The night before the legitimate heiress returned to the Harrington estate, my best friend, Phoebe, sent me a link to a trending Reddit thread.

The title read: "How to Spot a Covert Martyr." I stared at my phone for three minutes, my eyelids growing heavier with every sentence. "Rule Number One: She will drag herself through the dirt first, just so everyone else lines up to stone you." "Rule Number Two: When she weeps and insists she doesn’t deserve what she has, it isn’t humility—it’s an eviction notice disguised as an apology." I let the phone drop flat against my nose, sighing into the dark. "Phoebe," I texted back, entirely sincere, "if she says she doesn’t deserve it, can’t I just tell her she does?" A long bubble bounced on the screen before Phoebe’s reply popped up: "Delia, my love, that gorgeous little head of yours truly exists only for decorative purposes." …… 1 The day Celia was brought back into the Harrington fold, Mother hosted an intimate family dinner.

I sat at the far end of the polished mahogany table in a buttercupyellow sundress, happily nibbling on fresh strawberries.

Mother had explicitly instructed me beforehand not to steal Celia’s thunder. I found her request entirely reasonable.

So, I took off my diamondstudded headband and replaced it with a tortoiseshell bear clip. Very lowkey. Very sweet.

The moment Celia walked through the front doors, everyone rose to their feet.

She was painfully thin, wrapped in an oversized white dress, her eyes redrimmed and swollen like a stray kitten pulled from a storm drain. Mother broke down in tears on the spot.

Father’s throat visibly bobbed. My older brother, Jasper, immediately shrugged out of his tailored suit jacket and draped it over her trembling shoulders.

Celia took a fragile halfstep backward, her wide, tearglazed eyes darting toward me. "I’m sorry, Delia," she whispered.

I hadn’t quite swallowed my strawberry yet. "Huh?" A fat tear rolled down her cheek, catching the chandelier light. "This is all my fault.

If I hadn’t come back, you’d still be their only daughter. I feel like a thief… like I’ve stolen your entire life." The dining room plunged into an immediate, suffocating silence.

Every single pair of eyes pivoted to me.

I chewed slowly, swallowed the strawberry, and offered an earnest correction. "You aren’t a thief." Celia lifted her wet, trembling gaze. "A thief takes things in secret and runs away," I explained gently. "You were brought home in Father’s town car.

And I already packed my things out of the southfacing suite—it’s all yours now. I even emptied out the pink side of the walkin closet.

But if you hate pink, just let me know and I’ll have the housekeeper swap out the wardrobe doors tomorrow." A tear remained caught on Celia’s dark lashes, suspended between falling and retreating.

Mother’s brow tightened. "Delia." I blinked at her. "What? She said she felt like she shouldn’t be here.

I’m just letting her know she belongs." Celia bit her lower lip, her voice shrinking to a nearinaudible murmur. "You’re so generous, Delia.

But… I know how much that pearl necklace means to you. Mother gave it to you, didn’t she?" I looked down at the strand of South Sea pearls resting against my collarbone.

Mother had fastened it around my neck on my eighteenth birthday. I loved it dearly. But Celia looked as though her heart would physically shatter if she didn’t have it.

So, I reached up, undid the clasp, and placed it into her palm. "Here. Take it." She froze. Worrying she felt awkward, I added, "Don’t cry, though.

If your hands get wet, the pearls might slip." Mother’s eyes reddened further with heartache.

Father cleared his throat, his tone thick. "Delia, you don't have to do that." I tilted my head, genuinely puzzled. "Didn’t you both say everything ought to be returned to her?" No one answered.

The heavy silence hung like damp wool. Celia clutched the pearls to her chest, and then, without warning, the dam broke again. "Do you hate me, Delia?

Handing everything over the second I walk through the door… are you trying to make everyone think I’m just a greedy usurper?" A lightbulb flickered on in my mind. Ah.

You can’t just hand things over directly. That’s bad etiquette.

I quickly reached out and plucked the pearls back out of her hand. "Okay, then I won’t give it to you." Celia’s face drained of color.

I slipped the strand into its velvet jewelry box and slid it across the table toward Mother. "Maybe Mother should write up an itemized inventory.

What belongs to the biological daughter, and what belongs to the girl you raised.

My brain gets tangled easily; I’d hate to give back the wrong things." Jasper frowned, his voice dropping an octave. "Delia, who are you keeping score with?" I shrank back slightly. "I’m not keeping score, Jasper.

It’s called organization. When I move out, I need categories.

