The Paris atelier delivered three limited-edition handmade lace gowns. The butler came to ask my godfather-fiancé how the dresses should be distributed between the lady of the house and Miss Ophelia. Silas was helping Ophelia try on a pigeon-blood ruby ring. “One goes into my private collection. The other two are for Ophelia—she can alternate them at next month’s family cocktail.” The butler hesitated, then lowered his voice. “Sir, the madam still doesn’t have a gown for the tenth anniversary.” Silas’s hands stilled for a fraction of a second, as if only now remembering I existed. “Cut a scrap of leftover lace from one of Ophelia’s skirts. Make her a veil or something.” A scrap of leftover fabric. That was the only dignity I’d been granted in ten years of marriage into House Costa. He blamed me for not giving up my spot in the Milan program all those years ago. Ophelia had missed what he called her springboard into the fashion world because of it. So he’d parked me in the farthest wing of the estate, like something too useless to keep but too much trouble to throw away. Later, he was shot in an ambush by a rival family. On his deathbed, he gripped my wrist and asked if I regretted all those years with him. Outside the hospital room, the season’s couture delivery arrived. As always—one piece for his vault, two for Ophelia. What they left me was a discarded ribbon the tailor had trimmed off. I closed my eyes and didn’t answer him. When I opened them again, I was back ten years in the past. House Costa’s engagement banquet—the one that shook the entire New York underground. The emcee held up the pigeon-blood ruby ring, gestured toward the dark, frozen lake, and smiled. “Whoever dives down and retrieves the key will become the future Mrs. Costa.” In my last life, I nearly drowned in that lake, all to make him look at me. This time, I stepped back half a pace and watched the ring sink silently into the abyss. As it dropped, the lake’s surface barely rippled—one faint dark ring, and nothing more. The cheering on the shore died instantly. The emcee stood with his microphone raised, smile frozen on his face, then turned toward the control booth. A woman’s voice leaked through the backup monitor feed. “Get her to move forward a little—the camera can’t catch her face.” The voice was soft. But the control booth was half a step behind me. I heard every word. Ophelia. In my last life, I hadn’t caught that line. All I’d heard was the crowd screaming. “Jump! Evelyn, you’ve chased him for years—don’t tell me you’re chickening out now!” That night the lake water flooded my nose and mouth. I clawed the key off the bottom and dragged myself ashore with three fingernails torn clean off. Silas draped his coat over Ophelia’s shoulders and said she’d been frightened. Now the wind cut across the ice toward me. I stood on the bank and didn’t move. Silas finally looked my way. Black three-piece suit. Silver cufflinks. Those cufflinks were the anniversary gift I’d given him last year. He’d called them too plain. Never worn them once. Tonight he’d put them on only because Ophelia had tossed out an offhand compliment—”Those actually suit you.” “Evelyn.” When he said my name, his tone was low and flat, like someone reminding a disobedient dog not to embarrass him in public. Ophelia stood wrapped in a white fur stole, the corners of her eyes reddened just so—perfectly calibrated distress. “Evelyn, are you afraid of water? If you are, it’s fine—Silas won’t blame you.” As she finished, her fingers settled lightly on Silas’s cuff. He didn’t pull away. He just looked at me with that detached indifference, voice as casual as if he were deciding tonight’s dinner. “It’s just a game. Don’t be a killjoy.” Just a game. A frozen lake, a key, a human life—all to prove whether I deserved to stand beside him. I stepped back half a pace. My heel crushed a thin shell of ice. The sound was barely there. The emcee scrambled to smooth things over. “Miss Evelyn, the divers are standing by—Silas just wanted to give you an unforgettable proposal.” Another sound leaked from the monitor. “Keep the divers back. It looks better if she gets it herself.” I turned toward the control booth. A backup camera sat there, its red recording light glowing, aimed squarely at the lakeshore. So in my last life, while I was thrashing in that water, someone onshore had already dialed in the focus. Silas glanced at his watch. “Ten minutes.” Ophelia gave a delicate little cough. Silas immediately shrugged off his coat and draped it over her shoulders. I stood in the lake wind, shoulders bare, the hem of my gown soaked through with snowmelt, ankles numb with cold. A server approached with a blanket—and was stopped dead by a single look from Silas. “She chose this herself.” I’d heard that line for ten years. When I fell ill from the cold—I’d chosen it myself. When I took the blame meant for Ophelia—I’d chosen it myself. When I spent a decade waiting in an empty house—that was my choice too. This time, I turned and walked toward the banquet hall. Behind me, Silas’s voice finally carried a blade of frost. “Evelyn, if you walk out of here today, don’t come crawling back.” A server caught up to me, pressing a glass of hot mulled wine into my hands and whispering, “Ma’am, the master had the kitchen prepare this for you.” My fingers paused. The next moment, another server rushed past carrying a silver tray—hot mulled wine, a cashmere throw, a thermometer, a hand warmer. “Hurry. Miss Ophelia had a fright. The master wants to feed her the wine himself.” I looked down at the crystal glass in my hand. So even his concern came in tiers. I set the mulled wine back on the tray. I didn’t drink it. Outside the estate, the frozen lake lay dark and still. That diamond ring rested at the bottom, just like me in my last life. But this time around, no one could force me to dive down and fetch it.
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.
The next morning, a black sedan from House Costa pulled up outside my door. When Silas walked in, he was holding a document. He didn’t ask if my fever had broken. He simply placed the papers on the coffee table. “Sign.” My mother held a bowl of medicine, the porcelain spoon clinking against the rim—harsh and loud. “Silas, Evelyn’s fever hit thirty-nine degrees last night. Can’t this wait until she’s recovered?” Silas’s voice was level, without the slightest tremor. “I’m sorry, but this can’t be delayed. The joint project between House Roth and House Costa is already underway. I don’t want the media running with this any longer.” I picked up the statement. The ice-lake segment of the engagement banquet was a mutually agreed-upon interactive element. Miss Evelyn left early due to health reasons. Mr. Silas was attentive and caring throughout. Miss Ophelia was merely an invited guest. The public is asked not to engage in malicious speculation. “I have to clear her name?” Silas looked at me. “She’s innocent.” “And what about me?” He paused. “You didn’t go into the lake last night.” So I wasn’t innocent. Unless I’d followed their script and nearly died, I was the one who’d ruined everything. A soft knock at the door. Ophelia came in carrying a gift. She was dressed simply today, eyes red-rimmed, as though she hadn’t slept. “Evelyn, I came to apologize.” She opened the box. Inside lay a silk scarf. The same one she’d used to block the wind last night. She brought me something she’d already worn and expected gratitude. “I only wore this once. You have such fair skin—it would look even better on you.” Silas watched her, his voice softening. “You’re not well. Why make the trip?” Ophelia shook her head, her tone aggrieved. “Evelyn misunderstands me. It weighs on my heart.” My mother’s hand rested on the rim of the medicine bowl and didn’t let go for a long time. House Roth’s cash flow for the month was still pinned in the ledger on her desk. If House Costa pulled their three-billion investment, hundreds of names would be left dangling in the void. In my last life, it was this kind of silence that made me bow my head again and again. Every time House Costa stripped away another piece of my dignity, I told myself: House Roth still needs to survive. Silas pushed the pen toward me. “Sign it, and I’ll send the family physician over to check on you.” He could always stab the knife in and then offer a bandage, expecting me to feel grateful for his mercy. I picked up the pen. My mother gripped my wrist, eyes reddening. I patted her hand gently. I signed my name. The pen tip came down like a sentence—ten years of it, from a life already lived.
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