Five o'clock in the afternoon. The sunroom.
When the so-called "evening gown" was unfurled across the white-padded table, even Janine, the hairstylist who had seen her share of extravagance, drew a nearly imperceptible, sharp breath.
It was not an elegant champagne-colored gown. It was an arresting, garish spectacle.
The dominant hue was a violently bright fuchsia, threaded with shimmering gold embroidery in a dense, overwhelming pattern of phoenixes and peonies that left scarcely an inch of fabric untouched. The sleeves were absurdly puffed, the neckline plunged alarmingly low, and the skirt was a tiered, cascading affair, encrusted with crystals and sequins that refracted the afternoon light with an almost painful intensity. The overall style was a clumsy, overdone attempt to fuse Eastern motifs with Western courtly fashion, resulting in something that looked cheap and vulgar—more a costume for a disastrous themed party than attire for a top-tier charity gala.
Kathryn brought a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with a perfectly performed 'innocent' astonishment. "Oh my… Mother, this is the dress you chose for Emilia? It's so… so distinctive!" She turned to Emilia, her tone dripping with false excitement. "You must try it on! You'll certainly stand out!"
Margaret stood beside the dress, a gentle, expectant smile gracing her lips. "Darling, I know this is your first event of this caliber. Nerves are natural. I thought a gown with enough grandeur and presence would bolster your confidence. The designer and I collaborated extensively on this. The inspiration came from Eastern elements your mother might have appreciated… What do you think?"
Every word was coated in honeyed poison:
*'For your benefit'*: Using grandeur to combat your supposed 'nerves' and 'insignificance'.
*'To give you presence'*: Implying you inherently lacked it, needing fabric to compensate.
*'Honoring your mother'*: Invoking Elizabeth, saddling refusal with the guilt of disrespecting a dead woman.
*'Extensive collaboration'*: Emphasizing her effort and sacrifice, making rejection seem callous.
If Emilia wore this to the gala, she would instantly become the evening's most 'memorable' joke—a tasteless, gauche, social-climbing bastard child, utterly out of sync with the refined Winters legacy. The whispers would be merciless, yet Margaret would be absolved: *See how hard the stepmother tried to give her the best? The poor girl simply couldn't carry it.*
If Emilia refused, the whispers would begin even earlier: *ungrateful, difficult, spurning a generous gesture.*
A trap with no clean exit.
Emilia's gaze swept slowly over the gown. Her face showed no hint of offense or shock. She even took a step forward, running her fingers lightly over the fabric, feeling the coarse embroidery.
"It is certainly a striking gown," she said, her voice calm. "You've gone to great trouble, Margaret."
Margaret's smile widened. "I'm glad you think so. You must try it on quickly. Time is short."
"However," Emilia lifted her eyes, meeting Margaret's with a gaze of clear, apologetic dilemma, "I fear it might not… suit me."
The air in the room tightened, just slightly.
Kathryn jumped in immediately, her tone 'concerned'. "Why wouldn't it suit you? Mother chose it specially! Don't you appreciate her thoughtfulness?" She was already escalating.
The warmth in Margaret's smile cooled a degree, tinged with a artful dash of hurt and confusion. "Emilia, is something not to your liking? The color? The style? Or does it seem not formal enough? We can have it altered at once…"
"No, it isn't a problem with the gown itself," Emilia shook her head, her tone earnest. "It's a problem with me. This dress requires too much… command. Too much innate presence to carry it off. And I…" She paused, lowering her eyelids slightly, her voice soft yet clear, "I am newly returned. Naturally apprehensive about such an occasion. If I wore something so overwhelmingly conspicuous, my anxiety might lead to a misstep. That would truly betray your kindness in presenting me, your hope for me to blend in."
She had reframed 'rejection' as 'consideration for the family' and 'appreciation for a stepmother's intent.'
She looked up, her eyes holding a sincere plea. "Please forgive my timidity, Margaret. Perhaps for a first appearance, something simpler, more understated, would allow me to focus on etiquette and conversation, rather than worrying every moment if I am worthy of such splendor. I could not bear the thought of my own unease casting the slightest shadow on the Winters name."
*Masterful.* A strategic retreat, using perceived weakness as a shield. She had elevated a clash of taste to a matter of 'family honor' and 'personal equilibrium.'
Margaret had clearly not anticipated this response. The refusal was packaged so impeccably that her prepared expressions of 'wounded feelings' and 'disappointment' had nowhere to land. Her finely shaped brows drew together slightly, the disappointment in her eyes turning genuine—the frustration of a thwarted plan.
"But… preparing another gown now would be nearly impossible," Margaret fretted, glancing toward the garment rack where Kathryn's simple white cocktail dress and Isabella's silver sheath hung. "If you wouldn't mind, perhaps one of my older gowns? Though the fit might be…"
An old gown? Wearing a stepmother's cast-off to a significant event? That itself was an insult.
"Please, don't trouble yourself," Emilia said suddenly. She walked to the window and picked up a plain, grey garment bag she had brought in with her. "Actually… I prepared a simple dress of my own. I thought it might be too informal, but given the time constraints, perhaps it could serve?"
The focus in the room snapped to the unassuming bag.
Emilia unzipped it and drew out the contents.
It was a dress. Of utterly simple cut, devoid of any ornament.
