Kathryn Winters's birthday, like a stone cast into the seemingly placid waters of 840 Fifth Avenue, sent out ripples far wider than anticipated.
The invitations arrived at breakfast, delivered personally by Carlson to each person's place. Thick ivory cardstock, edged with a fine line of gold foil, announced in elegant script a dinner to celebrate Kathryn's twenty-second year, to be held in the mansion's ballroom. Attire: evening wear.
Emilia held her invitation, fingertips tracing the paper's fine grain and the subtle raise of the gilded edge. At the other end of the table, Kathryn pretended nonchalance with her own card, yet the triumphant gleam in her eyes at being the center of this carefully orchestrated universe was unmistakable. Margaret was gently advising her daughter on which friends required a personal call, which gifts would necessitate specific thank-you notes.
"Emilia," Margaret turned suddenly, her smile beneficent, "you're her sister. Attending her first birthday here… she's so looking forward to it." She paused, as if adding a considerate afterthought. "I know you're newly returned, funds might be tight. If you need any assistance…"
"Thank you, Margaret," Emilia set the invitation down, her voice level. "I will prepare a suitable gift for Kathryn."
*Suitable gift.* The words echoed in her mind. For a girl like Kathryn, raised on a diet of luxury, what constituted 'suitable'? Something inexpensive would seem dismissive, churlish. Something beyond her means was impossible, and besides, she refused to use Winters money to purchase this particular 'sentiment'.
A thought emerged, cold and precise.
Back in her room, she opened the jewelry box she never used—the one belonging to 'Emilia'. Inside lay the pieces Margaret had 'loaned' for appearances: the diamond suite from the charity gala, a pair of pearl studs, a delicate platinum bracelet scattered with tiny diamonds. Each piece valuable, each bearing the invisible stamp of the stepmother's calculated benevolence.
Her gaze settled on the diamond bracelet. A simple design, the stones not overly large but of excellent cut and clarity. It would fetch a decent sum on its own. More importantly, it was less recognizable than the matched set.
She placed the bracelet carefully into a plain black velvet pouch. Her heart beat a rapid rhythm against her ribs, but her fingers were steady. This wasn't theft. It was… a necessary conversion of resources. Transforming her stepmother's 'kindness' into the capital needed to survive and navigate this house.
That afternoon, citing the need to 'purchase a birthday gift', she informed Carlson she was going out. The old管家 asked no questions, merely arranging for a discreet black car and driver.
"Madison Avenue," she told the driver, then gave an address—one Theodore had 'casually' mentioned during a past conversation. A highly reputable, fiercely discreet pre-owned jewelry boutique in the Upper East Side, rumored to be where the elite quietly disposed of pieces they no longer wished to wear publicly.
The shop front was supremely understated: dark grey stone, a brass plaque, a window displaying only two or three antique pieces glowing under soft spotlights. A bell chimed softly as she entered. The air smelled of old wood, velvet, and a faint trace of perfume—like time carefully preserved.
Behind the counter stood a silver-haired gentleman, impeccably groomed, wearing white gloves. He looked up, his gaze professional and utterly devoid of curiosity or judgment.
Emilia placed the black pouch on the deep green velvet pad. "I'd like to inquire about this piece."
The gentleman fitted a loupe to his eye, using tweezers to lift the bracelet for inspection. A moment later, he named a figure. Slightly lower than she'd estimated, but within reason. She did not haggle, merely nodded.
The transaction was quiet, efficient. Cash was handed over in a plain envelope. It held a modest weight in the bottom of her purse. The bracelet would await its next owner here, a tangible link to the Winters household quietly severed.
As she turned to leave, her gaze swept a glass display case against the wall. It held an assortment of less remarkable antique pieces: a brooch with a dulled opal, a worn silver pendant, several rings.
One ring made her feet root to the floor.
A sapphire ring. The central stone was not large, but its color was an intense, velvety royal blue, minimally cut into an antique cushion shape, surrounded by a circle of tiny old European-cut diamonds. The platinum setting bore the fine scratches of age. It lay on its black velvet bed like a single, congealed tear of deepest blue.
*Her mother's ring.*
Vivian Ellwood could almost hear the blood rushing in her ears. A flood of memory fragments surged: her mother's warm finger wearing this ring as she smoothed Vivian's hair; her father joking on an anniversary that the sapphire matched her mother's eyes; the day of her own wedding, her mother slipping it onto her finger with the words, "May it guard your happiness"… Later, in her stubborn determination to be with Liam, needing funds for his expensive supplements and quiet retreat during his stressful exam preparations, she had secretly taken it to a pawnshop. The pawnbroker's indifferent face and the thin stack of bills he'd handed over still made her stomach clench.
