The iron gates of Stafford Manor swung open, revealing the long, winding driveway lined with perfectly manicured hedges. Everything looked exactly the same. The fountain, the white stone façade, the sprawling lawn.

It was a picture of perfection, a stark contrast to the chaos inside her.

The car stopped in front of the main entrance. Benito didn't get out. He didn't even look up from his phone.

"Go inside and get cleaned up," he said, his thumbs flying across the screen. "There's a Gala tonight. Try not to embarrass us."

She opened the door herself. The heavy thud of it closing behind her felt final.

She walked up the steps, carrying her plastic bag. The front door opened before she reached it. Martha, the head housekeeper, stood there. Her face was pinched, her eyes darting nervously past her to the car.

"Miss Alice," she said, her voice barely a whisper. She didn't hug her. Martha, who had practically raised her, kept her hands clasped tightly in front of her apron.

"Hello, Martha," she said. "I'm just going to my room."

Martha flinched. "About that... Miss Estelle... she turned your suite into her music room. The acoustics were better."

Alice stopped. Her room. Her sanctuary.

"Where am I staying?"

Martha looked down at her shoes. "The Madam said the guest room at the end of the east hall would be suitable."

The east hall. That was where the seasonal staff used to stay. The rooms were small, drafty, and dark.

"Fine," she said. Her voice was hollow. "I know the way."

She walked past Martha, up the grand staircase, her sneakers squeaking on the marble. The house was silent, but it felt like the walls were watching her.

The guest room smelled of dust and damp. The furniture was covered in sheets. She didn't care. She went straight to the small bathroom attached to it.

She stripped off the gray sweatpants and the sweatshirt. She stood in front of the mirror. Her ribs were visible. Her skin was sallow. Her eyes looked huge and haunted.

She turned on the shower. The water took a long time to warm up. When it did, she stepped in, grabbing a bar of harsh soap. She scrubbed. She scrubbed until her skin turned angry red. She wanted to wash off the prison. She wanted to wash off the smell of Benito's car. She wanted to wash off the last three years.

The steam filled the small room. She turned her back to the spray, letting the hot water run over the scar that ran diagonally across her shoulder blade. A souvenir from a "fight" in the laundry room during her second month. A fight Estelle had paid for.

Suddenly, the creak of the main guest room door, which she'd noted earlier had a broken lock, was followed by heavy footsteps. Before she could even process the intrusion, the bathroom door flew open.

She gasped, spinning around, clutching a thin towel to her chest.

Benito stood in the doorway. He hadn't knocked. The lock on the door was broken-she had noticed it but hadn't thought anyone would come here.

He froze. He wasn't looking at her face. He was staring at her exposed shoulder, at the jagged, purple keloid scar.

His face contorted. Not with pity. With revulsion.

"Jesus," he breathed, taking a step back. "Your back... it's disgusting."

The air left the room.

"Get out!" she screamed, her voice cracking. "Get out, Benito!"

He didn't leave. He regained his composure, his lip curling into a sneer. "Don't flatter yourself. I didn't want to see anything. I just came to tell you to keep your mouth shut tonight."

He gestured vaguely at her body. "That... mark. It's exactly what you deserve. In a place like that, only the loose women get into trouble like that."

Her blood ran cold. "Loose?" Her voice shook. "I was attacked. I was defending myself."

"Defending yourself?" He scoffed. "Or were you trying to please some 'big shot' in there for protection?"

Something inside her snapped. The sheer injustice, the vile accusation, it was too much.

She grabbed the heavy ceramic soap dish from the sink and hurled it at him.

It missed his head by an inch, shattering against the doorframe with a loud crack. Shards of ceramic rained down on the floor.

Benito flinched, his eyes widening. "You're crazy! You're a complete savage!"

He grabbed the door handle and slammed it shut. The force of it shook the wall, sending a sprinkle of plaster dust down from the ceiling.

She slid down the cold tiles, the towel slipping from her grip. She pulled her knees to her chest.

He thought she was a monster. He thought she was a whore.

She looked at the scar in the mirror again. It was ugly. It was jagged.

But as she stared at it, the tears she expected didn't come. Instead, a cold, hard resolve settled in her chest.

If they wanted a monster, she would give them one.

She stood up and turned the water back on. Cold, this time. To wake her up.

She found a black turtleneck sweater in the back of the closet. Martha, bless her, had managed to save a few of her old things, hiding them here. It smelled like mothballs, but it covered her neck, her arms, and most importantly, the scar.

She pulled it on and opened the door.

Benito was still there. He was leaning against the wall in the hallway, smoking a cigarette. The gray smoke swirled around his head like a halo of toxicity.

He looked her up and down as she stepped out.

"Dressed like a nun now?" he drawled, exhaling a plume of smoke. "Trying to play the saint?"

She didn't answer. She started walking toward the stairs.

He pushed off the wall and stepped in front of her, blocking her path. He crowded her, forcing her to step back until her shoulders hit the wall.

"Back in the bathroom," he said, his voice dropping to a low, suggestive murmur that made her skin crawl. "You left the door unlocked on purpose, didn't you?"

She looked at him like he had grown a second head. "The lock is broken, Benito."

He chuckled, a dark, arrogant sound. "Stop pretending. You knew I was coming. You wanted me to see you. You think if you seduce me, I'll take you back. You think I'm your ticket back into society."

He reached out, his fingers grazing her cheek. "After all, I'm the only chance you have."