The fabric was a deep ocean-blue silk crepe, so rich it was nearly black, yet it held a latent, shifting sheen in the light. The style was a slip dress: slender spaghetti straps, a deep V-neckline that was daring yet classically restrained, perfectly framing the collarbones. The bodice fell in a fluid, columnar drape, cinched only by a slim, self-fabric belt at the natural waist. A high slit climbed one side to mid-thigh, hinting at a leg line with each step.
No sequins. No embroidery. No architectural fuss. Only extreme simplicity, superlative fabric, and flawless cut.
It stood in devastating contrast to the fuchsia 'battle dress'—one screamed with garish effort, the other spoke with quiet authority; one tried to prove with accumulation, the other expressed with essence.
Silence reclaimed the room.
Kathryn's mouth had fallen slightly ajar. The question '*You* prepared this?' died in her throat. The dress's taste level… shattered her conception of the 'Midwestern rube.'
Margaret's pupils contracted almost imperceptibly. She recognized the quality of that fabric and cut. This was not department store merchandise, nor even the work of an ordinary designer. It required excellent judgment and a profound understanding of one's own bearing.
"This dress…" Margaret began slowly, her tone layered.
"I had it made just before leaving Illinois," Emilia said, stroking the smooth fabric, her gaze turning distant, as if remembering. "At a very small atelier in Chicago. A final indulgence with my last bit of savings. The designer believed clothes should serve the person wearing them. I wanted… one thing that would make me feel like myself." She attributed its origin to her 'past'—plausible and poignant.
She raised her eyes to Margaret again, her look soft yet resolute. "Margaret, I am truly grateful for all you've done. Tonight, please allow me to wear this dress—my own dress—as Emilia Winters's first step. I believe Father, if he could see, would wish for me to appear before everyone as my most authentic, most comfortable self."
Invoking the elder Winters once more, placing 'authenticity' and 'comfort' above 'opulence,' claiming the emotional and philosophical high ground.
Margaret was silent for a full ten seconds. She knew she had lost this skirmish. Emilia had not only sidestepped the trap but had constructed a more compelling, more difficult-to-refute narrative. To insist now would seem petty, unfeeling, even disrespectful to the 'wishes of the departed' (Elizabeth) and the 'desires of the infirm' (the elder Winters).
Finally, she released a sigh laden with 'resignation' and 'forbearance.' "Very well, darling. You're right. Confidence and comfort are paramount." She stepped forward and embraced Emilia lightly. "It was my oversight, thinking only of giving you the best, without understanding your true preferences. Forgive me?"
She abandoned the dress battleground with decisive grace, seizing instead the moral high ground of 'the magnanimous, self-correcting matriarch.'
"Of course. You are family," Emilia returned the embrace, her voice gentle.
Kathryn watched, her complexion flushing then paling. Her anticipated spectacle had vanished. Instead, Emilia had somehow managed to command attention with a 'plain' dress (in her view)! She couldn't help muttering, "But… it's so plain! Won't it seem like you're not taking the event seriously at the gala?"
Before Emilia could answer, Margaret gently corrected her daughter. "Kathryn, taste is not measured by adornment. Emilia's choice is… distinctive." She turned to the stylists. "Sophie, Janine, time is of the essence. Please design Emilia's hair and makeup to complement this dress. We must highlight her serene composure."
"Yes, Madam."
The battle, for now, was over. Emilia resumed her seat before the mirror and closed her eyes. She could feel the complex weight of Margaret and Kathryn's gazes on her back. She could also sense a new, subtle wariness in the way Sophie and Janine attended to her.
When the makeup was complete and Emilia stood before the full-length mirror in the deep blue dress, even she experienced a moment of disorientation.
The blue turned her pale skin to cold porcelain. The slender straps accentuated fine but defined shoulders and arms. The V-neck offered a hint of allure with elegant restraint. The high slit introduced a breathtaking elegance and a whisper of calculated sensuality with each movement. The dress, devoid of distraction, focused all attention on *her*—on her face, her eyes, her straight spine and poised bearing.
Sophie had applied a nearly nude makeup palette, emphasizing only liner and lashes, with a muted rosewood tint on the lips. Janine had swept Emilia's hair into a severely simple, sleek low chignon, not a strand out of place, baring the full length of her neck and the clean lines of her face. At her ears, she wore the diamond studs 'loaned' by Margaret—tiny points of light, the only adornment, and all the more effective for it.
Simple. Sophisticated. Potent. It stood in stark, deliberate contrast to the精致华丽 style of the other Winters women, yet it created a strangely more formidable presence.
Kathryn stared at Emilia's reflection, her fingers unconsciously clutching the fabric of her own expensive white cocktail dress. She looked like a petite princess, but beside that dark blue silhouette, she suddenly seemed… juvenile and contrived.
Margaret's eyes were unreadable pools. She herself fastened the diamond necklace around Emilia's neck. The cold stones settled against the dark blue silk, blazing brilliantly. "Lovely," she murmured, her tone inscrutable. "You will be remembered, Emilia."
"I shall endeavor to represent the family well," Emilia smiled.
Before their departure, Margaret drew Kathryn aside, ostensibly for last-minute instructions. Emilia caught only fragments: "…change of plans… proceed with option two… let her have the spotlight for now… the higher the rise…"
Emilia lowered her gaze, smoothing a nonexistent crease in her skirt.
The first round, she had won the immediate field.
But the gala was just beginning. The true contest still lay ahead.