The room Ara had been given in the West Wing was beautiful—too beautiful.
Too perfect. Too Siedel.
As Ara stepped inside, her feet sank into a sea of cream-colored carpet so soft it muffled even the smallest movement. The scent hit her first—not perfume, but something curated: jasmine, old cedar, and a whisper of powdery rose that clung to the very space like a memory.
Bernard, who escorted her here, left to have the breakfast delivered in the room for her convenience.
The walls were a soft eggshell gold, textured with delicate patterns that shimmered ever so faintly under the veiled morning sun spilling from the tall, arching windows cloaked in ivory curtains. The entire space was bathed in warmth and elegance, almost as if the room itself tried to disarm its guest.
To her right was a small receiving parlor—an intimate alcove with tufted velvet chairs in a deep wine-red shade and a carved mahogany tea table between them. A crystal bowl of fresh fruits sat, almost too pristine to eat. A grand floor-to-ceiling bookcase stood against the far wall, filled not with novels but looked liked carefully handpicked volumes on art, lineage, and politics. Even the spines looked unread, as if selected more for display than thought.
It was clear no one had stayed here in a long time, and yet not a single speck of dust dared to settle—like the room had been waiting in silence, tended to but untouched.
She moved slowly further into the room, fingers drifting along the edge of a carved sideboard—its surface polished to a gleam, yet cool and indifferent beneath her touch, like everything else here; she registered the detail, stored it, then moved on. She subtly checked the corners as if mapping an enemy's terrain. Not paranoia. But strategy.
There were no cameras, no microphones she could see. But Ara knew better than to trust what wasn't visible.
The centerpiece was the bed. Canopy-draped, with billowing silk panels tied at the corners in soft gold ribbons. The sheets were flawless, high-thread-count ivory, and the pillows were arranged like clouds as if awaiting a queen.
Beside it stood a vanity—ornate, vintage, and massive. It shone under the soft glow of golden sconces. The mirror's frame was silverleaf, finely etched with the crest of the Siedel family. Crystal jars lined the table—some filled with powders and creams, others empty, like relics waiting for its new owner.
Every corner, every piece whispered wealth. Intentional elegance. Control.
The chair creaked softly beneath her as she sat, the velvet fabric cool against her palms. For a moment, she simply looked, staring at the woman before her. The face in the mirror was hers, and yet… not.
The girl who once ran barefoot in sunlit fields, who giggled under soft cotton sheets beside her mother, was gone. In her place sat a woman with sharp eyes, faint shadows beneath them, and a mouth that had forgotten how to smile without consequence.
The silk robe she wore, lent by the butler, clashed against the rawness beneath—against the faded bruises and scars time hadn't fully erased, and the memories stitched into her skin. She was a ghost stitched in cloth far beneath the estate's standard, her presence like a crack in porcelain.
This was not her world. Not anymore. But she would survive in it.
She would rule it.
At the far end of the room, her eyes caught the reflection of the French doors opening onto her own private lanai. Outside, white curtains danced in the breeze like slow-moving spirits.
Her hands fell to her growing abdomen—absently at first, then firmer, deliberate. She hummed a low, wavering tune, barely audible, something from a lullaby half-remembered from a lifetime ago. Not for comfort. For grounding. A reminder. Of what she carried.
Of what they had done.
Of why she must not fail.
A knock. A perfectly timed knock snapped her back to reality.
Then, a maid entered with a tray—fruit, porridge, and tea—everything mild, everything sterile. The woman bowed her head too low, her eyes not meeting Ara's. Her hands trembled slightly when she placed the tray down the mahogany table.
"Your breakfast, Miss…" She hesitated, unsure how to address the young woman.
"Ara. Just Ara." Ara smiled softly, making her voice light. "Thank you—Umm…"
The middle-aged woman gave no name, but Ara glanced at her badge. G. Dela Cruz. She was trained to be invisible, but she wore perfume that didn't match the estate's style.
Something citrus—modern. A gift? A bribe? Maybe a leftover scent from another person?
You're not part of the main staff, Ara thought. They've put eyes on me already.
"Would you like to join me?" She asked as the maid settled herself near the door.
