Chapter 1I Took Her Apologies Too Literally

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."

……

* * *

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 buttercup-yellow 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 diamond-studded headband and replaced it with a tortoiseshell bear clip.

Very low-key. 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 red-rimmed 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 half-step backward, her wide, tear-glazed 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 south-facing suite—it’s all yours now. I even emptied out the pink side of the walk-in 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 near-inaudible 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 self-pity. "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 off-the-rack couture. I sketched the concept myself, and the atelier sent over a sample for me to test-wear. 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 heads-up 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.