Chapter 2

The fireplace in the banquet hall was roaring.

I'd barely sat down when Silas's personal secretary appeared.

"Ma'am, the master says the press and the family are all here. Would you please change into a gown? The group photo is in ten minutes."

My lap was damp with the soaked hem of my dress. My calves were stiff and aching.

"Where's my gown?" I asked.

The secretary's gaze flickered. She led me to the cloakroom.

The door swung open onto two rows of garments.

On the left—all Ophelia's. Champagne, white, red, with backup wraps arranged by color palette.

On the right hung a single black dress.

The waistline had been re-tailored, the stitching hidden inside the lining where no one would notice.

The secretary murmured, "The master said you're not particular. This one should do for now."

I reached out and touched the waist. The measurements were exact—he remembered my size.

He just remembered it and still gave me someone else's castoff.

Ophelia's voice drifted from the doorway.

"Evelyn, don't blame Silas. I had someone alter that dress ahead of time—I was worried you wouldn't have anything that fit on such short notice."

She walked in. The white gown she wore looked like fresh snow, its hem made from the very handmade lace the Paris atelier had produced only three of this year.

"So the black one is what you passed over?"

Ophelia's face went pale for an instant, then the wounded expression resurfaced.

"I just thought black was more dignified. More you."

Silas followed her in, brow furrowed. "Evelyn, Ophelia went out of her way to think of you. Drop the passive-aggressive act."

"I'm not wearing it."

The cloakroom fell silent.

Silas stepped closer. His gaze landed on my wrists, which had gone blue-white with cold.

He reached out and touched one. The gesture was light.

"Just change into the dress. You'll make yourself sick."

I caught the scent of cedarwood on him. I used to be intoxicated by that smell.

In my last life, the moment he came even slightly closer, I could swallow every grievance whole and forget it ever existed.

Ophelia laughed softly from beside us.

"Silas, don't go soft too soon. She hasn't signed the statement yet. Once she's feeling better, she'll say we bullied her again."

Silas's hand froze midair. I went rigid too.

So that small show of warmth was meant to coax me into swallowing tonight's humiliation and helping them save face.

Silas turned his head, voice dropping. "Ophelia."

Ophelia immediately lowered her eyes.

"I'm sorry. That came out wrong."

But the words had already landed—a needle, puncturing the last membrane of hope inside me.

"Take the photo without me."

Silas's expression went cold.

"Evelyn, don't push your luck."

I pulled on my own coat and opened the cloakroom door.

Outside, the reporters were already waiting. The family watched us.

The lights hit me. Every lens swung in my direction. I didn't flinch.

A half-wet gown, a worn coat, a face white with cold—I walked step by step down the red-carpeted corridor.

Behind me, Ophelia wore the couture dress that should have belonged to the evening's bride-to-be, her arm linked through Silas's.

Camera flashes erupted like lightning.

Someone whispered, "Who exactly is tonight's leading lady?"

Silas didn't answer.

I didn't look back.

The answer had been in front of everyone all along.