Otherwise, you end up packing your socks in the same box as your pastries, and everything smells weird." Someone down the table smothered a sudden snort of laughter.

A sharp, momentary flicker darted across Celia’s eyes.

She shifted her gaze to my dress. "You look so lovely today, Delia," she murmured, her voice laced with delicate selfpity. "That look was made for a real society heiress, wasn’t it?

Someone who grew up in the middle of nowhere like me could never pull off something so effortless." Mother instantly reached out, clasping Celia’s thin hand with fierce maternal devotion.

I looked down at my skirt, pulling up my email on my phone. "It’s not offtherack couture. I sketched the concept myself, and the atelier sent over a sample for me to testwear.

If you like the silhouette, I can sketch one tailored specifically to you." The corner of Celia’s mouth tightened.

I studied her proportions with an artist’s candor. "Your shoulders are narrow and your waist is tiny—white drapery looks gorgeous on you.

But you keep hunching your spine, which shortens your neck.

If you lift your chin up, you’ll look much more like the real heiress." The unshed tears on her cheeks finally refused to fall.

As the dinner drew to a close, Mother pulled me aside. "Delia, Celia just got back. Her nerves are raw.

Going forward, you need to yield to her more." I nodded readily. "Of course." Celia peered at me from beneath her lashes.

I gave her a wide, sunny smile. "Next time you tell everyone you aren't worthy of something, I promise I’ll reassure you twice as hard.

But you have to give me a headsup first—are you genuinely feeling insecure, or do you just want me to hand whatever it is over?" The dining room went dead silent.

Jasper’s crystal water glass clipped the porcelain saucer, ringing out like a small, solitary chime.

Celia stared at me with wide, bloodshot eyes, as if looking at a monster who was physically incapable of decoding her social frequency. As for me?

I just thought this family had suddenly become terribly exhausting to converse with. 2 The morning after Celia’s arrival, the Harringtons decided to dissolve my engagement to Rhys Bancroft.

The Bancrofts and the Harringtons were old money, intertwined through three generations of highstakes philanthropy and boardroom alliances.

Decades ago, the patriarchs had shaken hands over singlemalt scotch, deciding that whichever daughter emerged would marry Rhys.

Because I was the only girl in the house, that glittering ring had hovered over my head for years.

Now that Celia was back, everyone looked at me with varying degrees of pained embarrassment. I, however, breathed an enormous sigh of relief. Rhys Bancroft was too clever by half.

Talking to him was like sitting for an unscheduled SAT exam. I had no desire to spend the rest of my natural life taking pop quizzes at the breakfast table.

When Rhys arrived at the estate, I was sitting crosslegged on the Persian rug in the sunroom, absorbed in building a Lego botanicals set.

Celia sat at the opposite end of the velvet sofa. The moment Rhys stepped into the room, her eyes turned misty. "Rhys… I’m so sorry." Rhys paused midstride.

My Lego brick hovered in the air. "Why on earth was she apologizing again?" Celia looked down at her lap, her voice trembling with tragic selfrestraint. "I know you and Delia have an arrangement.

I’ve only just arrived, and I don't expect anything. Please, pretend I’m not here. I can manage on my own." Mother looked ready to weep from secondhand heartbreak.

Father sighed heavily. Jasper cast me a look heavy with brotherly warning. Understanding struck me like lightning. "Oh!

I know the answer to this one." I raised my hand high, like an eager schoolgirl. "I agree to terminate the engagement!" Every face in the room swung toward me in unison.

Fearing they hadn't heard me clearly, I beamed. "Really. I completely agree." Celia’s delicate sniffling hitched in her throat. Rhys arched a dark, elegant brow.

I abandoned my Lego set, scrambled to my feet, and ran upstairs to fetch my leather portfolio. "I even prepared an itemized settlement folder," I announced proudly, returning to the coffee table. "The vintage emerald suite your grandmother gave me is boxed up and ready to go back.

The trust fund transferred into my name upon our formal betrothal—my financial advisor says only half of it needs to be returned under state contract law.

Oh, and the singing crystal duck you brought me from Vienna last winter… it plays offkey show tunes and I love it to pieces.

May I keep it?" Rhys looked down at me, the faintest flicker of amusement curving the corner of his lips. "You may keep the duck." "Yay!" I cheered.

Celia bit her lip so hard it went white. "Delia… were you just waiting for this?

Did you want to break it off all along, and you’re only acting this magnanimous now because I’m back?" I blinked up at her, utterly baffled. "If being relieved about ending an engagement is wrong… should I cry for you instead?" Jasper’s voice turned icy. "Delia." I clamped my lips shut, slightly startled.