She jerked her head away, his touch feeling like a brand. "Don't touch me. You make me sick."

His hand froze in mid-air. His expression shifted from amusement to anger. "Sick? You're a convict, Alice. You have a record. Who else would look at you? Who else would want damaged goods like you?"

Gary would. The thought was a lifeline. Gary, the man she wrote to for two years. The man whose name was on the document tucked away in a safety deposit box-the only real thing she had left. He wasn't rich, he wasn't powerful, but he was her anchor.

"Move," she said, her voice icy. "I'm going to see my father."

Benito grabbed her wrist. His grip was tight, painful. "Listen to me. Tonight at the Gala, you stay in the shadows. Do not try to upstage Estelle. Do not talk about prison. And do not try to cling to me."

She looked down at his hand on her wrist. The same hand that had sanitized itself after she breathed the same air as him.

"Let go," she said, enunciating every word. "Or I will scream. And I will tell every maid in this house that you're harassing your 'ex' fiancée."

He released her as if she had shocked him. He took a step back, straightening his tie, smoothing his suit jacket.

"You're delusional," he spat. "Remember your place, Alice. You are nothing but a stain on the Stafford name now."

He turned and walked away, his Italian leather shoes clicking rhythmically on the floor.

She watched him go. The lingering affection, the desperate hope she had held onto for three years... it was gone. Evaporated.

He wasn't just cruel; he was stupid. His arrogance blinded him. He actually thought she still wanted him.

That arrogance was a weakness. And she would exploit it.

She took a deep breath and walked to the top of the stairs. Below, in the grand foyer, she heard laughter.

Estelle's laughter. It was light, airy, practiced.

She looked over the banister. Estelle was standing there in a white silk gown, looking like an angel. She was clinging to Benito's arm, gazing up at him with wide, adoring eyes.

Benito leaned down and kissed her forehead. The tenderness in the gesture was unmistakable.

She gripped the wooden railing until her knuckles turned white.

They were playing a game. A game of perfect couple, perfect family, perfect life.

She stared down at them from the shadows.

Enjoy it while it lasts, she thought. Because she was about to flip the board.

She avoided the main hall and took the servants' stairs down to the kitchen. Her stomach was growling, a painful reminder that she hadn't eaten since dawn.

The kitchen was bustling. Trays of hors d'oeuvres were being prepped for the pre-Gala reception. The air smelled of truffle oil and roasted garlic.

She paused in the doorway. No one noticed her.

"Did you hear? The jailbird is back," one of the new maids whispered, slicing lemons with vigorous strokes.

"Shh," another hissed. "Don't call her that. But yeah. I heard she looks terrible. Like a skeleton."

"Well, what do you expect?" the first maid said. "Unlike Miss Estelle. She's glowing. She's practically a saint, taking care of the family business while her sister was rotting in a cell."

"And to think," a third voice chimed in, lowering to a conspiratorial whisper, "Estelle isn't even a blood Stafford. She's adopted."

"Really? But the Master treats her like she's the only daughter he has."

"That's just fate. Some people are born with bad blood, like Alice. Some people have noble souls, like Estelle. Blood doesn't matter when you have class."

She leaned against the doorframe, listening. Bad blood. Noble soul.

She pushed off the wall and stepped into the light.

"Water," she said. Her voice was flat.

The conversation died instantly. The maids jumped, eyes widening as they took in her appearance.

"Get her some water!" Martha's voice cut through the silence. She bustled over, glaring at the girls.

Alice took the glass Martha handed her. Her hand shook slightly, but she steadied it.

"Martha," she said, ignoring the staring staff. "Where are my things? My easel? My paints? The books from my grandmother?"

Martha bit her lip, looking away. "The Madam... she said they were clutter. She had most of it thrown out."

"Thrown out?" Alice felt a sharp pang in her chest. "All of it?"

"Well," Martha hesitated. "Miss Estelle... she took the antique easel. The one your grandmother gave you. She said it would look rustic in her new music room."

Her grip on the glass tightened. Her grandmother's easel. The only thing she had left of the one person who actually loved her. Estelle didn't paint. She didn't draw. She took it just to take it. To erase her.

"And," Martha leaned in closer, her voice barely audible, "about what they were saying... about the adoption. You shouldn't mention that. Not tonight."

Alice raised an eyebrow. "Why? It's not a secret. Everyone knows she was adopted."

"Because," Martha whispered, "Miss Estelle has been telling people... implying... that she is the Master's true blood, an illegitimate daughter brought into the family, not just a foundling. She's rewriting the narrative, Miss Alice. She wants people to believe she has a claim by blood."

Alice almost laughed. It was so absurd. Estelle was obsessed with perfection. She was so desperate to be a "real" Vinson-Stafford elite that she was lying about her DNA.

That wasn't just vanity. In this circle, lying about lineage was a cardinal sin. It was fraud.

She set the glass down on the counter. "Thank you, Martha."

She turned and walked out of the kitchen. Her hunger was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating energy.

Estelle wanted to be the perfect, pure-blooded daughter? She wanted to steal her history, her room, her fiancé, and even her grandmother's memory?

Alice walked down the hallway. The portrait that used to hang near the library-a painting of her at sixteen-was gone. In its place hung a massive oil painting of Estelle, sitting with a cello, bathed in heavenly light.

Alice stared at the painted lie.

Estelle had a weakness. Her perfection was a house of cards built on a foundation of insecurity and deceit.

And Alice was the wind.