In the three days preceding the gala, the Winters residence transformed into a precision instrument, every cog accelerating its turn.
At seven a.m., Amelia was awakened by footsteps in the hallway, more hurried than usual. Drawing back the curtains, she saw gardeners below replacing plants in the flower beds—uprooting hardy but plain holly bushes and setting in their place white roses, freshly delivered from the greenhouse, buds tightly closed. White, the theme color for the Vanderbilt charity gala.
"Extravagant," she murmured to herself. These roses had been cultivated in the greenhouse for at least three months, destined to bloom for a single night before being discarded.
A knock sounded at her door, half an hour earlier than usual.
"Miss Winters, apologies for the disturbance." It was Anna, the young maid recently assigned to her. "Madame requests your presence in her sitting room at nine this morning to discuss final details for the gala."
"Understood. Thank you."
Amelia washed, dressed, and chose a simple ivory knit dress. In the mirror, her face remained pale, but the weariness in her eyes had been replaced by a cool vigilance. She hadn't seen Ryan in these three days, but he had sent over a beginner's tennis guide. On the flyleaf was a handwritten note: "Hope this is of use." The book was new, but the page edges showed signs of handling—clearly not a casually purchased gift.
At nine sharp, she knocked on the door to Margaret's sitting room.
"Come in, darling."
Margaret wore a pale grey silk lounging set, her hair loosely pinned up. She was reviewing a thick leather-bound folder. The room smelled of breakfast coffee and fresh-cut flowers. A real fire crackled softly in the fireplace.
"Sit." Margaret closed the folder, offering a gentle smile. "Regarding the gala, we need to finalize a few details."
Amelia sat on the velvet sofa opposite. The coffee table held a delicate tea service and an open tablet displaying the gala's seating chart.
"First, your arrival time." Margaret turned the tablet toward her. "The Winters will arrive in two groups. Matthew and Ryan, as Group representatives, will arrive an hour early for a small meeting with key donors. Myself, Isabella, Katherine, and you will arrive thirty minutes before the official start—the most appropriate time for the ladies of the house. It avoids appearing overly eager, yet prevents any discourtesy of lateness."
Her finger traced the screen, zooming in on the ballroom layout. "Our table is the first to the right of the Vanderbilt family's main table. Your seat is here—" her fingertip landed on a spot, "—between Katherine and Ryan."
Amelia studied the placement. Katherine to her left, Ryan to her right. A clever arrangement.
"Katherine will be with you throughout," Margaret continued, her tone light. "She'll introduce you to important figures and remind you of finer points of etiquette. As for Ryan…" she paused, her smile turning nuanced, "…he is excellent company, but remember, the gala's focus is socializing, not private conversation. Do not monopolize his time. He will need to greet many people."
She was drawing a boundary: Ryan was a public resource, not private property.
"I understand," Amelia said.
"Next, individuals requiring particular attention." Margaret opened the folder, extracting a printed list annotated in elegant cursive. "These are the thirty most significant guests tonight. Katherine has already helped you memorize their faces and basic backgrounds, correct?"
"Yes." Katherine had indeed spent days showing her photographs of social luminaries, like a memory card game.
"Excellent." Margaret nodded, satisfied. "But a few require special handling." Her finger glided over several names. "Mrs. Vanderbilt, Chloe's grandmother. Eighty-five, hard of hearing. Speak slightly louder when addressing her, but not overtly so. She enjoys compliments on her orchid collection—though the gardeners do all the work."
"Sir John Aston, the British collector. Do not initiate art discourse unless he does first. He despises pretension."
"Lillian Chester, society page editor. Be impeccably polite, but reveal nothing personal. A column from her can make or break a reputation."
Each name came with a 'helpful tip' that was, in essence, a directive for control.
Finally, Margaret's finger stopped on a name: Liam Carter.
Her expression didn't change, but her voice softened slightly.
"Mr. Carter and his wife Chloe, whom you met at dinner. They are core members of the Vanderbilt circle and old friends of our family." She looked up, meeting Amelia's eyes. "Liam is extraordinarily perceptive. He may ask… direct questions. If he inquires about your past or your impressions of New York, simply offer a polite smile, say 'I'm still adjusting,' and deflect to Katherine. She will handle it."
She was teaching her how to evade, to conceal.
"And Chloe?" Amelia asked, keeping her tone merely curious.
"Chloe…" Margaret sighed softly, the sound carrying a trace of indulgent fondness. "…is a spoiled child, but not unkind. She may ask about your dress, your jewelry—idle girl-talk. Simply praise her choices. She adores compliments."
She was teaching her how to flatter.
Amelia's gaze returned to the seating chart. Her seat was three tables away from Liam and Chloe's—far enough to avoid awkwardness, close enough to remain within sight.
