The chandeliers in the ballroom were too bright, harsh on the eyes.
When Amelia—or rather, Vivian—slipped out through the side door, no one turned to watch her go. Even the Comtesse de Durand, who had spoken in her defense moments before, was now encircled by a cluster of society matrons, engaged in murmured conversation punctuated by restrained laughter.
The marble corridor was cold as ice. The sharp tap of her heels echoed with each step, a steady, solitary rhythm counting down… to what?
"Am—"
A voice from behind her, cut off abruptly.
She stopped walking but didn't turn. The gilded mirror frames along the wall reflected Liam's face—familiar, yet foreign. He stood not far away, one hand half-raised, lips parted as if words had caught in his throat. Chloe clung to his arm, turned slightly toward a middle-aged politician, her fingertips idly tracing the fabric of her husband's sleeve.
In the mirror, Liam's eyes were locked on her.
They held too much—panic, confusion, a barely suppressed, frantic need for confirmation. His Adam's apple bobbed once, twice. In the end, nothing came out. Only his free hand slowly clenched into a fist at his side, knuckles whitening to a sickly shade.
Vivian shifted her gaze and continued walking.
*Strange*, she thought. The man who had once stood in a courtroom, eloquent and cold, spinning her father's ruin into a tale of "managerial failure," hadn't mustered the courage to utter a single word tonight.
At the end of the corridor were the glass doors leading to the garden. The night breeze slipped through the cracks, carrying the cold, sweet scent of roses and dew. She reached for the handle—
"Amelia?"
The voice was soft, as if afraid to startle something.
Vivian stilled her hand and turned. A figure emerged from the shadows at the other end of the passage.
A young man. Tall, slender, impeccably dressed in a deep grey evening suit, the collar of his white shirt buttoned all the way up. The light from the wall sconces fell on his face, revealing pleasant, refined features—thick eyebrows, light brown eyes, a straight nose, thin lips with a clean line. Not strikingly handsome, but possessing a clean-cut, scholarly air.
She didn't recognize him.
"You don't remember me?" He took two steps forward, stopping at a polite distance. "I'm Alexander Harrington."
*Harrington.*
The name clicked instantly in Vivian's mind. The Harrington family—old East Coast money, roots in shipping and real estate, making recent waves in tech investments. When she was Vivian, she'd heard the name in society columns and over tea with friends. The girls would giggle, lowering their voices: "That Harrington heir, looks a bit like a young Hugh Grant, don't you think? So terribly proper."
"Alexander." She nodded, her tone as even as if reciting a stranger's name. "It's been a long time."
Alexander visibly faltered.
He had imagined many versions of this reunion—Amelia in tears, Amelia hurling accusations, Amelia turning her back in cold dismissal. Those were the actions of the willful, spirited girl he remembered. He had even prepared apologies: for believing the rumors all those years ago and ending things so easily, for later… for later, when his mother said, "Catherine is more suitable."
But he hadn't expected this.
This… utter detachment.
"You…" His voice came out dry. "You handled yourself remarkably well tonight. With Catherine… I saw it all."
"Thank you." Vivian nodded again, her hand returning to the door handle. "If that's all—"
"Wait."
Alexander stepped forward, then immediately checked himself, as if realizing his impropriety. He took a shallow breath, softening his voice. "I just… I didn't expect to see you again. How have you been… all these years?"
He regretted the question instantly. It was idiotic. Everyone knew how Amelia Winters had spent those years—"convalescing" out of state, a ghost in her own family, mother dead, father indifferent.
Vivian offered a faint smile.
"Well enough," she said. "At least I'm alive."
The irony in her words was so light it was almost imperceptible. Yet Alexander felt a sharp pang in his chest. The woman before him—her posture, her voice, the serene, almost indifferent calm in her eyes—was nothing like the girl in his memory.
What *was* the Amelia in his memory?
A girl in a white dress running through gardens, laughter sharp and bright, throwing tantrums, flinging her arms around his in moments of joy. A bit spoiled, a bit impulsive, but her eyes were always bright, full of summer light.
Then the rumors began. That she was moody, vain, morally questionable. That her mother… Alexander couldn't recall the details. He only remembered his mother sliding a stack of newspaper clippings across the table with a sigh. "The future Mrs. Harrington cannot be associated with such talk."
He broke it off. Amelia had wept, clutched at his sleeves, her nails catching the silk. He had pried her fingers loose and walked away without looking back.
Later, he met Catherine at a charity gala. The legitimate Winters heiress, elegant and poised, a skilled pianist, her smile calibrated to a perfect curve. His mother said, "She'll do."
So he began "pursuing" Catherine. Sending flowers, arranging teas, occupying front-row seats at her recitals. It wasn't unpleasant. It felt like completing an assignment.
Until tonight.
He had watched Amelia stand at the center of the storm, accused, doubted, then methodically dismantle each falsehood. Her voice wasn't loud, but every word was clear. When her gaze swept the room, it held a cold, penetrating force. In that moment, Alexander realized he was holding his breath.
"Amelia," he said again, his voice edged with a new urgency. "About what happened… I'm sorry. If I had known—"
"Alexander!"
The shrill, saccharine call sliced down the corridor like glass shards in syrup.
A physical shudder ran down Vivian's spine, from her nape to her tailbone. She turned to see Catherine hurrying toward them, skirts lifted, her face a mask of cloying sweetness, but her eyes like twin poisoned daggers aimed straight at Vivian.
"What are you two chatting about, looking so serious?" Catherine breathlessly reached Alexander's side, slipping her arm through his with practiced ease, pressing close. "Sister, if you were stepping out for air, you should have called me! I've been looking everywhere for you."
