katherine, who was heading out. The girl wore a pink-and-white dress with a white cashmere cardigan, a Hermès Kelly bag in hand, looking fresh as a model just stepped from a magazine page.
"How was French?" Katherine stopped, her face a picture of sweet concern. "Madame Nancy is quite strict, isn't she? When I was a child studying with her, she often reduced me to tears."
Amelia noted the emphasis on "when I was a child," highlighting their different starting points and experiences.
"Quite strict indeed," Amelia said truthfully.
"You'll get used to it," Katherine blinked. "Mummy says strict teachers produce accomplished students. Oh, have you tried on the gala gown yet? Does it fit?"
"Not yet."
"You must try it soon!" Katherine's tone turned urgent. "If alterations are needed, there's still time. I know a wonderful seamstress. If anything about Mummy's choice isn't quite right, I can take you to have it adjusted."
Her concern sounded so genuine Amelia almost believed it—were it not for the fleeting, sly glint in her eyes.
"Thank you, I will."
"Don't mention it." Katherine glanced at her Cartier watch. "Oh dear, I must run. Meeting friends for tea. See you tomorrow!"
She departed with a light step, leaving a trail of youthful, fruity-floral perfume in the hall.
Back in her room, Amelia stared at the deep blue gift box on the bed. Minutes later, she opened it and lifted out the champagne gown.
In daylight, the dress was even more lavish. The silk flowed like water, the tulle was cloud-light, the crystals refracted light into tiny rainbows. She undressed and carefully put it on.
The fit was nearly perfect—bust, waist, length, all precisely right. Margaret had clearly obtained her measurements in advance, or simply possessed an expert eye honed by decades of ordering couture.
She walked to the full-length mirror.
The woman reflected gave her a moment of disorientation. The champagne hue did complement her skin. The strapless bodice highlighted her collarbones and shoulders. The tiered skirt cascaded like petals. It was beautiful, but the beauty was alien. This wasn't a dress she would choose; it was a dress for a finely crafted doll.
Turning to check the zipper, her fingers brushed against an unusual texture at her waist.
She moved closer to the mirror, angling her body to see.
Near the waistline, at a seam in the silk, a few threads were loose. A tiny flaw, invisible unless one looked closely. She gave a gentle tug; the silk threads made a faint snapping sound.
This wasn't poor workmanship. A Winters-customized gown would not have such a basic flaw. And the location was insidious—if she bent, turned, or danced at the gala, this seam could give way, causing the dress to split at the side.
Her heart sank.
Was it Margaret? Katherine? Or mere coincidence?
She carefully removed the gown and laid it flat on the bed. Going to the walk-in closet, she searched for a sewing kit. None. Such rooms did not house practical items—clothing issues were handled by staff.
She stared at the weakened seam for several minutes. Then she picked up the phone on the nightstand and pressed '0'.
"Housekeeping." Carson's voice.
"Mr. Carson, it's Amelia. My gala gown requires a minor alteration. Is there a sewing kit in the house? Or could a seamstress be called?"
A brief silence.
"A kit can be provided. However, if the gown is faulty, I suggest informing Mrs. Winters. She would arrange for a professional."
"No need to trouble Margaret," Amelia said. "It's a very small detail. I can manage."
"Very well, Miss. I'll have a kit sent up."
Hanging up, Amelia sat on the bed's edge, her fingers tracing the gown's smooth surface. This was no accident. It was a test. Or a trap. Should the dress fail publicly at the gala—ripping, leaving her exposed—everyone would see: the returned illegitimate daughter, unable to hold together a proper gown.
And Margaret and Katherine, with what expressions of tender concern, would rush to 'help'? "Good heavens, dear, what happened?" "It must be the seamstress's fault!" "Fetch a wrap, quickly, don't catch a chill!"
They would play the saviors. She would be the pitiable joke.
A knock. A young maid delivered a well-stocked sewing box. Amelia thanked her and closed the door.
She did not immediately repair the seam.
Instead, she did something possibly mad.
She took scissors and carefully snipped a few more threads around the weak spot, making the potential tear more concealed, yet more fragile. Then, from her old clothes, she salvaged two thin, black elastic straps from an unworn camisole. Carefully opening a small section of the gown's inner lining, she sewed the straps inside—one end anchored to a boning channel, the other extending to the waist.
