As I stood there, champagne dripping from my ruined dress, a gentle voice cut through the uncomfortable silence.
"Leave her alone," Zinnia called out, wheeling herself toward me with practiced grace. "Can't you see she's upset?"
The crowd parted for her like she was some kind of saint, her wheelchair gleaming under the chandelier light. She reached for my hand, her touch cool and dry.
"Here, let me help you," she said, pressing a silk handkerchief into my palm. Her eyes, wide with manufactured concern, met mine. "These things happen to all of us at some point."
I dabbed at my dress, acutely aware of how many eyes were watching this performance. Zinnia's voice dropped to a whisper that was somehow still audible to everyone nearby.
"Don't mind Celestine. He's been under so much stress lately."
"She's so kind," someone murmured. "Even to someone who's clearly not from our world."
"Always thinking of others, despite her own condition," another voice added.
Zinnia smiled modestly, accepting their praise as though it were her due. But as she turned her wheelchair away, I caught something in her eyes—a flash of satisfaction that chilled me to my core.
Later that night, I wandered the mansion's hallways, unable to sleep in my uncomfortable bed. The sounds of laughter and movement had long since died away, leaving only silence and the occasional creak of old wood settling.
As I passed Zinnia's room, her voice drifted through the partially open door. I paused, not intending to eavesdrop, but the mention of my name froze me in place.
"—can you believe how pathetic she looked?" Zinnia's voice, stripped of its usual fragility, sounded sharp and cruel. "Standing there like some kind of lost puppy while everyone laughed."
A pause. She was on the phone.
"Tiffany, you should have seen her face when the champagne hit her dress. Like a deer in headlights." A tinkling laugh. "Mother's right—she's hopeless. No breeding whatsoever."
Another pause.
"Of course not. She'll never fit in. I just have to keep playing the sweet, understanding sister until they see it too." Her voice hardened. "And if they don't see it soon, I'll have to make sure they do."
Something snapped inside me. Before I could think better of it, I pushed the door open.
Zinnia's head whipped around, her phone clutched in her hand. For one unguarded moment, her face registered pure hatred before melting back into the mask of innocence she wore so well.
"Lark," she said, her voice instantly soft and sweet. "What's wrong, dear?"
"Who were you talking to?" I demanded, my hands trembling with anger.
"Just Tiffany," she replied smoothly. "We were discussing tomorrow's charity luncheon. You should join us—it would be good for you to meet more people."
"You were laughing at me," I said, stepping closer. "Talking about how pathetic I looked tonight."
Something flashed in her eyes—calculation, not fear. "You must have misheard," she said, her voice dripping with concern. "Or perhaps you're just... imagining things. The stress of coming to a new home can do that."
"I heard you," I insisted. "You don't have to pretend with me, Zinnia. I know what you really think."
She sighed, a perfect blend of patience and pity. "Lark, I understand this is difficult for you. Finding out you have a family after all these years... it's a lot to process. But accusing me of... what exactly? Mocking you? Why would I do that?"
"You tell me," I challenged, my voice rising slightly.
"Because I'm jealous?" she suggested, her eyes wide with innocence. "Because I'm sick and you're healthy? Is that what you think?" A tear slid down her cheek. "After everything we've done for you?"
The door behind me opened wider, and Mrs. Wilde appeared, her expression alarmed. "What's happening here? Zinnia, are you alright?"
"I'm fine, Mother," Zinnia whispered, a tremor in her voice. "Lark just... she seems upset about something. I think she's having trouble adjusting."
Mrs. Wilde's gaze hardened as it fell on me. "Lark, whatever is happening, this isn't the way to handle it. Zinnia needs her rest."
"But she was—" I began.
"Now, please," Mrs. Wilde interrupted, her tone brooking no argument. "This isn't how we treat family."
Family. The word echoed hollowly as I backed out of the room, Zinnia's triumphant smile burning in my memory.
The next morning, a formal note was delivered to my room requesting my presence in Mr. Wilde's study at three o'clock. No explanation, no pleasantries—just a command disguised as a request.
I arrived early, steeling myself for whatever was to come. The study was all dark wood and leather, smelling of cigars and money. Mr. Wilde sat behind an imposing desk, Mrs. Wilde perched on a chair nearby, and Celestine stood by the window, his expression unreadable.
"Sit down, Lark," Mr. Wilde said, gesturing to a chair positioned directly across from him.
I obeyed, my hands folded in my lap to hide their trembling.
"We've called you here because it's time we discussed the reason for your return," he continued, his voice businesslike.
My heart raced. Despite everything, some small part of me still hoped for familial connection, for some explanation that would make sense of my sudden inclusion in their lives.
"Your brother mentioned that you're... resistant to the idea of family," Mrs. Wilde said, her perfectly manicured nails tapping against her chair's armrest. "But surely you understand that blood ties are important."
"I've managed without family for twenty years," I replied carefully.
"Yes, well," Mr. Wilde cleared his throat. "That's about to change. The Wilde name carries certain responsibilities, certain expectations."
He leaned forward, hands clasped on the desk. "Our family business is facing... challenges. Financial difficulties that require a strategic alliance."
Celestine shifted uncomfortably by the window, but remained silent.
"An alliance," I repeated, a cold dread settling in my stomach.
"Samuel Rodriguez," Mrs. Wilde supplied. "He's offered to save our company in exchange for a marriage arrangement."
The room seemed to tilt slightly. "A marriage arrangement," I echoed hollowly.
"Samuel is nearly forty," Mr. Wilde continued, as though discussing a business transaction. "Older than you, but wealthy and powerful. The union would benefit both families."
"Both families," I repeated. "Not both people involved."
Mrs. Wilde's smile was brittle. "Marriage has always been about more than individual happiness, my dear. It's about duty, legacy."
"And what about Zinnia?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. "If this is about duty and legacy, shouldn't she be the one to fulfill it?"
A heavy silence fell over the room.
"Zinnia is... delicate," Mr. Wilde finally said. "Her health wouldn't allow such a union."
"She's too gentle," Mrs. Wilde added. "Samuel Rodriguez is known for his... demanding nature. He needs a wife who can endure certain expectations."
The implication hung in the air between us. I was the sacrificial lamb, brought here not as a daughter but as a solution—a body to be offered to a man known for his cruelty.
"No," I said, rising to my feet. "Absolutely not."
Mr. Wilde's expression hardened. "This isn't a request, Lark. It's the reason you're here."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you'll have made a powerful enemy," he replied coldly. "One who could make life very difficult for the convent that raised you."
The threat was unmistakable. They would punish Sister Agnes, the only mother I'd ever known, if I didn't comply.
I looked at each of them in turn—my father, my mother, my brother—searching for some sign of the love I'd dreamed of finding all my life. Instead, I saw only calculation and cold determination.
In that moment, I realized the terrible truth: I hadn't found my family. I'd walked straight into a trap.
