The ballroom after the guests had departed resembled the ruins of a splendid dream.
The chandeliers still glowed, but their light seemed dimmer now, falling on a landscape of ruin—toppled wine glasses, crushed rose petals, champagne stains dried into pale yellow smears on the white marble. The air held the stale mingling of perfume, the greasy scent of cooling food, and a heavy, unspoken tension.
Margaret Winters stood by the main table, her fingers lightly tracing the gold-thread embroidery along the tablecloth's edge. Her back was straight, her chin lifted—still the impeccable Mrs. Winters. Only someone very close could see the faint tremor in her hand.
"Madam."
Butler Carlson appeared at her side, his voice hushed. "The Master has retired to the study. He said… for you to conclude matters here and rest early."
"Conclude matters here," Margaret repeated, her voice unnervingly calm. Her fingers clenched, the embroidery biting into her skin. She closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them, her usual gentle expression had returned. "Understood. Have the maids work swiftly. I want this room restored before dawn."
"Yes, madam."
Carlson bowed and withdrew. Margaret remained, her gaze sweeping the hall. In a corner, several maids worked silently, their movements barely audible. In the distance, Helen—her head housekeeper and most trusted confidante—directed servants removing ruined floral arrangements in low tones.
Everything was orderly.
Yet Margaret knew something fundamental had shifted.
The final look the elder William had given her—a shard of ice driven straight into her heart. No anger, no reproach, not even disappointment. Only a profound, weary indifference. She knew that look too well. It was the same one he'd worn after Elizabeth's death, when he looked at everyone, including his newly wedded wife.
All these years, she thought she had changed that.
Tonight, that look had returned.
Because of Amelia.
Amelia had been timid, sensitive, prone to self-pity when neglected, quick to crumble under pressure. When had she become the woman who stood in the crowd tonight, coolly dismantling every lie?
"Madam."
Helen's voice cut through her thoughts. The housekeeper approached, bearing a small silver tray with a half-glass of water and two white pills.
"Your headache medication."
Margaret glanced at her, took the glass, but not the pills. She held them between her fingers, rolling them absently.
"Tonight's events," she murmured. "What will people say?"
Helen lowered her eyes. "Those with sense will see the oddities, but they'll only say… Madam was too kind, too lenient with a stepdaughter, allowing servants to get ideas."
"Kind." Margaret's lips twisted. "What a lovely word. And the fools?"
"The fools…" Helen paused. "…will say the Winters family has had an unlucky year, with even the birthday gala going wrong."
"And?"
"And…" Helen's voice dropped further. "…they'll say the illegitimate daughter from the West is trouble."
Margaret finally placed the pills on her tongue and swallowed them with water. The cool liquid slid down her throat, stirring a faint nausea.
"Trouble," she repeated, then gave a short, cold laugh. "Helen, am I growing old? That I can't handle a mere girl?"
"Madam!" Helen looked up, genuine alarm in her eyes. "Please don't think that. Tonight was… unexpected. Who could have guessed she'd be so sharp, to even recognize—"
"Recognize what?" Margaret interrupted. "The fiberglass? Or have the nerve to say it aloud?"
Helen fell silent.
Margaret returned the empty glass to the tray and turned toward the side parlor. Her heels clicked sharply, a lonely sound on the floor.
"Follow me."
***
The small study off the side parlor was Margaret's private sanctuary. The walls were covered in dark red silk, the shelves lined with leather-bound, gilt-edged books—mostly unread. A real wood fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows on a thick Persian rug.
Margaret sank into an armchair before the fireplace. Helen closed the door softly, plunging the room into a weighted quiet.
"Susan," Margaret began. "Taken care of?"
"Thoroughly," Helen said, moving closer, her voice barely above a whisper. "A sum of money, enough for her father to clear the debt and start anew in a small Midwestern town. She's promised never to return to New York or speak of tonight."
"Was her father truly in debt?"
"He was. Otherwise, she wouldn't have…" Helen hesitated, "…agreed to take the blame."
Margaret nodded, her fingers tapping absently on the wooden arm of the chair.
"Helen," she said suddenly. "Was I too hasty today?"
Helen didn't answer immediately. She went to a small liquor cabinet, selected a bottle of amber sherry, poured a small glass, and brought it to Margaret.
"Madam," she chose her words carefully, "you are the mistress of this house. Everyone here, inside and out, answers to you. Tonight was merely… the girl got lucky. And she had outside support—the Comtesse, Mr. Donovan. But they can't shield her forever."
Margaret took the glass but didn't drink. She stared at the liquid swirling inside, the firelight refracting in golden shards within the amber.
"The Comtesse was Elizabeth's friend," she murmured. "Her stepping forward doesn't surprise me. But Ryan Donovan… why would he help Amelia?"
"Perhaps… mere chivalry?" Helen ventured.
"Chivalry?" Margaret scoffed. "Helen, have you ever met a businessman with 'chivalry'? The Donovans made their fortune in minerals—diamond mines in South Africa, iron ore in Australia. Every deal is steeped in blood and dirt. Would he risk offending the Winters for 'chivalry'?"
Helen was silent.
Margaret brought the glass to her lips and took a small sip. The sweet, sharp liquor warmed her throat, dispelling a fraction of the chill.
"And Alexander Harrington," she continued. "Catherine told me he spoke with Amelia in the corridor tonight."
"Young Mr. Harrington?" Helen frowned. "Hasn't he been courting Miss Catherine?"
