Dawn light sliced through the gap in the heavy drapes, falling across the carpet of the master bedroom at 840 Fifth Avenue. When Emilia awoke, the clamor of the previous night's gala and the chill of the terrace had settled into a low, constant hum of alertness beneath her skin.
She padded barefoot to the window and drew the curtain aside. New York in the morning mist resembled an unfinished grey watercolor, Central Park a smudged green shadow in the distance. In the garden below, the groundskeeper was already at work, carefully removing the white roses that had bloomed for a single, spectacular night and now showed the first signs of wilt. Beauty was always fleeting, especially on a stage so carefully set.
She turned toward the bathroom. The woman in the mirror bore faint shadows under her eyes, but her gaze was clear. Images flashed behind her eyelids: the deep blue dress, Sir John's champagne flute, Chloe's unraveling accusations, the solid warmth of Ryan's arm, Liam's ashen face… She needed to sort through it, to assess, and, most urgently, to plan the next move.
Warm water cascaded over her. Eyes closed, her mind grew razor-sharp.
Margaret's final smile last night—a lake of ice beneath a gentle surface. The stepmother's need for control was like the house's unspoken rules: soft yet unyielding. Yet her obsession with the 'perfect family' facade was a crack in her armor. She could not tolerate public scandal, especially a fissure from within the world she had so meticulously crafted. Kathryn was both her masterpiece and her most sensitive pressure point.
Thinking of Kathryn brought back the image of the girl's brittle smile and simmering resentment. A spoiled princess whose world was black and white, whose love and hate were direct and fragile. Her piano was the brightest jewel in her crown and the most delicate part of her glass heart. Margaret needed only to pluck that string to set her in motion like a wound-up doll.
As for Matthew… the permanent furrow between his brows never truly relaxed. To him, family was asset, people were leverage. The way he looked at her was no different from his appraisal of a potential contract. Appealing to him would require not tears or sentiment, but demonstrable value—value to the family, to the corporation, to his position as heir. A difficult task, but not impossible.
Isabella was a preening peacock, forever arranging her own plumage. Her allegiance might shift with the social winds and the scales of benefit. And Theodore… recalling the chaotic studio and the unfinished portrait, a faint, wry smile touched Emilia's lips. He was the rare one in this house who seemed willing to look at reality, even to appreciate its messiness. His offered olive branch required cautious handling, but it was undeniably significant.
Then there was Ryan. Her fingers seemed to remember the texture of his wool jacket, the strange sense of grounding his words "mind the thorns" had brought. His help had boundaries; his motives were opaque. Yet he offered a patch of shade, however temporary. For now, that was enough.
The most volatile elements were Liam and Chloe. Chloe's hatred was now out in the open, a bomb with its fuse exposed. Liam was caught between fear and guilt; his every fumbled attempt to explain or connect could push Emilia into greater danger. The crack in their marriage needed delicate handling—it must not explode in her face, yet perhaps… it could be leveraged at a crucial moment?
Drying off and dressing in simple beige cashmere and trousers, Emilia felt her thoughts clarify. The charity gala was merely the opening act. She had weathered the first public pressure test, even garnered unexpected attention (for better or worse). But it was not nearly enough.
The impending family dinner. That would be the more direct examination. Margaret would reassert boundaries there. Kathryn would seek to regain lost ground. Matthew and Isabella would watch, detached. She needed to observe their dynamics, find the subtle points of balance. Perhaps, with Theodore, she could solidify that vague understanding into something more tangible.
Her gaze fell on the heavy family history tome on the desk. She needed to absorb its contents faster—not just etiquette and French, but the Winters' history, their business, their web of connections. This was her armor and her map.
Yet learning alone was insufficient. She needed a foothold—a small, specific role within this vast machine. She could not remain forever "the daughter who is learning." She needed a defined duty, a clear acknowledgment, even if it was only managing a minor family archive or assisting with some inconsequential charitable matter. With a foundation, she could plan the next step.
And the next step… Her fingers drifted unconsciously to her throat—where Margaret's diamond necklace had rested, now bare. The dying Emilia's eyes swam in her memory, alongside her father's silent words mouthed through prison glass.
*How did Elizabeth really die?* The elder Winters's fluctuating condition—did his rare moments of clarity hold clues? Carlson's all-seeing yet silent gaze perhaps knew something. The medical records, the old housekeeper's logs, forgotten corners of this mansion… The investigation had to begin, but it must seep out like water into sand, leaving no trace.
As for the goal buried deepest in her heart—her father's wrongful conviction, the names of those who betrayed and framed him—she lacked the strength to reach for it now. That would require external leverage, irrefutable evidence, a flawless opportunity. But the flame of reckoning had not gone out; it was banked, awaiting fuel.
These thoughts swirled, settled, and finally crystallized into a quieter, more resolute light in her eyes. She did not commit them to paper—too dangerous. They were etched into her bones, woven into every breath and choice.
Just then, the bouquet of white roses on the windowsill caught her eye. After a night, they still held their form, though their scent had faded. She walked over, her fingers brushing a petal. The anonymous sender… Ryan's warning echoed.
She picked up her phone and typed a message to the memorized number: *The flowers arrived. Thank you. They're lovely.*
A reply came minutes later: *You're welcome. Mind the thorns.*
So it was him. Emilia set the phone down, looking at those four words. The tightly-strung cord within her seemed to loosen, just a millimeter. In this cold game, at least one person's warnings stemmed from genuine regard.
A knock sounded at the door. Carlson's placid voice followed. "Miss Winters, Mr. Theodore inquires if you might have a moment. He wishes you to see a newly arrived painting in his studio."
Emilia turned, drew a steadying breath, and gathered every scattered thought back into place.
"Of course," she answered, her voice even and calm. "I'll be right there."