She had thought it lost forever, dissolved into the anonymous stream of commerce or melted down. Yet here it was, separated from her by cold glass, staring back in silent accusation.
"That ring…" Her voice was dry. She pointed.
The silver-haired gentleman followed her gaze. "Ah, the late 19th-century sapphire. Came in just a few days ago. Fine condition. An excellent stone. Are you interested?"
"May I see it?"
He unlocked the case, using tweezers to place the ring on the pad before her. Up close, the blue was even more profound, holding depths like a captured piece of night sky. The diamonds, though small, still held fire. Inside the band was a faint, nearly illegible inscription, worn by time. Vivian knew it bore her parents' initials.
Her fingertip trembled, hovering near the cool stone.
"I'll take the ring." A low male voice spoke suddenly behind her.
Emilia whirled.
Ryan Donovan stood in the shop doorway, backlit, his form tall and straight. He seemed to have just entered, his eyes moving from the ring on the pad to Emilia's abruptly pale face.
The gentleman looked from Emilia to Ryan, a professional dilemma on his face. "The young lady expressed interest first…"
"I'm purchasing it." Ryan stepped forward, producing a black credit card from his inner jacket pocket and placing it on the counter. The action was decisive, brooking no argument. "Please wrap it."
"Wait!" The word burst from Emilia, laced with an urgency she hadn't intended. "That ring… it has particular significance for me. It was my…"
She stopped herself. She couldn't say it. Not here, not as Emilia Winters, speaking of Vivian Ellwood's past.
Ryan looked at her. His deep-set eyes held no discernible emotion, only calm assessment. "Significance?" he repeated, his tone flat. "Miss Winters has an interest in antique jewelry as well?"
He was reminding her of her role, and probing.
Emilia forced composure. She couldn't fight him for it, couldn't make a scene. "I merely… find it striking. The color is exceptional." She struggled to make her voice sound like mere appreciation.
"It is," Ryan agreed, yet he took the small, dark blue box the gentleman had finished wrapping. "So now, it is mine." He turned as if to leave.
A mix of despair, anger, and fierce denial seized Emilia. She couldn't watch her mother's ring vanish again. She hurried after him, catching up just outside the shop.
"Mr. Donovan." She stepped in front of him, tilting her face up to meet his eyes. The afternoon sun highlighted the faint tremor in her lashes and the storm held tightly in check beneath. "Please, let me have the ring. Whatever you paid, I will… I will reimburse you." She clutched her purse, feeling the weight of the cash from the bracelet and the scant dignity she had left.
Ryan halted, looking down at her. His shadow fell over her, imposing. The sounds of traffic and pedestrians seemed to recede.
"Reimburse me?" A slight arch of his brow. His tone was unreadable—mocking or curious. "With Winters money? Or with the proceeds from the bracelet?" His glance flickered toward her purse.
Emilia froze. Had he seen? Or merely guessed?
"This ring," Ryan held up the small box, examining it in the sunlight, "its meaning to you… is it truly that profound? Profound enough to ask this of me?" The question was softly spoken, yet it struck her like a physical blow.
Emilia's jaw tightened, the taste of iron on her tongue. He was pushing, forcing her to reveal more. But she had no retreat.
"Yes." The word was stark, her gaze stubborn and clear. "It was my mother's. I lost it. I want it back."
It wasn't a lie, only a careful blurring of which 'mother' she meant. The man before her seemed to understand the distinction.
Ryan fell silent. He studied her, his gaze complex as it moved over her features, as if recognizing something, or weighing a decision. Seconds stretched, each one pulling Emilia's hopes lower.
Just as she was about to surrender, Ryan extended his hand, offering her the dark blue box.
"Take it."
Emilia stared, disbelief holding her motionless.
"On one condition." His voice was low. "Tell me, why today? Why here?" His eyes were sharp, allowing no evasion. "Don't say 'it was chance'. You sold Margaret's bracelet, came here, saw this ring. Is all of that truly coincidence?"
He was demanding truth, or a fragment of it.
Emilia took the small box, still warm from his hand, and held it tightly. The sapphire's hard facets pressed against her palm through the velvet, a tangible reality. She lifted her eyes to meet his probing look.
"I needed funds for Kathryn's gift. The bracelet was the quickest solution." She offered this partial truth, her tone matter-of-fact. "I came here because Theodore mentioned the shop's discretion. Seeing the ring…" she paused, her voice dropping, "was either a cruel trick of fate, or… a sliver of mercy. I don't know."