"Indeed." Margaret set the glass down, pressing her fingertips to her temples. "But men are like that. Always wanting what they can't have. That old business with him and Amelia… if I hadn't ensured certain rumors reached his mother, she wouldn't have pressured him to end it. Now Amelia returns, 'transformed.' I suspect he's intrigued again."
"And Miss Catherine…"
"Catherine is impulsive. Lacks patience." Margaret sighed. "Tonight she made her feelings too obvious. That's not good. The Harringtons may not be what they were, but they're still useful. That match has value."
She paused, her eyes growing cold. "But Amelia… she must not touch Alexander. What belongs to Catherine, she cannot touch."
The study door burst open before she finished speaking.
"Mother!"
Catherine rushed in, her makeup still on, eyes red—whether from tears or rage was unclear. She didn't bother closing the door, storming straight to Margaret, her voice shrill.
"Did you know? I saw Amelia with Ryan Donovan in the garden! They were standing close, whispering! How dare she—how dare she try to seduce him!"
Margaret's brows drew together sharply.
"Catherine," her voice lowered. "Close the door. And mind your language. Words like 'seduce' are not for a Winters daughter."
"But it's true!" Catherine stamped her foot but turned to shut the door. Returning, tears finally spilled over. "Not just Ryan, but Alexander too! When the party ended, I saw Alexander watching her leave. His expression… it was different! Mother, you must do something!"
Margaret looked at her daughter's tear-streaked face, a mix of irritation and pity rising within her. She gestured for Helen to fetch a damp cloth and pulled Catherine down to sit beside her.
"Enough, now. Don't cry." She took the cloth from Helen and gently wiped Catherine's cheeks. "Your makeup is ruined. This is unseemly."
"But Mother—"
"Don't trouble yourself over Ryan Donovan," Margaret cut in, her tone even. "That man… is inscrutable. His interest in Amelia may be mere curiosity, or he may have other motives. Regardless, he is not a suitable match for you."
Catherine's eyes widened. "Why? He's—"
"Because he's dangerous." Margaret held her daughter's gaze. "Catherine, remember this: marriage for a woman is either a ladder or a cage. A family like the Donovans… you couldn't control it. Marrying into that would be your misery."
Catherine bit her lip, unconvinced.
"As for Alexander Harrington…" Margaret continued slowly, "he is a sound choice. Respectable family, gentle temperament, and his mother likes you. Most importantly, Mrs. Harrington's health is frail. Once you marry in, it won't be long before you're the lady of that house."
A hint of a smile finally touched Catherine's face, but it quickly faded. "But the way Alexander looked at Amelia tonight…"
"So what?" Margaret's voice turned icy. "Men are easily captivated by novelty. Amelia vanished for years and returns changed—it's natural he'd look. It means nothing."
She released Catherine's hand and stood, walking to the fireplace. The flames danced on her face, casting shifting shadows.
"Catherine, you must learn patience." She spoke with her back to her daughter, her voice soft but clear. "Amelia is just an illegitimate child. No one in this family truly sees her as a lady. She won a round tonight because we underestimated her. But in the future… her luck won't hold."
Catherine wiped her tears, her eyes brightening. "Mother, do you have a plan?"
Margaret didn't answer directly. She turned, her gaze resting on her daughter's face before drifting to the dim corridor beyond the door.
"Amelia's greatest weakness," she said quietly, "is that she wants so badly to prove herself. To prove she deserves the Winters name, to prove she's better than anyone. That kind of desire… makes one prone to mistakes."
She returned to her armchair, sitting with her usual composed grace.
"We need not rush." She picked up the sherry glass, swirling it gently. "Time is on our side. She made a spectacle of herself tonight; tomorrow, more eyes will be on her. The waters of the Winters family run deeper than she knows. We simply… wait for her to step into them herself."
Catherine nodded, though not fully comprehending.
Helen added softly from the side, "The mistress is right, Miss. Your priority now is to secure Mr. Harrington. Be seen with him publicly, let everyone know you're a pair. As for Miss Amelia… the more active she is, the more flaws will show. When the time comes, we won't need to lift a finger. Others will deal with her."
Margaret gave Helen an approving glance.
"Now then," she set down her glass. "It's late. Go wash your face and get some proper rest. Remember, starting tomorrow, be 'kind' to Amelia. She is your sister. You must be the dutiful younger sister, understand?"
Catherine pressed her lips together, then finally nodded.
"I understand, Mother."
She rose and left, closing the door quietly behind her.
Silence reclaimed the study. The firewood crackled, emitting a shower of sparks.
Margaret leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. Helen moved silently behind her, beginning to massage her temples.
"Madam," Helen murmured. "There's something I must say."
"Go on."
"Miss Amelia… she seems entirely different since her return. I wonder… is there someone guiding her?"
Margaret didn't open her eyes.
"I've considered that," she said slowly. "Find out who she's been in contact with since returning to New York."
Helen bowed her head deeply.
"Yes, madam."
Outside, the night was deep.
One by one, the lights in the ballroom went out, the great house settling into slumber. Only one window on the third-floor east wing remained lit—Amelia's room.
Margaret stood at the study window, looking up at that faint glow, a cold smile slowly curving her lips.
*Burn, little light. Burn.*
*Let's see how long you last.*
This house was full of unseen currents, silent traps.
And she, Margaret Winters, was its true mistress.
She always had been.