"Finally, details of conduct." Margaret closed the folder, leaning forward in a confiding posture. "I know the schedule has been demanding. But remember, at a gala, poise and your smile matter most. Use the wrong fork, no one will correct you. But if you appear tense, ill-at-ease, out of place—everyone will see it."
She reached out and took Amelia's hand. Her hands were warm, soft, adorned with a large diamond wedding band.
"Darling, I know this is difficult for you. But trust that Katherine and I will be right beside you. We are family. We will protect you."
Her eyes were so sincere, her words so warm, they nearly made Amelia forget the sabotaged gown, the deliberate humiliations in French class, Katherine's 'casual' remarks to the dance instructor about her 'woeful foundations.'
Nearly.
"Thank you, Margaret." Amelia returned the handclasp, keeping her own palm dry, betraying no dampness of nerves. "I will do my best."
"I know you will." Margaret released her hand, her smile vernal. "Now, go try your full gala look. The hairstylist and makeup artist are waiting in the sunroom."
The sunroom had been converted into a dressing room. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors rimmed with bulbs stood before each window. A long table held countless bottles, brushes, curling irons, and styling tools. Two young women waited—one blonde, one brunette, both in black uniforms, expressions professionally detached.
"This is Sophie, makeup." Katherine appeared in the doorway, already in a white silk robe, her hair turbaned in a towel. "And Jenny, hairstylist. They are Mummy's personal team, here especially for you today."
Especially. Again.
"Thank you for your time," Amelia said.
"Please sit, Miss Winters." Sophie gestured to the central chair, then studied Amelia's face intently, gently tilting her chin side to side. "Your skin has good texture, just a bit dry. Tonight's look should be natural and luminous, emphasizing your eyes…"
She began her work, movements as practiced as a sculptor's. Foundation, concealer, eyeshadow, mascara… each product applied sparingly, her touch light. Amelia closed her eyes, feeling the brushes glide, inhaling the blended scents of cosmetics.
Nearby, Jenny assessed her hair.
"Some damage, but good length." Her voice was cooler than Sophie's. "Mrs. Winters suggested a low chignon to complement the gown. However, a slightly looser style with face-framing pieces might be softer."
"Best follow Mummy's suggestion," Katherine interjected from her own chair, where an assistant applied a facial treatment. "It's Amelia's first major event. A classic chignon is safer. No room for error."
She was making the decision for her.
Amelia opened her eyes, meeting Katherine's gaze in the mirror. "What do you think, Sophie?"
The makeup artist's hand hesitated, clearly unprepared for the question. "Both are suitable. The chignon is more elegant, the looser style more youthful."
"Then the chignon it is," Amelia said. "As Margaret suggested."
She chose compliance. In inconsequential matters, compliance could build trust—or at least lull vigilance.
As the makeup was finishing, the sunroom door opened. Margaret entered, now dressed for afternoon engagements, holding a deep blue velvet jewelry box.
"Let me see." She came to stand behind Amelia, hands resting lightly on her shoulders, studying her reflection.
The made-up Amelia seemed transformed. Her pallor was evened to a radiant glow, her eye makeup accentuating their shape and hue, her lips a soft rose-mauve that brightened her face without being bold. She was still herself, yet refined, more fitting of a 'Miss Winters.'
"Perfect." Margaret nodded, pleased. "Sophie, your skill is unparalleled." She opened the jewelry box. "Now, for these."
Inside lay a diamond necklace. The design was simple, but each stone was perfectly cut, scattering brilliant fire in the sunlight. Matching earrings and a bracelet completed the set.
"This is…" Amelia hesitated.
"On loan." Margaret lifted the necklace and fastened it herself. The cool diamonds settled against her collarbone, a palpable weight. "A gift from William, early in our marriage. I seldom wear it. But tonight is significant. You need a piece that commands respect."
She stepped back to admire the effect. "It suits you beautifully. The diamonds will catch the light against the champagne gown without being ostentatious."
Amelia studied her reflection. The diamonds sparkled at her throat, emphasizing the length of her neck, the line of her collarbones. Beautiful, but like a mannequin in a window, every detail curated by another.
"It's too valuable," she said. "I'd fear losing…"
"You won't." Margaret gently cut her off. "You'll take care, won't you? And wearing this, everyone will know you are a daughter acknowledged by the Winters family."
The words held layered meaning. Acknowledgment was conditional. Guard the jewels, perform flawlessly, then you are an acknowledged daughter.
"Thank you," Amelia said.
"Not at all." Margaret turned to Katherine. "Have you selected your jewelry?"
"Yes." Katherine stood, her complexion glowing from her treatment. "The pearl set. It complements my shorter dress." She moved to stand beside Amelia, viewing their paired reflections. "Mummy, don't we look like true sisters?"
