From the moment Old William announced his consent for Amelia to study law, Catherine Winters's life had narrowed to a single theme: preparation.
Preparation of outfits, accessories, preparation for every expression, every word, even the rhythm of each breath in the presence of Ryan Donovan.
"Mother! Is this dress too plain? Might Mr. Donovan think I'm not taking this seriously?"
"Mother! These heels are too high—what if I stumble? But low heels make my legs look short…"
"Mother! Pearl earrings or diamond? Pearls are dignified, but diamonds catch the light…"
In recent days, Margaret's private suite had transformed into a backstage dressing room. The closet doors remained perpetually open; dresses, coats, and shawls in every hue covered every chair, every sofa, even the rug. Catherine, like an excited peacock, twirled before the mirror in one ensemble after another, only to frown and reject them all.
"None of these are right," she fretted, pulling off a pearl necklace. "I want something that's… elegant yet intellectual, proper but with a hint of allure. Do you understand?"
The maids exchanged uncertain glances, none daring to speak.
Margaret sat in an armchair by the window, a fashion magazine in her hand, though she hadn't turned a page. Watching her daughter's frantic pirouettes, a throbbing pain pulsed at her temples.
"Catherine," she finally spoke, her voice deceptively calm. "You are attending a class, not a ball."
"But Mr. Donovan will be taking us there!" Catherine turned, her eyes gleaming feverishly. "First meeting, first impression—it's crucial! Didn't you always say, Mother, that opportunity favors the prepared?"
"I did say that." Margaret set the magazine aside and rose, walking to her daughter. "But preparation does not mean trying on every garment you own. Come here."
She led Catherine to the innermost part of the walk-in closet and opened a separate wardrobe. Inside hung several seemingly understated yet impeccably tailored suits—a cream cashmere cardigan, a light grey pencil skirt, a navy blazer, and a few silk blouses in muted shades of ivory, powder blue, and pale pink.
"These were custom-made for you in London last year by your father's tailor. You dismissed them as matronly and never wore them." Margaret selected one set. "Try this."
Catherine pouted but complied.
Ten minutes later, she stood before the full-length mirror, blinking in surprise.
The reflection was… different. The cream cardigan paired with the light grey pencil skirt, hair loosely swept back, pearl studs, low-heeled nude pumps. No flashy adornments, no calculated allure, yet the overall effect was… poised, intellectual, even scholarly.
"This is how one dresses for a lecture," Margaret said, standing behind her, a hand resting lightly on her shoulder. "Catherine, remember, a clever woman does not attract a man with her clothes. She uses her mind."
She paused, her voice dropping lower.
"Your primary objective in attending is not to learn law—those dry details are useless to you. Your goal is to seize this opportunity to acquaint yourself with Professor Howard. He has taught for a lifetime; his former students are now judges, attorneys general, and countless renowned lawyers throughout the judiciary, politics, and business. If you can win his favor… it will be of immense benefit to your future."
Catherine nodded, only half-comprehending.
"And," Margaret continued, her gaze sharpening, "keep a close watch on Amelia. See what she's truly scheming. Studying law… hmph. I don't believe for a moment she's genuinely interested."
"Understood, Mother." Catherine gave a final twirl before the mirror, this time smiling with satisfaction. "This set is rather good. It makes me look… quite clever."
Margaret smiled too, but the warmth did not reach her eyes.
**Third Floor, East Wing, Amelia's Room**
The atmosphere here stood in stark contrast to Catherine's quarters.
Anna and Lillian were organizing the study. Lillian carefully arranged a stack of introductory law books on the shelves in alphabetical order. Anna inspected the stationery for the next day—fresh notebooks, sharply sharpened pencils, and an expensive-looking fountain pen sent by Old William.
"Miss," Lillian whispered, "I heard Miss Catherine tried on over thirty outfits for tomorrow."
Vivian—Amelia—sat by the window, reading a thick volume titled *An Introduction to the U.S. Constitution*, without looking up.
"Let her try."
"But…" Lillian hesitated. "She's sure to try everything to catch Mr. Donovan's attention tomorrow. What if—"
"What if what?" Vivian turned a page. "What if Ryan Donovan is taken with her?"
Lillian blushed. "I didn't mean—"
"I know." Vivian finally looked up with a faint smile. "Don't worry. Ryan Donovan isn't the type to be swayed by a pretty dress."
Anna approached, holding a neatly pressed suit—also a cardigan and pencil skirt, but in a deeper navy blue, the fabric appearing heavier.
"Miss, wear this tomorrow," she said, laying the outfit on the bed. "It's proper, respectful. And most importantly… comfortable. You'll be sitting all day."
Vivian glanced at it and nodded.
"Alright."
She truly didn't care about the clothes. Her focus was on the person she would meet tomorrow—Professor Howard. Matthew had said this retired scholar was a titan in constitutional law; among his former students were Supreme Court justices, attorneys general, and countless prominent attorneys. If she could earn his regard…
She would be one step closer to the truth about her father's case.
"Miss," Anna said, folding the clothes, "Lillian and I have agreed to take turns accompanying you to class. Miss Catherine will surely bring a maid; we can't have you going alone."
"No need," Vivian shook her head. "Stay here. Bella… requires watching."
At the mention of Bella, Anna and Lillian's expressions turned grave.
The new maid, outwardly compliant, reported daily to Margaret. In recent days, her reports had grown especially frequent—what books Amelia read, what notes she took, even her bedtime and waking hour—all relayed in meticulous detail.
"Don't worry, Miss," Lillian clenched her fist. "We'll keep a close eye on her. She won't steal any important information."
Vivian looked at these two loyal young women, warmth spreading in her chest.
"Thank you," she said softly.
Anna shook her head. "Please don't say that, Miss. You were the one who brought Lillian out of the kitchens. You gave us respectable work and dignity. We… we could never repay you enough."
The sound of a car engine echoed from outside—Matthew had returned.
Vivian closed her book and walked to the window.
Under the night sky, the Winters mansion blazed with light, like a magnificent crystal palace. But only she knew how many cracks and termites lay hidden within its walls.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow was a new beginning.
She took a deep breath and turned towards the bathroom.
Time to rest.