Chapter 5 The Perfect Daughter Who Usurps the Nest

She avoided the main hall and took the servants' stairs down to the kitchen. Her stomach was growling, a painful reminder that she hadn't eaten since dawn.

The kitchen was bustling. Trays of hors d'oeuvres were being prepped for the pre-Gala reception. The air smelled of truffle oil and roasted garlic.

She paused in the doorway. No one noticed her.

"Did you hear? The jailbird is back," one of the new maids whispered, slicing lemons with vigorous strokes.

"Shh," another hissed. "Don't call her that. But yeah. I heard she looks terrible. Like a skeleton."

"Well, what do you expect?" the first maid said. "Unlike Miss Estelle. She's glowing. She's practically a saint, taking care of the family business while her sister was rotting in a cell."

"And to think," a third voice chimed in, lowering to a conspiratorial whisper, "Estelle isn't even a blood Stafford. She's adopted."

"Really? But the Master treats her like she's the only daughter he has."

"That's just fate. Some people are born with bad blood, like Alice. Some people have noble souls, like Estelle. Blood doesn't matter when you have class."

She leaned against the doorframe, listening. Bad blood. Noble soul.

She pushed off the wall and stepped into the light.

"Water," she said. Her voice was flat.

The conversation died instantly. The maids jumped, eyes widening as they took in her appearance.

"Get her some water!" Martha's voice cut through the silence. She bustled over, glaring at the girls.

Alice took the glass Martha handed her. Her hand shook slightly, but she steadied it.

"Martha," she said, ignoring the staring staff. "Where are my things? My easel? My paints? The books from my grandmother?"

Martha bit her lip, looking away. "The Madam... she said they were clutter. She had most of it thrown out."

"Thrown out?" Alice felt a sharp pang in her chest. "All of it?"

"Well," Martha hesitated. "Miss Estelle... she took the antique easel. The one your grandmother gave you. She said it would look rustic in her new music room."

Her grip on the glass tightened. Her grandmother's easel. The only thing she had left of the one person who actually loved her. Estelle didn't paint. She didn't draw. She took it just to take it. To erase her.

"And," Martha leaned in closer, her voice barely audible, "about what they were saying... about the adoption. You shouldn't mention that. Not tonight."

Alice raised an eyebrow. "Why? It's not a secret. Everyone knows she was adopted."

"Because," Martha whispered, "Miss Estelle has been telling people... implying... that she is the Master's true blood, an illegitimate daughter brought into the family, not just a foundling. She's rewriting the narrative, Miss Alice. She wants people to believe she has a claim by blood."

Alice almost laughed. It was so absurd. Estelle was obsessed with perfection. She was so desperate to be a "real" Vinson-Stafford elite that she was lying about her DNA.

That wasn't just vanity. In this circle, lying about lineage was a cardinal sin. It was fraud.

She set the glass down on the counter. "Thank you, Martha."

She turned and walked out of the kitchen. Her hunger was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating energy.

Estelle wanted to be the perfect, pure-blooded daughter? She wanted to steal her history, her room, her fiancé, and even her grandmother's memory?

Alice walked down the hallway. The portrait that used to hang near the library-a painting of her at sixteen-was gone. In its place hung a massive oil painting of Estelle, sitting with a cello, bathed in heavenly light.

Alice stared at the painted lie.

Estelle had a weakness. Her perfection was a house of cards built on a foundation of insecurity and deceit.

And Alice was the wind.