Rosalle’s internal monologue screamed, her teeth grinding together with enough force to make her jaw ache.
‘For ten years, I have done everything to win over that little freak!
I bought him imported sweets, I tried to hold his hand in front of the media, I played the perfect, loving elder sister!
And every single time, he looked at me like I was a piece of filth on his shoes!
But this wild, uneducated girl comes back from some wretched foreign countryside wearing a funeral coat, and he suddenly turns into a loyal little dog?’
A cold, creeping dread began to mingle with her jealousy.
If Noah, the adored youngest heir whom Adrian and Grrace treated like a fragile treasure, unconditionally supported Celeste, then Rosalle’s carefully constructed narrative of the “intimidating, disruptive returning daughter” would collapse before she could even deploy it.
She needed to reassert her authority.
She needed to remind the older brothers that she was the refined, gentle presence who maintained the household’s harmony, while this newcomer was just an unpolished outsider who would inevitably cause embarrassment.
As they reached the second-floor landing and turned into the wide, sunlit corridor of the east wing, Noah looked up at Celeste, his dark eyes bright with eager conversation.
“Did you eat lunch before you came, Sister?” he asked softly, his thumb gently stroking the rough, calloused edge of her palm without a shred of disgust.
“My Chef makes the best sweet and sour lotus root. And his roast duck has a skin so crispy it crackles when you bite into it. If you’re hungry, I can ask him to make a whole table just for us.”
Celeste’s stomach, which had been functioning on a meager breakfast of black coffee and compressed military energy bars consumed in the Sector Four bunker six hours prior, gave a subtle, approving appreciation at the mention of crispy roast duck.
A genuine, soft smile curved her lips, transforming her sharp, lethal profile into something radiantly warm.
“I haven’t eaten a proper meal since yesterday, Noah. Out there… the culinary standards were strictly functional. If this Chef of yours can roast a duck properly, I might just eat the entire bird myself.”
Noah’s eyes widened with delight, a tiny, triumphant laugh escaping his throat, a sound so rare that behind them, Arian actually tripped over his own sneakers in shock.
“I will tell the Chef to prepare the largest duck in the kitchen. And I have three boxes of imported hazelnut pastries hidden in my desk drawer. I saved them because the boxes had gold ribbons on them and I thought they looked pretty. I’ll give all of them to you.”
“You saved your private stash for me?” Celeste reached out with her free left hand, her long, pale fingers gently brushing a stray lock of dark hair away from the boy’s forehead.
Her touch was infinitely light, calibrated with the precision of an elite surgeon.
“Then I am deeply honored, Little Brother. We will establish a joint treasury for all future high-end pastries.”
They reached the end of the east wing corridor.
Before them stood a set of grand, double-carved rosewood doors flanked by two tall Ming-style porcelain vases.
This was the primary suite of the east wing, a three-room residential residence originally designed for the eldest daughter of the Hartwell Manor, left vacant and waiting for eleven years.
Standing in front of the double doors was a woman in her late forties wearing the tailored grey uniform of the manor’s senior domestic staff.
Her name was Madam Evelyn, a veteran housekeeper who had been originally introduced to the Branch House years ago through the influence of Old Master Archibald Hartwell’s Main House, and who over the past decade had been quietly bought off by Rosalle with expensive gifts and subtle promises of future status.
As the family approached, Madam Evelyn bowed, though her posture lacked the deep, crisp reverence that true aristocratic discipline demanded.
There was a subtle, lingering stiffness in her spine, and her eyes flicked toward Celeste’s black boots with a faint, barely perceptible trace of elitist condescension.
“Welcome home, Eldest Miss,” Madam Evelyn said, her voice smooth, carrying the practiced, passive-aggressive cadence of an old-money servant who believed herself superior to an uneducated master from the provinces.
“We were overjoyed to hear of your sudden return this morning. Please, forgive any minor shortcomings in the preparations. With the airport schedule being so unpredictable, the domestic staff was rushed to accommodate your arrival.”
Her eyes had already scanned the woman’s micro-expressions, her heart rate, and the slight, arrogant tilt of her chin.
In the underground mercenary camps, a subordinate who displayed that specific combination of insubordination and false politeness would have spent the next twenty-four hours hanging by their wrists from the courtyard drainage pipe to contemplate the meaning of chain of command.
But Celeste was on vacation.
More importantly, Noah was holding her hand and standing beside her.
“Open the doors,” Celeste said simply.
Her voice was cool, calm, and devoid of inflection, treating the senior housekeeper with the indifferent authority one would afford an automated elevator button.
Madam Evelyn’s smile stiffened slightly at the lack of polite reciprocation.
She reached out, grasping the ornate brass handles, and pushed the heavy double doors inward.
“Please, Eldest Miss,” Madam Evelyn said, gesturing into the suite with a theatrical sweep of her arm.
“Your new residence.”
Celeste stepped over the threshold, with Noah walking faithfully at her side.
The family followed close behind, eager to see the restored eldest daughter’s domain.
Then, the room came into clear focus, and the warm, hopeful atmosphere in the corridor evaporated into an instant, suffocating dead silence.
The suite was vast, boasting high coffered ceilings, panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows, and beautiful hardwood flooring.
But it was in a state of deliberate, insulting disarray.