Fresh tears spilled over Celia’s cheeks. "Don’t be mad at her, Jasper. Delia is just straightforward. Not like me… I grew up depending on other people’s charity.

I never learned how to ask for what I want." I considered this carefully for a beat. "Except you just asked for the engagement two minutes ago." Her face lost every drop of color. "I did not!" "Oh," I said innocently. "So you don’t want it?" She choked, entirely stripped of words.

A low, muffled chuckle broke from Rhys.

Before the tension could snap, the butler rushed in, looking thoroughly perturbed. "Sir, Ma’am… the pink diamond heirloom brooch left by the Dowager Mrs.

Harrington is missing." Mother’s expression shifted instantly.

That brooch was an Edwardian heirloom passed down through three generations; it had been earmarked as Celia’s official welcoming gift tonight.

Celia stood up at once, looking panicked. "Missing? How could it be missing?" She turned a frightened, trembling gaze on me. "Delia… I’m not accusing you. Truly, I’m not.

But you were the only one who went into the jewelry vault this morning." I tilted my head. "I went in to grab my hair clip." Celia began to cry harder, her breath catching. "This is all my fault.

If I hadn’t shown up, the family treasures wouldn't be vanishing.

Delia, were you just… was your heart hurting so badly that you acted without thinking?" Mother’s eyes darkened with a cold, unfamiliar skepticism.

Father’s voice lowered into gravel. "Delia.

Where is the brooch?" A knot of unfairness tightened in my chest. "I don't know." Jasper stood up, his jaw set like stone. "Search her room." Ten minutes later, the maid walked down the stairs, holding the antique velvet pouch.

It had been tucked deep inside the zippered lining of my carryon luggage. The room went dead, staticcharged and freezing.

Celia pressed a hand over her mouth, tears cascading down her cheeks. "Delia… if you couldn't bear to part with it, you could have just told me. I would have gladly given it up.

Why did you have to do this?" I looked at the pouch, and suddenly, the fog cleared.

Early this morning, Celia had come knocking on my bedroom door, whispering that she was terrified of handling valuable jewelry and asking if she could see the heirloom piece first.

I had been busy filming a daily outfit reel for Phoebe, so I had told her to go ahead and inspect the box on the dressing table. My processing speed might be slow.

But I am not an idiot. I pulled out my phone, tapped the screen, and AirPlayed my camera roll directly onto the massive wallmounted television. The 4K footage flickered to life.

On screen, I was spinning happily in front of the fulllength mirror.

Behind me, in sharp focus, Celia opened the velvet case, lifted the brooch, held it for two silent seconds, checked over her shoulder to verify my back was turned, and slid the piece directly into the side zip of my weekend duffel bag.

On the video, my cheerful voice rang out: "Celia, do you think I look like a lemon meringue tart today?" In the living room, Celia’s face went the color of curdled milk.

I asked softly, "Didn’t you say you were terrified of losing it? Why did you hide it in my bag?" Celia’s lips trembled violently.

Her sobs turned jagged, hysterical. "I didn't mean to! I was just… I was so scared!

I was terrified everyone would think I was cheap and unrefined, terrified Delia would hate me, terrified you’d throw me back on the street!" Mother’s reaching hand froze in midair.

Father’s face darkened into an ugly, thunderous scowl. Jasper stared at the frozen frame on the screen, and for the very first time, he did not step forward to shield her.

Rhys walked over, stopping just beside my shoulder. He leaned down, his voice quiet. "You film everything?" I nodded earnestly. "My memory is terrible.

If I don't document it, I forget what I wore." He let out a short, admiring breath. "Clever girl." Celia was hyperventilating on the sofa now, clutching at her chest. "Delia, please… please forgive me.

I just got here. I’m so insecure…" I thought about it for a second, then gave her an honest answer. "I’d rather not. You almost made me a criminal." Her head whipped up, shocked.

I clutched my crystal duck to my ribs. "I might be a bit slow, Celia. But that doesn't mean my reputation doesn't matter to me." That night, Jasper knocked on my bedroom door.

He lingered in the shadow of the hallway sconces, looking tired. "What Celia did today… she was wrong. But she only just arrived, Delia. Her mental state is fragile. Let it go.

Don't press the issue." I sat crosslegged on my packed suitcase, looking up at him. "What about my mental state?" Jasper blinked, stunned.

