Chapter 2
Just beyond the heavy silk curtains of the dining gallery, hidden away in the quiet shadows of the small memorial alcove, a tragedy had already unfolded. The space had been dedicated to the memory of Caspian’s late wife. At its center stood a small marble pedestal, upon which a delicate, rose-patterned porcelain urn had rested for the past year. Now, the pedestal was bare, and the polished hardwood floor was littered with shattered ceramic fragments and pale, scattered ashes.
Kneeling on the floor amidst the ruin was Sylvia Lane. At twenty-eight, the housemaid was exceptionally beautiful, possessing a softly oval face, defined cheekbones, and highly expressive brows. Her fair, rosy skin was pale tonight, reflecting a deep, internalized dread. Her thick hair was gathered meticulously into a loose, low bun, ensuring not a single strand detracted from her polished professionalism. She wore a sophisticated black maid dress featuring a cinched waist, a slim fitted silhouette, and a short A-line skirt. A neatly tied white apron, paired with a crisp white collar and cuffs, completed her elegant appearance.
In her trembling hands, Sylvia held a thick, folded linen cloth. She was carefully gathering the sharp, rose-patterned porcelain fragments, terrified of losing a single piece of the sacred memorial.
Standing right beside her, shivering in her elegant party dress, was six-year-old Mabel Hale. The little girl was a heartbreakingly precise reflection of her father, possessing the same fair skin and bright, observant eyes. She wore a small, soft cardigan over her dress and simple flat shoes. Tears streamed continuously down her rosy cheeks.
"Mabel, sweetheart, what happened here?" Sylvia whispered frantically, her American accent thick with unshed tears as she gently swept the ashes into the linen cloth. "How did it fall?"
"I pushed it," Mabel sobbed, her tiny hands twisting the fabric of her own cardigan. "I pushed it really hard, just like she told me to. But it didn't work, Sylvia. It didn't work."
"Who told you to push it?" Sylvia asked, her expressive brows drawing together in profound confusion and rising horror. "Why would you want to break Mommy's urn?"
"Amelia said," Mabel whimpered, her voice catching on a breathless hiccup. "She said if the vase was broken, Mommy wouldn't have to stay inside it anymore. She said breaking it would bring Mommy back for the dinner."
Sylvia froze, a piece of jagged porcelain biting sharply into her thumb. The sheer, psychopathic cruelty of the manipulation crashed over her. Amelia Vance, driven by a toxic, consuming jealousy of the late wife’s enduring place in the family's heart, had weaponized the grief of a six-year-old child to erase her rival.
"Oh, you sweet, brave girl," Sylvia murmured, pulling the weeping child into a tight embrace, ignoring the dust transferring to her pristine black dress. "We have to go out there. We have to tell your father."
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"Will he be mad at me?" Mabel cried, burying her face in the maid's white collar.
"I won't let him be mad at you," Sylvia promised, folding the linen cloth securely around the broken urn and holding the bundle tightly against her waist. "Come with me."
