Chapter 3I Took Her Apologies Too Literally

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 single-stall 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. Hand-sewn 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 parchment-white. 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 mock-up—a half-finished 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 high-definition 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."

After the laptop died, a faint, uncomfortable tremor finally rippled through the Harrington household.