Margaret smiled, drawing both girls into a light embrace. "You are true sisters."
The scene was picture-perfect, magazine-cover material. Within Margaret's embrace, Amelia breathed in the dense perfume and felt a faint, smothering pressure.
By four p.m. on the day of the gala, the tension in the house was at its peak.
Amelia stood before her dressing mirror for a final inspection. The champagne silk glowed softly in the late afternoon light. The altered seam at her waist appeared flawless. Taking a shallow breath, she felt the hidden black elastic straps secured within the lining—her secret insurance.
The jewelry box sat on the nightstand, diamonds glittering silently against velvet. That morning, Margaret had sent up silver heels with needle-thin stilettos, high enough to trip the unwary.
She took a few trial steps. The shoes fit, but each step demanded caution. She recalled Madame Olga's words: "High heels are a woman's weapon. But first, you must not be wounded by your own armament."
A knock. This time, Carson.
"Miss Winters, your flowers have arrived."
He held a white box stamped with the logo of a renowned florist. Opening it, Amelia found a bouquet of white roses, stems bound with a silver-grey ribbon. A card was attached.
No signature, just a printed line: "Wishing you a pleasant evening."
"Who sent them?" she asked.
"The florist cited an anonymous order," Carson replied, but his eyes held something indecipherable. "Shall I dispose of them?"
"No." Amelia lifted the bouquet. The blooms were fresh, dewdrops on the petals, their scent delicate. "Please arrange them in a vase."
"Yes, miss."
After Carson left, Amelia studied the flowers. Anonymous? In this house, nothing was truly anonymous. The sender knew she would wonder, speculate, feel unsettled.
Ryan? Theodore? Or… Liam?
Or perhaps, another test from Margaret or Katherine?
She placed the roses on the windowsill. In the fading light, they seemed pure, innocent. But she knew roses had thorns.
At five, Katherine knocked. She was partially prepared, her hair in large curls, makeup immaculate, wearing a white silk robe.
"Mummy sent me to check on your progress." She entered, her gaze swiftly inventorying the room—the gown on the bed, the jewelry box, the roses on the sill. "Who sent the flowers?"
"Anonymous," Amelia said.
"Anonymous?" Katherine's eyebrow arched. She walked to the window, inhaling the scent. "Superb quality. Likely from that established shop on the Upper East Side." Turning, her smile turned playful. "A secret admirer, perhaps? Ryan?"
"I don't know," Amelia answered honestly.
"If it is him, that would be intriguing." Katherine sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers absently stroking the gown's tulle. "Though Ryan is always thoughtful. It may simply be courtesy." She paused. "Oh, Mummy asked me to remind you: if anyone at the gala inquires about your past, say you 'lived quietly in Illinois, studying art.' Avoid specifics about work. Some hold… prejudices about service industry experience."
Another reminder. Another framing of her past as a stain to conceal.
"I'll remember," Amelia said.
"Good." Katherine stood and approached, reaching to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Amelia's ear. "Don't be nervous, sister. I'll be right beside you tonight. Remember: smile, nod, speak little. No one expects a speech. They only want to see what you look like."
Her tone was so caring, yet every word diminished Amelia's worth: you are an exhibit, requiring no thought, no voice.
"Thank you, Katherine."
"Of course." Katherine checked her watch. "Final touch-ups at six-thirty. Dress at seven. Departure at seven-thirty. It's tight. Try to rest."
After she left, Amelia sat in the armchair by the window. The sun was sinking, gilding New York's skyline in crimson and gold. In the distance, Central Park's trees blurred into shadows as the city's lights began to sparkle awake.
She thought of the real Amelia. The girl coughing blood in the hospital bed, her eyes blazing. "Take what should have been mine. Or ruin it."
She wouldn't ruin it. She would take it. But not by begging or snatching.
She would make them give it willingly.
The white roses on the sill trembled in the evening breeze, their petals already beginning to curl at the edges. Even the loveliest flower, severed from its roots, would not survive the night.
But some people, even with severed roots, could take root again in foreign soil.
Amelia stood, walked to the jewelry box, and put on the diamond earrings. The cold metal against her lobes was heavy, like a silent vow.
The woman in the mirror looked back, her gaze steady, the corners of her mouth lifted in the faintest, nearly imperceptible curve.
It was not a nervous smile. Nor an ingratiating one.
It was a hunter's calm acknowledgment before entering the field.
Night deepened. The evening of perfume and polished gatherings was about to begin. Beneath the dazzling lights, invisible threads were drawn taut. Every step could be a trap. Every smile, a disguise.
Amelia Winters—or rather, Vivian Ellwood—took one final, steadying breath.
The stage was set.
It was time to step into the light.