I held up my fingers, counting them off. "Today, my bedroom was ransacked. I was branded a thief by my own family. And I almost lost my singing duck.

My mental state isn’t particularly stable either." He stood in heavy silence for a long time, then reached into his jacket and pulled out a black card. "There’s fifty thousand dollars in this account.

Consider it an apology from your brother." I stared at the sleek plastic for two beats, then took it. "Okay." Jasper visibly relaxed, letting out a relieved breath.

I looked up at him through my bangs, my voice quiet. "Jasper… next time she plays the victim, will you suspect me first again?" His expression froze in the dim hallway light, trapped behind a mask he didn't know how to take off. 3 I took Jasper’s fifty grand.

Phoebe called me an unprincipled pushover on FaceTime. I corrected her with great solemnity: "I’m not a pushover, Phoebe.

Fifty thousand dollars just has an incredible amount of backbone." The family handled the brooch debacle exactly as I expected: they swept it under the rug.

Father declared that dirty laundry shouldn't be aired in polite society.

Mother insisted that Celia had suffered so much in the foster system that her lapse in judgment was merely a trauma response.

Jasper swore he would keep an eye on her so she’d never cross me again.

I sat at the breakfast island, sipping oat milk through a straw, getting more confused by the second. "So… she framed me because she had a hard life," I summarized thoughtfully. "And I was treated like a thief because my life was too easy?" The breakfast room fell dead quiet.

Father set his coffee down with a sharp clatter. "Delia. Watch your tone. Sarcasm doesn't become you." I chewed gently on my straw, feeling small. "I wasn't being sarcastic.

I really didn't understand." Celia descended the grand staircase a moment later, her eyelids puffy and bruised with exhaustion.

Seeing me at the counter, she stopped dead in her tracks. "Delia… are you still angry with me?" I nodded candidly. "A little bit, yes." Her complexion blanched, her fingers clutching the banister as if her knees might buckle. "Then… I won't come down for meals anymore.

If I stay out of your sight, you won't have to be miserable." Mother sprang up immediately. "Celia, stop this nonsense!" I panicked slightly. "People die if they don't eat!

If you don't want to look at me, I can bring a tray up to your room. Is there chicken soup today?

Someone should pack it with kale; she looks severely vitamin deficient." Silence reclaimed the room.

Rhys, who had dropped by to deliver the finalized legal paperwork regarding our dissolved betrothal, caught my last sentence and let out a quiet, velvety laugh.

The tear on Celia’s eyelash hung suspended, refusing to drop. I think it finally dawned on her: I genuinely didn't have the hardware installed to process her emotional chess moves.

That afternoon, Mother took Celia into the city to be fitted for evening gowns. In three days, the Metropolitan Arts Gala was hosting an emerging designers' showcase.

I had submitted an entry months ago.

My dream was to win the grant prize, move out of the Harrington estate, and open a small, independent atelier where I could sew beautiful things in peace.

Celia had submitted an entry as well. Mother claimed she needed a formal debut to announce her return to society.

In the back of the Maybach, Celia kept her chin tucked against her chest. "Delia is so talented… how could I ever deserve to share a stage with her?" Mother took her cold hands, squeezing them tight. "You are a Harrington by blood, Celia.

No one will ever say you don't belong." Celia turned her soulful eyes on me. "Delia, do you feel like I’m stealing your spotlight?" I was busy gnawing on a blueberry scone.

I shook my head. "No. A runway isn't a singlestall bathroom; more than one person can use it." Up front, the driver coughed violently into his fist to stifle a laugh.

Celia’s smile locked up tight. When we got home, I retreated to my private studio on the third floor to finish my final alterations. My showcase piece was a white tulle ballgown.

I had named it "Cloudbreak".

My design mentor had described it as "a fractured sky, ripped open by fate and stitched back together with silver thread." I didn't entirely understand poetry that highbrow.

I just thought the silhouette looked lovely. At dusk, I ran downstairs to sign for a package of Swarovski crystals. When I came back, the studio door was slightly ajar.

Inside, my gown was slaughtered. The dress form stood naked and butchered. Ribbons of ivory tulle lay shredded across the hardwood floor.

Handsewn freshwater pearls rolled everywhere like spilled teeth, and my original sketchbooks were soaking in an overturned vase of water.

Celia stood in the center of the wreckage, a pair of heavy silver dressmaker shears dangling from her limp fingers. The moment our eyes met, her hand opened.

The shears clattered against the floor. "Delia… I’m so sorry," she gasped, trembling. "I just wanted to tidy up for you.