Again, no answer.
As Ara sat, she reached for the teapot—and without thinking, she began to hum again.
A soft tune, low and wistful. It wasn't from any song that played on the radio. It was a simple three-note pattern, a lullaby that was never written down, only passed through lips and memory.
The maid froze for a fraction of a second—barely noticeable to anyone else.
She'd heard that tune before, almost forgotten in her memory.
The same nostalgic melody. The same hush between the notes.
The maid didn't speak. She just bowed, turned briskly, and exited.
Ara, eyes following after her, noted the faint scratch by the door's edge—the kind left by frequent lock replacements.
This wasn't a guest room. This was a containment room dressed in finery.
⋆｡ﾟ☁︎₊˚ ｡☾ ﾟ⋆ *ੈ✩‧₊˚ ⋆
Knight Mansion, Ivory Heights
Amanda's nails tapped in rhythm against the table. One-two-three, one-two-three.
Over and over.
She sat rigidly before the vanity, but her reflection gave her away—jaw clenched, knuckles pale where they gripped the arms of the chair.
She stared at her reflection. The perfect Sam. Same dark curls. Same beauty mark. Same Viremont spine.
But her eyes weren't the same.
Behind her, Leslie crossed the devastated room with slow, deliberate steps. Not quite looming, but never far enough.
"You're spiraling again," Leslie said coldly, hand clutching Amanda's phone. "And spiraling won't help us."
Amanda didn't speak.
Leslie's tone sharpened. "Focus on your role. You are Sam Knight. If you break now, we all fall."
Amanda's throat tightened. "She's there… in his house, in his arms—"
"And that's exactly why you need to stay composed," Leslie cut in. "Let them choke on the scandal. Let her look like the mistake. All you need to do is remain calm, indifferent."
She moved closer, fingers lightly brushing Amanda's shoulder, but the gesture felt more like a chain than comfort.
"Play the long game. When this storm passes, you'll be the only one left standing—victorious, elegant, and untouchable. That's how we win."
Amanda swallowed hard and gave a stiff nod, eyes still locked on her reflection. But a crack had long formed—just beneath the surface.
She secretly pressed a hand to her wrist. The scar had faded—but the memories hadn't. Vivid. Haunting.
"For now, I'll take care of Luke. Just stay perfect, like the good little girl you are, alright?" Leslie briefly patted her shoulders and headed towards the door. "Stay in my room tonight. I'll have Cindy clean up here."
Leslie paused at the doorway, one hand already on the brass handle. "Remember what's at stake, Sam."
She looked back over her shoulder, her voice deceptively calm as she stepped out. "Oh—by the way, your uncle will visit us this weekend."
Then, without waiting for a reply, she pulled the door shut with a soft, final click that echoed louder than it should have.
Left alone, Amanda's thoughts began to churn—frantic, chaotic—until the quiet tap-tap-tap of her nails against the armrest returned.
One-two-three, one-two-three.
It grew sharper, more erratic, like a metronome breaking out of rhythm as her heart thumped wildly.
No—no. Not Donovan.
⋆｡ﾟ☁︎₊˚ ｡☾ ﾟ⋆ *ੈ✩‧₊˚ ⋆
Siedel Estate, Noirémont Peaks
The estate had gone still.
The luxurious room was but a cell.
Ara sat by the tall window, one hand resting lightly on her belly, the other gently curled at her side. Two heartbeats pulsed within her—and in that stillness, the mansion felt like a beast sleeping under her feet.
Slowly, she rose and crossed the room, her bare feet silent against the polished floor. The glass doors creaked silently as she opened them, swiftly stepping out onto the lanai.
The air was cool, brushing against her skin with the gentleness of a touch—a touch that felt peaceful, yet deceptive. Beyond the columns, a stretch of immaculate grass rolled out like a velvet carpet. Not a weed in sight—someone had been maintaining it. But the garden beds flanking it were empty, soil turned but flowerless. No blooms. No life. Just bare earth waiting.
With her arms crossed and eyes narrowed, she stood still under the moonlight like a blade in silk—out of place, yet dangerous.
Then, to no one but herself, Ara whispered, "One by one, I will make them pay."