She tilted her face up to Alexander, batting her lashes. "Mother says it's almost time to cut the cake. She sent me to fetch you. You're the guest of honor tonight, after all." The last phrase was weighted, her gaze darting pointedly toward Vivian—a blatant claim of territory.
Alexander stiffened. He tried to subtly withdraw his arm, but Catherine's grip was firm, her nails digging into the fabric of his suit.
"We just ran into each other," he said quietly, his tone strained.
"Really?" Catherine's smile widened. She turned her sugary gaze on Vivian. "You and Alexander knew each other before, didn't you, sister? I'd almost forgotten. But then, you've been away from New York for so long. You probably don't remember all your old friends."
Every word was honey-coated, every word a barb.
Vivian regarded them calmly. The mix of jealousy, triumph, and naked fear on Catherine's face was a fascinating, silent performance. Alexander was like a marionette, wanting to pull free but lacking the conviction, his light brown eyes filled with discomfort and… a flicker of irritation.
*Amusing.*
"Not really," Vivian said evenly, her glance brushing Alexander's face before settling back on Catherine. "It was all a long time ago. Don't let me keep you."
"Sister, leaving so soon?" Catherine jumped in, as if terrified she might stay a second longer. "Of course, after everything today, you must be exhausted. Go rest. I'll let Mother and Father know."
The tone was already that of the lady of the house.
Vivian nodded, offered no further reply, and pushed open the glass door.
The night air rushed in, heavy with the damp scent of soil from the deep garden. She stepped into the darkness. Behind her, she heard Catherine's artificially bright laughter and Alexander's low, indistinct response.
The door sighed shut, sealing away the sounds of that gilded world.
Vivian walked slowly down the gravel path. Her heels caught in the gaps between stones, a soft, crunching rhythm. In the distance, light from the ballroom filtered through the trees, dappling the ground like scattered shards of colored glass.
She thought of Alexander's expression earlier—that jumble of stunned admiration, guilt, and rekindled interest.
*Men.*
Always wanting what they can't have. Able to discard Amelia over mere rumors years ago, yet feeling a pull toward this "new" version now. He probably couldn't even tell if it was the person he was drawn to, or the thrill of a potential "recovery."
And Catherine.
Vivian could easily picture the next moves Margaret would make—pushing Catherine and Alexander closer, ideally toward a swift engagement, to sever any lingering thoughts. And Catherine, the pampered princess, would treat tonight's encounter as a declaration of war, placing Vivian firmly at the top of her enemy list.
*More complications.*
Vivian felt no fear. Instead, a faint, ironic smile touched her lips. These melodramatic feuds among the wealthy seemed ludicrous from the outside, and even more absurd from within.
A figure appeared ahead on the path.
Leaning against a column, the tip of a cigarette glowing faintly in the dark. Ryan Donovan.
He saw her, stubbed out the cigarette in a nearby stone planter, and straightened.
"Lost?" he asked, his voice a low rumble in the quiet night.
"Needing air," Vivian replied, walking closer. "You? Escaping the noise as well?"
"Something like that." Ryan studied her, his gaze lingering on her face for a few seconds. "In the corridor earlier. That Harrington boy giving you trouble?"
So he had seen.
"It wasn't trouble," Vivian said. "Just catching up."
"Catching up," Ryan repeated, a hint of amusement in his tone. "I recall he broke things off with you years ago. Oh, and… he's been seeing Catherine lately."
"So?"
"So," Ryan took a step closer, closing the distance between them. He carried a faint scent of tobacco mixed with something colder, like sandalwood. "Mrs. Winters won't be pleased to see him 'catching up' with an ex. You just won a round. Now you're putting up a new target."
Vivian looked up at him. In the darkness, Ryan's eyes were deep as the sea, unreadable.
"The targets were already there," she said. "One more makes little difference."
Ryan was silent for a moment.
Then he smiled—not a polite smile, but a genuine one that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
"Fair point," he conceded. "But a word of warning. Alexander Harrington… he looks the gentleman, but he's stubborn at his core. If he's truly decided he's interested again, he won't back down easily."
"Let him try," Vivian said, turning to look back toward the glowing ballroom, her voice soft.
Ryan raised an eyebrow.
Her blunt, unflinching response gave him pause. Moonlight washed over her profile, etching clear, sharp lines. The face belonged to Amelia Winters, but it now held a wholly unfamiliar, flinty quality.
Like jade. Or a blade's edge.
"You're even more…" Ryan searched for the word, "…unromantic than I expected."
"People who have died once don't get to be romantic," Vivian said, then caught herself.
That was too true. Too true for "Amelia" to say.
But Ryan didn't press. He simply watched her, his gaze steady and assessing, for so long that Vivian wondered if he saw through the facade.
Vivian turned and started back toward the ballroom. After a few steps, she glanced back.
Ryan was still there, enveloped by night and shadow, his expression hidden. Only his eyes remained visible, bright as beacons in a dark sea.
She turned away and walked, without looking back, into the light.
The noise of the ballroom washed over her again like a tidal wave—music, laughter, the crystalline clink of glasses. Margaret stood by the main table with a group of ladies. Seeing Vivian return, her face instantly arranged itself into a mask of maternal concern.
"Amelia, you're back! Come, darling, they're about to cut the cake."
Catherine stood by the cake trolley, Alexander at her side. Her smile, upon seeing Vivian, was dazzlingly, painfully bright.
"Sister! We were waiting for you!"
Alexander's gaze found hers across the room, full of unspoken words.
Vivian—Amelia—smiled and walked toward them. Step by step, her heels striking the polished marble with a firm, unwavering sound.