A simple fail-safe. If the dress split, a hint of black would show—like an intentional lingerie strap or a design detail. More importantly, the elasticity would temporarily hold the fabric, buying her time to leave the dance floor for a restroom.
Only then did she mend the seam's surface with the finest needle and matching thread. The stitches were nearly invisible, but the underlying structure was now irrevocably altered.
She re-hung the gown, watching it sway gently. The champagne silk was still beautiful, still innocent. But it was no longer the same dress.
Just like herself.
The afternoon social dance lesson took place in the small ballroom on the second floor. The room was intimate, but mirrored walls created an illusion of space. Polished parquet floors reflected the light of a crystal chandelier.
Madame Olga, the instructor, was a Russian woman in her fifties, posture straight as a birch. She wore a black leotard, hair in a severe bun, her face nearly expressionless.
"We begin with posture." Her English bore a heavy Russian accent. "Back straight, shoulders down, head up—imagine a string pulling you from the crown."
Amelia complied. Her reflection looked stiff.
"Too tense." Madame Olga moved behind her, pressing down on her shoulders. "Relaxed, not slack. Social dance is a conversation between two. If you are rigid, your partner is uncomfortable."
She taught the basic box step for the waltz. One, two, three, turn, one, two, three.
Amelia's sense of rhythm was decent, but years of inactivity made her steps clumsy. She missed beats, lost balance on turns.
"Again," was all Madame Olga said—no criticism, no encouragement. She was a metronome, observing coolly, correcting mechanically.
After an hour, a fine sweat beaded Amelia's forehead, her calf muscles aching. Madame Olga handed her a clean white towel.
"You have a foundation, but lack practice." It was her first real comment. "The waltz is not difficult. The difficulty is smiling, conversing, and observing the room while dancing. Before next week's gala, we have two more sessions. I will teach you how to navigate a dance floor, how to signal your partner you wish to stop, how to decline an unwanted invitation gracefully."
"Thank you, Madame Olga."
The Russian woman gave a slight nod. "Mrs. Winters mentioned you require particular practice dancing with older gentlemen. The gala will have many… important traditional figures."
Mentioned. Again. Amelia could almost picture Margaret's expression: gentle, concerned, impeccable.
Leaving the ballroom, she met Katherine in the hallway. The girl had changed into athletic wear, her hair in a high ponytail, radiating energy.
"Dance lesson?" Katherine asked. "Isn't Madame Olga terrifying? I dreaded her lessons as a child. She always said my arms were like wooden sticks." She laughed, but the mirth didn't reach her eyes. "Though starting as an adult must be harder. The body is less pliable."
"It is challenging," Amelia admitted.
"Don't worry," Katherine patted her shoulder—a touch firmer this time, encouragement or pressure. "I'll help you at the gala. If someone asks you to dance, just say it's your first major event, you're nervous. Most people will understand."
She was preemptively scripting Amelia's failure, providing the excuse.
"Thank you for the advice."
"Of course." Katherine glanced at the ballroom door. "I'm off to my ballet class. Three times a week, to keep in form. Mummy says the secret to graceful movement isn't in the lessons, but in the consistency between them."
Again, "Mummy." Again, emphasizing their shared bond and values.
Returning to her room, Amelia took a hot shower. The water soothed her aching muscles. Wrapped in a robe, she stood by the window, watching dusk stain the New York sky.
The city's beauty was never subtle, nor did it promise warmth.
Dinner was another family affair, but the atmosphere shifted. Besides Matthew, Isabella and her husband Ian, and Theodore, there was a new presence.
Ryan Donovan.
When Amelia entered the dining room, he was speaking quietly with Matthew. Hearing her footsteps, he looked up.
This was their first real eye contact. In the rainy hospital, she had been the dying Vivian, he a blurry background figure. In Carson's description, he was the abstract "close friend of the late Winters Group CEO." Now, he was tangible: early thirties, dark brown hair impeccably cut, handsome features that were not soft, eyes holding a keen, reserved sharpness accumulated over years. He wore a dark grey suit, no tie, shirt collar open, posture relaxed yet commanding.
"Amelia, there you are." Margaret sat at the head—the late Mr. Winters's seat remained empty, but she naturally occupied the left-side primary chair. "This is Ryan Donovan, an old family friend and Matthew's important business partner."
Ryan stood, extending his hand. "Miss Winters. I've heard a great deal."
His hand was large, warm, the handshake firm yet brief. Amelia felt calluses on his fingertips—not the hands of a man who lived softly.
