Winters Manor had been quiet lately.
Quiet in a way that felt… eerie.
Like the oppressive, suffocating stillness before a storm. The sun still shone brightly, servants still moved soundlessly through the corridors, and meals were still served punctually on the long table with its linen cloth. Everything seemed as usual, yet something felt different.
The most significant change was old William Winters.
The patriarch, ill for over half a year, had recently been able to get out of bed and walk around. Though he still needed a cane, though his steps were slow as if measuring time itself, he had at least left that medicine-scented bedroom and reappeared at the breakfast table, in the study, even occasionally sunning himself in the garden.
Margaret's smile had become noticeably more genuine because of this. She personally supported her husband, straightened his collar, whispered softly in his ear—a picture-perfect image of a loving couple to anyone who saw it.
"Father looks very well today," Matthew set down his coffee cup at breakfast, offering a rare word of warmth.
Old William nodded, said nothing, slowly cutting the fried egg on his plate.
"Yes," Margaret chimed in with a smile, adding a slice of roasted tomato to her husband's plate. "The doctor says at this rate, he'll fully recover in another two months."
Catherine muttered beside her, "That's wonderful. Otherwise, some people might think this house has no one in charge."
She said this while glancing toward Vivian at the far end of the table.
But Vivian merely kept her head down, meticulously buttering her toast—one layer, then another, thick enough to be cloying. As if she hadn't heard a thing.
Margaret gently nudged her daughter under the table, her smile unwavering. "Catherine, eat your breakfast."
Besides old William's health, there was another piece of "good news" in the house.
The new energy project Matthew was overseeing, with Ryan Donovan's cooperation, was progressing with astonishing smoothness. Contracts were signed last week, funds arrived this week, and construction could start next month. After hearing the report, old William, for the first time in ages, patted his eldest son on the shoulder and said, "Well done."
A rare hint of a smile appeared on Matthew's perpetually stern face.
And when Catherine heard the name "Ryan Donovan," her eyes lit up as if she'd discovered a new world.
"Is he really that impressive?" she leaned close to her mother's ear, her voice low but trembling with excitement. "I heard the Donovans have diamond mines in Africa, iron mines in Australia, and in South America they…"
"Catherine," Margaret cut her off, her tone gentle but her eyes warning. "Eat."
But Vivian noticed that even Margaret's fingers tightened slightly upon hearing "Donovan."
Interesting.
***
What felt most "eerie" to Vivian was the attitude Margaret and Catherine had toward her recently.
It was too normal.
Unnervingly normal.
At breakfast, Catherine no longer sneered at her but occasionally asked, "Sister, would you like to try this?" Margaret would "show concern" for her daily life, asking if her room was warm, if she slept well. During family dinners, they even saved her a seat—though still the one farthest from the head of the table.
Bella, the new maid, was also performing impeccably. She was efficient, meticulous with the wardrobe, respectful to Vivian, never overstepping. But Vivian knew that every afternoon at three, Bella would find an excuse to leave for a while, making her "routine" report to Margaret's room.
Every time she went, Lillian would quietly signal to Vivian.
*The spy is active.*
But Vivian didn't care. What she allowed Bella to see was exactly what she wanted Margaret to see—her "diligent" study of etiquette books, her "efforts" to adapt to upper-class life, her "meek" acceptance of her stepmother's arrangements.
The perfect, harmless, reassuring Emilia.
The truly important things—the sketchbook from Elizabeth she got from Theodore, the notes she secretly kept about her father's case, the scattered information Lillian had gathered from Portland—were all locked in a secret compartment in the study.
Only she and Anna had the key.
***
That afternoon, old William woke from a nap in the study to find Margaret sitting by the bed, gently rubbing her wrist.
Sunlight slanted through the window, casting a soft glow on her face. Margaret, at forty-five, was still a beauty—her skin well-maintained, only a few fine lines at the corners of her eyes, her deep brown hair elegantly coiled at the nape of her neck. Today she wore a light beige knit sweater, a small pearl brooch at the collar, looking gentle and serene.
Old William looked at her and suddenly remembered many years ago.
Back then, the Winters family was in crisis, desperately needing the Harrington family's capital injection. Marriage was the fastest, most reliable solution. He married Margaret not for love—all the love in his life had been given to the late Elizabeth—but out of duty.
For over twenty years, she had managed the Winters household impeccably, raised Catherine into a standard socialite heiress, and fulfilled her duties as a stepmother to Matthew and Theodore—though not her own children. There was no passionate love between them, but at least… there was mutual respect.
Thinking of this, the lingering dissatisfaction in old William's heart over the birthday banquet incident suddenly dissipated.
"What's wrong with your hand?" he asked, his voice still hoarse.
Margaret started, then smiled. "It's nothing, just a bit sore. You're awake? Would you like some water?"
She stood to pour water, but her wrist was caught by old William.
"Let the family nurse handle these things," he said, his fingers gently brushing the skin of her wrist. "You don't need to do it yourself."
Margaret was taken aback, her eyes suddenly turning slightly red.
"How could I leave something like massaging you to others," she said softly, handing him the glass. "I'll only feel at ease if I do it myself."
Old William took the glass and drank. Warm water slid down his throat with a hint of honey—Margaret always remembered to add honey for him.
"You've worked hard," he set the glass down, looking at his wife.
The words were light, but Margaret could hear the genuine remorse and gratitude within.
She shook her head, sitting back down on the bedside, taking her husband's hand.