The fabric was piled on the ground… I thought it was discarded scrap." I stood frozen in the doorway, the breath crushed out of my lungs. Those weren't scraps.

That was six months of sleepless nights, tracing every seam until my fingertips bled.

By the time Mother and Jasper burst into the room, Celia was sobbing so hard she could barely stand.

Jasper’s immediate instinct was still the same: he stepped in front of her, shielding her with his broad frame. "Delia, stay calm," he ordered, his voice tight.

I lifted my eyes to meet his. "I am calm, Jasper.

I just don't understand why her ‘good intentions’ always manage to execute whatever matters most to me." Celia’s face went parchmentwhite.

She grabbed Mother’s sleeve frantically. "Mother, let me pull out of the gala! I shouldn't have entered in the first place. Is Delia this upset because I’m walking the stage too?

I don't want her to despise me…" The words were so soft, so fragile. Yet they cut like a straight razor.

She had destroyed my life’s work, and in three breaths, she had recast the narrative: I was simply the jealous, petty usurper trying to force the real heiress out of the spotlight.

Mother looked at me, a sharp shadow of doubt crossing her eyes. "Delia… did you say something cruel to Celia?" Something deep inside my chest twisted, sharp and cold as an icicle. "No." Celia shook her head frantically, tears drenching her collar. "She didn't say anything!

It’s my fault!

I was just desperate to be seen, to be loved… someone like me shouldn't be competing with Delia anyway." Rhys was standing just outside the doorway, leaning casually against the jamb.

His dark eyes flicked down to the shears on the floor. "Are those your shears, Delia?" he asked mildly. I glanced over. "No. Mine have pink teddy bear stickers on the handles.

Those don't." Rhys crouched down, picked up the shears with an embroidered handkerchief, and handed them to the house manager. "Pull the household purchase orders and security receipts." Celia’s breath hitched, her face ghostly.

And then, slowly, the pieces clicked into place for me. She hadn't just destroyed the dress to spite me.

She wanted me to lose my temper, to scream, to lash out—so everyone would believe I had staged this disaster myself to bully the real daughter off the stage.

I took a slow, deep breath through my nose. Walking past them without a word, I opened the tall storage cabinet in the back corner.

From the bottom shelf, I dragged out a heavy canvas garment bag. Inside was a secondary mockup—a halffinished duplicate of "Cloudbreak".

I had made a backup because I had a habit of getting drowsy late at night, and I was terrified my hands would shake and ruin the lace.

Even a pretty girl with a slow brain has her own survival tactics: "Never leave your most precious things without a second chance." Mother stared in shock. "Delia… you had another one?" I nodded, my voice quiet. "Yes.

But the first one was beautiful, too." I knelt down on the floor, gathering the butchered scraps of tulle into my arms. I draped them over the hem of the backup dress.

Suddenly, an idea bloomed in my chest. They didn't have to be ruined. Broken clouds could catch the light, too.

Rhys walked across the room and knelt down beside me on the floorboards. "Need an extra pair of hands?" I handed him a velvet tray of loose pearls. "Sort them by size." He sat back on his heels, rolled up the cuffs of his bespoke dress shirt, and quietly went to work.

At midnight, my phone buzzed with an incoming wire transfer from Jasper: "One hundred thousand dollars." The memo read: "For the competition." This time, I didn't feel the thrill of the money.

Because for the very first time in my eighteen years, I realized there are some things in this world that a bank transfer simply cannot repair.

By two in the morning, I had finished draping the newly distressed tulle across the skirt. The studio door creaked open.

Celia walked in holding a steaming mug of milk, her eyes still red and swollen. "Delia… I came to apologize." Before I could tell her to leave, her ankle gave way.

The entire mug of scalding milk arched through the air, splashing directly across the keyboard and vents of my open MacBook.

The screen flickered twice, crackled with a tiny blue spark, and went pitch black.

Celia clamped both hands over her mouth, tears instantly spilling over her fingers. "Oh god, I’m so sorry! I didn't mean to!

Why does everything I touch end up hurting you?" I stared at the fried motherboard, then lifted my head to look at her fragile, tragic face. This time, I didn't comfort her.

I didn't offer an excuse.

I simply pulled out my phone, snapped three highdefinition photos of the milk pooling beneath the keys, and looked her straight in the eye with a gentle, polite smile. "It’s fine, Celia," I said softly. "I’m learning how to keep backups, too." 4 After the laptop died, a faint, uncomfortable tremor finally rippled through the Harrington household.