"Mr. Donovan."
"Ryan, please." He smiled, the expression polite, restrained, devoid of undue familiarity. "Welcome to New York. Settling in?"
"Still adjusting," Amelia said, taking the seat opposite him—the seat Liam had occupied the night before, now Ryan's.
Dinner commenced under Margaret's orchestration. Conversation centered on a recent Group acquisition. Matthew and Ryan discussed legal minutiae and negotiation tactics. Isabella occasionally interjected about charity gala preparations. Theodore was his usual quiet self, but Amelia noticed his gaze sweep over Ryan several times, thoughtful.
Katherine was unusually animated. Seated beside Amelia, she leaned over frequently to whisper explanations of terms or background. "That gentleman speaking with Mummy is Mr. Smith, one of Wall Street's most notable investors…" "The merger Matthew mentioned, if successful, could boost Group shares by fifteen percent…"
Her voice was soft, her expression sweet, a贴心 guide. But each 'explanation' underscored Amelia's 'ignorance.'
Ryan rarely engaged with Katherine's commentary, but after each burst, he would glance at Amelia and ask, "Anything unclear?"
The question was neutral, but Amelia saw something else in his eyes: not pity, not scrutiny, but a cool assessment, as if evaluating a complex, interesting case.
"Not at the moment, thank you," she would reply.
Midway through the main course, Margaret deftly turned the spotlight.
"Darling, have you tried the gala gown? Does it fit?"
All eyes shifted. Amelia set down her fork, smiling. "Yes, it fits beautifully. Thank you, Margaret."
"I'm so glad." Margaret's expression was one of relief. "I worried about the measurements. It's a custom piece. I chose champagne specifically, thinking it would suit your complexion." She turned to Ryan. "You've no idea, Ryan. When Amelia first arrived, her wardrobe was practically empty. It broke my heart. She must have endured so much, out there all those years."
She was crafting the narrative: the generous stepmother, the pitiful illegitimate daughter.
Ryan lifted his wine glass, swirling it gently. "Everyone has a past, Mrs. Winters. It's the present and future that matter."
A diplomatic answer, but Amelia detected a note of non-commitment. He didn't endorse Margaret's tragic framing.
Katherine chimed in. "Mummy has thought of everything for Amelia. Not just the gown, but French lessons, dance, art… She says we must help Amelia join our world quickly." She turned to Amelia, eyes bright. "Isn't that right, sister?"
Sister. She used the word again, before Ryan.
"Yes," Amelia said. "Margaret and Katherine have been very kind."
"As they should be," Margaret said tenderly. "We are family."
The atmosphere was warm, almost cloyingly so. Amelia felt herself performing in a play, reciting lines written by others.
After dinner, the group moved to the drawing room for coffee and digestifs. Amelia considered excusing herself, but Ryan approached.
"Miss Winters, would you join me to see the gardens? Matthew tells me the winter landscaping here is quite distinctive. I've yet to appreciate it."
An invitation. An opportunity. Amelia glanced at Margaret, who was deep in conversation with Isabella but undoubtedly aware.
"Of course."
They exited through the glass doors leading to the rear terrace. The night garden was a different world. Landscape lighting hidden among shrubs cast soft pools of light, transforming bare branches into intricate silhouettes. The air was crisp; their breath formed pale clouds.
"Cold?" Ryan asked, his voice lower in the darkness.
"A little." She wore only her dinner dress, no wrap.
Ryan removed his suit jacket and offered it. "Here."
She hesitated, then accepted. The wool held his body warmth and a clean, woody scent edged with faint cigar smoke.
"Thank you."
They walked slowly along the gravel path. The silence was companionable. Ryan seemed to be studying the garden, or perhaps his own thoughts.
"Do you play tennis?" he asked abruptly.
Amelia was taken aback. "I used to. Many years ago."
"The Winters have a place in the Hamptons with a decent court. Matthew organizes small tournaments in summer." Ryan's tone was casual, matter-of-fact. "If you'd like to take it up again, I could give you pointers. I'm passable."
It didn't sound like mere politeness. It was too offhand, too natural.
"Why?" Amelia asked, then realized the question might be too direct.
Ryan stopped, turning to face her. Garden light fell across his profile, carving sharp planes of shadow.
"Because," he said slowly, "in this house, everyone needs… space of their own. Tennis could be part of that." He paused. "And I can tell you don't care for dance lessons."