It was a half-truth, but the pain and complex relief in her eyes were undeniably real.
Ryan watched her for a long moment, so long she thought he would press further. Finally, he gave a slight nod, as if accepting this incomplete answer.
"The gift," he shifted topics abruptly, his tone resuming its usual detachment, "instead of something ostentatious, give something considered. Kathryn lacks for nothing material."
Was it advice, or a warning? Emilia had no time to dissect it.
"Thank you," she said, the gratitude sincere—for the ring, and for the oblique counsel.
Ryan said nothing more. He turned and walked toward a car idling at the curb. After a few steps, he glanced back. "The ring suits you. More than the bracelet ever did."
Then he was gone, leaving Emilia standing alone on the early autumn street, a reclaimed treasure clenched in her hand, her emotions a roiling, indistinct tumult.
Back at the Winters mansion, before she could process the afternoon's upheaval, a knock sounded at her door.
Kathryn stood there, changed into pink loungewear, her hair in a messy bun, her face wearing a performance of cheerful intimacy. She held an ornately bound score.
"Emilia! You're back!" Kathryn's voice was artificially bright. She entered without invitation. "I'm choosing my piece for the birthday dinner. I've settled on Liszt's *La Campanella*. But some passages feel… tricky. You…" she blinked, thrusting the music forward, her tone artless, "…could you take a look? See if you can make sense of it?"
It was delivered with such practiced innocence, yet her eyes glittered with unconcealed anticipation of a stumble. She offered the score like tossing a toy to a child.
Emilia glanced at the music. Liszt's *La Campanella*, famed for its diabolical technical demands and brilliant effect, a jewel in the crown of piano virtuosity. Kathryn's choice was a clear bid to dazzle.
She took the score without opening it. "*La Campanella*. Liszt's transcription of a Paganini violin piece. It demands fiendish precision in finger independence, octaves, and leaps—especially the rapid repeated notes in the middle section, imitating bells. They test clarity and dynamic control to the limit. Emotionally, it's more than mere display. It requires capturing a sense of playful, almost spectral brilliance. Immensely difficult. But if mastered, the effect is breathtaking."
She spoke evenly, her terminology precise, without hesitation. She identified the core challenges and pointed toward the expressive depth beyond mere technique. These were not the words of someone who 'couldn't make sense of it'.
Kathryn's smile stiffened. Her prepared condescension and veiled mockery lodged in her throat. She stared at Emilia, searching for signs of a bluff, finding only composed assurance.
A flush of anger, mixed with embarrassment at having her ostentatious choice so clinically dissected, spread across Kathryn's face. She snatched the score back, her voice sharpening. "Who asked for a lecture? You talk as if you could actually play it!" Her fingers clenched on the stiff pages, knuckles white. Then, under Emilia's calm regard, she ripped the score violently in two.
*Riiip.*
The sound was shockingly loud in the quiet room. Kathryn hurled the torn halves to the floor, chest heaving, her glare venomous. "I won't play it! I'll choose something else! But listen to me, Emilia—" She stepped closer, her face inches away, her lowered voice thick with malice. "At my dinner, I will wear jewelry Mother had specially designed for me. Every piece chosen by Father and her, for *me*! I will make sure everyone sees exactly who the true, cherished daughter of this house is! You? You can stand in your dreary grey dress in the corner and watch!"
She finished by shoving past Emilia, shoulder hard against hers, and slammed the door on her way out.
Emilia swayed from the impact, steadying herself. She looked down at the two halves of the ornate score lying on the dark carpet, Liszt's notes scattered like a silent requiem.
Slowly, she knelt, gathered the pieces, and smoothed their curled edges. The paper was thick, the tear ragged.
Kathryn hadn't just torn a book of music. She had shredded her own intolerable sense of a threatened superiority, and issued her most direct declaration of war against this suddenly-present 'sister'.
Emilia placed the ruined score on her desk and walked to the window. The setting sun cast a warm, gilded light over the room, failing to dispel the cold settling within her.
She opened her hand. The deep blue sapphire ring lay in her palm, catching the dying light with an ancient, secretive fire.
On one side, torn music and a brazen challenge. On the other, a reclaimed treasure and enigmatic, shrouded assistance.
This house would forever subject her to its alternating fires and frost.
She closed her fingers over the ring. The cool, hard stone bit into her flesh—a sharp, grounding pain, and a reminder of what was real.