"As long as you recover, it's not hard work at all," her voice was gentle. "The doctor says you're recovering very well, even able to walk downstairs recently. I'm so happy."
Old William nodded, his gaze falling on the window. The roses in the garden were in full bloom, vast stretches of red like burning clouds.
"I am much better," he said slowly. "You should resume some social activities."
Margaret's eyes lit up but she quickly concealed it.
"Actually…" she hesitated, "there's something I've been meaning to discuss with you."
"Go ahead."
"It's about Emilia," Margaret weighed her words. "She's been back in New York for some time now, but she's still completely unfamiliar with the social circle here. When Madame Durand visited last time, you saw it too—that was clearly for Elizabeth's sake, to support Emilia."
Old William's expression darkened.
"So what?"
"What I mean is," Margaret quickly explained, "since Emilia is back, she'll need to integrate into this circle sooner or later. She's a Winters daughter; her future marriage must be to someone of equal standing. But right now… she's not even proficient in basic social etiquette, let alone the essential skills for a debutante."
She paused, observing her husband's expression.
"I was thinking, perhaps we should arrange some lessons for her? Horseback riding, dance, golf… these will all be useful in the future. Her mother passed early, and her years in Switzerland were wasted. It's not too late to catch up now."
Old William fell silent.
He looked at the roses outside the window, remembering Elizabeth—the woman he truly loved. Remembering their daughter Emilia, the timid, fearful child he had seen only a handful of times since she was sent to Switzerland.
Guilt, like fine needles, pricked his heart.
"You're right," he finally spoke, his voice weary. "I've been neglectful. Her mother is gone, and I… You make the arrangements. Hire the best tutors, the fees will come from my personal account."
Joy surged in Margaret's heart, but her face remained gentle and graceful.
"Very well, leave it to me. I'll hire the very best tutors to help Emilia catch up quickly."
***
The news reached Vivian while she was reading in the study.
Theodore leaned against the doorframe, twirling an apple in his hand, wearing that "more good drama to watch" smile.
"Heard you're about to start 'Debutante Boot Camp'?" He took a bite of the apple, crunching loudly. "Horseback riding, dance, golf… Goodness, Margaret's trying to mold you into a second Catherine."
Vivian set down her book and looked at him.
"How do you know?"
"Are there any secrets in this house?" Theodore shrugged.
He walked to the desk, placed the half-eaten apple on it, and plopped into the chair opposite.
"Seriously, what are you going to do? Actually learn all that stuff?" He tilted his head, studying her.
Vivian didn't speak.
She truly wasn't interested.
Because she already knew these things.
Vivian Ellwood, the only daughter of the Ellwood family, had received the most orthodox elite education since childhood. She started horseback riding at six, ballet at eight, golf at ten, tennis at twelve… Her father often said, "My daughter will stand at the highest places in the future. These are essential skills."
She learned well. Won awards in youth equestrian, danced en pointe in ballet, her golf handicap was nearly good enough for amateur tours.
But now she was Emilia Winters.
An illegitimate daughter who had been "recuperating" in isolation in Switzerland for years.
She "shouldn't" possess these skills.
"I'm not going," she finally said, her voice calm.
Theodore raised an eyebrow. "Not going? How do you plan to refuse? Margaret's waving the 'for your own good' banner this time, and even old William nodded."
"I have my ways," Vivian said.
She knew clearly that Margaret's arranging these lessons wasn't just to "cultivate" her. It was to keep her trapped in the house, under her watchful eye.
But she needed to go out. To do what she must.
Like contact David Harris.
Like investigate the truth of her father's case.
Like… truly begin her revenge.
She couldn't wait any longer.
Every extra day she spent in the Winters house was another day of suffering for her father in prison. Every extra day she played Emilia was another step away from her true self.
She needed to go out.
She needed to connect with the outside world.
She needed to find those who could help overturn the case—lawyers, judges, prosecutors, or anyone who still believed in the Ellwood family's innocence.
To do all this, she needed a legitimate reason.
A reason old William couldn't refuse.
She stood up and walked to the window. In the garden, the gardener was pruning roses, the shears making rhythmic *snip-snip* sounds. In the distance, Catherine was practicing her golf swing, her white dress strikingly visible against the green.
Everything was so peaceful, so beautiful.
But Vivian knew how many undercurrents lurked beneath this calm.
She turned and looked at Theodore.
"I want to see Father," she said. "Now."
Theodore was stunned. "Old William? Now? Why?"
"Because," Vivian straightened her collar, a faint but unwavering smile curving her lips, "I'm going to tell him I'm not learning horseback riding or dance."
"I'm going to study law."
The apple in Theodore's hand *thudded* to the floor, rolling under the bookshelf.
He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but ultimately just laughed.
Laughed until his eyes crinkled.
"Interesting," he picked up the apple, wiped it on his clothes, and took another bite. "Truly interesting. Need me to stand watch at the door for you?"
"I do," Vivian was already at the door. "If anyone comes—especially Margaret—find a way to stall them."
"Deal," Theodore followed her out, his steps light as if heading to a feast. "But a reminder, old William's in a good mood today. You'd best seize this opportunity."
Vivian didn't look back, only nodded.
She knew, of course.
She also knew this opportunity was one she had waited far too long for.
The corridor was quiet, only the crisp, firm sound of her high heels striking the floor, step by step, moving toward the study.
Toward the door that would determine her future direction.
Her palms were sweaty.
But her eyes were like tempered steel.
Cold, sharp, moving relentlessly forward.