How could he know? A thread of caution wound through her.
"Madame Olga is an excellent teacher," she said carefully. "My foundations are just weak."
Ryan smiled—the first real smile she'd seen from him tonight, though faint. "Madame Olga taught Katherine ballet for ten years. Katherine still gets dizzy doing pirouettes." He resumed walking. "Don't misunderstand. I'm not prying into your schedule. It's just that Margaret's plans… tend to be comprehensive. Tennis is one outdoor activity I thought she might not object to."
He was offering an escape route. One that seemed casual but was likely calculated.
"You know this family well," Amelia observed.
"I've known Matthew for fifteen years." Ryan's tone grew distant. "Watched him evolve from an angry teenager into the… burdened heir he is now. Saw Isabella marry. Saw Theodore leave and return. Saw Katherine grow up." He glanced sideways. "Now, seeing you return."
"Do you think I should have?" Amelia asked. The question crossed a boundary, but she wanted his unvarnished opinion.
Ryan was silent for a long time. They reached the old oak tree, the bench solitary in the dark.
"Should or shouldn't isn't mine to judge," he finally said. "But since you are here, you must find your place. In this family, those without a place… get marginalized. Or consumed."
He spoke calmly, but each word carried weight.
"You're warning me to be careful."
"I'm stating a fact," Ryan corrected. "The Winters are like this garden: orderly on the surface, a tangle of roots below. A new plant must either adapt to the soil, change the soil, or… wither."
He used a botanical metaphor, not a martial one. Amelia noted that.
"What sort of plant do you think I am?" she asked, half in jest.
Ryan looked at her seriously, his eyes dark pools in the night.
"I don't know," he said. "That's what I'm trying to determine."
The sound of the glass door opening came from the house. Katherine's voice floated out. "Ryan? Amelia? Are you out there? Mummy's serving fruit. Would you like some?"
"Coming," Ryan called. Then, lower, to Amelia: "Best return the jacket. No need for Katherine to… speculate."
Amelia handed back the jacket. Its warmth left her shoulders, a small but palpable loss.
They walked back. Katherine stood in the terrace light, wearing a white cashmere cardigan, holding two steaming mugs. Her gaze lingered on the jacket in Ryan's hand for a fraction of a second before her sweet smile returned.
"It's chilly out. I made ginger tea. To warm you up."
She handed a mug to Ryan, another to Amelia. The cup was hot, the pungent scent of ginger sharp.
"Thank you, Katherine," Amelia said.
"Of course." Katherine's eyes darted between them. "Have an interesting chat? The garden's rather dull at night. It's lovely in summer, when the roses bloom."
"Just a walk," Ryan said simply, heading inside.
Katherine fell into step beside Amelia, her voice dropping to a confidential murmur. "Ryan is quite handsome, isn't he? Half the single women in New York would marry him. But his standards are high. All these years, I've never seen him truly serious about anyone."
She was staking an invisible claim, or at least issuing a reminder: This man is not for you.
Back in the drawing room, Margaret was serving fruit. She looked at Amelia warmly. "How were the gardens? Not too cold, I hope?"
"Not at all. They're beautiful," Amelia said.
"Good." Margaret smiled. "Ryan, will you be at next week's gala? The Vanderbilt Spring Ball."
"Yes." Ryan settled into an armchair beside Matthew, his demeanor once more detached. "Matthew's already enlisted me as his plus-one."
"Excellent." Margaret's smile deepened. "With you there, we'll feel easier about Amelia's first major outing."
Weaving another thread in her web, enfolding Amelia into her system of 'care.'
Amelia took her seat, sipping the ginger tea. It was scalding, the ginger's heat stinging her eyes.
She looked up, her gaze meeting Ryan's for a brief moment. He was listening to Matthew, but in that instant, his dark eyes clearly held her reflection.
Then he looked away, as if it were nothing.
But Amelia knew it wasn't.
This evening, she had received two gifts: a gown meant to split, and a jacket that carried warmth.
One was exquisitely wrapped poison. The other, an uncut key.
She wasn't sure which was more dangerous.
Outside, the New York night glittered like a spilled galaxy. Inside this warmly lit mansion, everyone wore masks, spoke their lines, danced a cold, elegant waltz called 'Family.'
Amelia drank the last of her ginger tea, the bitterness and heat lingering long in her throat.