Chapter 2: The Lady’s Ruthless Welcome

That’s when everything changed. In the Whitmore Mansion, I met the Lady of the House.

The most honored, most favored, and happiest woman in the land. Or so everyone said.

She moved through the halls like she owned the air itself, every step measured, every glance calculated. People bowed their heads when she passed, afraid to meet her eyes.

The Lady was the daughter of Senator Langley. That meant money, power, and a family tree with roots deeper than most could imagine.

Her family’s reach was long. Even the staff whispered about her at night, half in awe, half in terror.

They said she was Mr. Whitmore’s first love, the woman he’d adored since he was young. Their love story was legend among the old-money set.

It was the kind of story people gossiped about over cocktails—half envy, half disbelief. Everyone wanted a love like theirs, or at least wanted to believe it was real.

Back when the previous Mr. Whitmore was alive, our current Mr. Whitmore was just the son of a housemaid—no status, no shot at inheritance. Nobody saw it coming—the bloodbath over the inheritance. Six sons, all fighting for the family fortune. It was a mess.

The old man’s will was a ticking time bomb, and when it went off, it took everyone with it. By the end, only the least likely son was left standing.

All the capable sons were gone, and so the unremarkable Whitmore became the heir, snatching up control of the family like a prize nobody wanted.

They called it fate. Fate? Please. I called it survival of the most ruthless. The world didn’t care about bloodlines—only about who was left to sweep up the mess.

As for the Lady, she was originally the fiancée of the former heir. Later, she helped the current Whitmore eliminate the former heir and became the one woman he could never let go of—his unattainable first love. So, after he took over, he made her Lady of the House.

It was a scandal, but no one dared say a word. Around here, power was the only law that mattered. You either bent the rules or got bent by them.

But five years after his ascension, the Lady still hadn’t produced a son. The family was buzzing. Three years ago, the head of the family had no choice but to order all council members of fifth rank or above (senior council) to send an unmarried daughter into the mansion.

It was like a twisted beauty pageant. Fathers wrung their hands, mothers cried in secret, daughters prayed to be overlooked.

As luck would have it, my father was a councilman and had two daughters. He had to send one.

He couldn’t bear to choose, so he made my sister and me draw lots. I can still see his hands shaking as he held out the slips of paper. My mother sobbed quietly in the corner, her face hidden in her hands.

The lot fell to me. Figures.

My heart sank. I tried to hide it, but the world felt like it was tilting right out from under me.

But on the day I was to enter the mansion, my sister drugged me and went in my place. Betrayal tastes bitter, even when it’s wrapped in love. I woke up with a pounding headache and a note pressed into my palm, my mind reeling.

She left me a letter, saying she knew I came from another world and didn’t want to share a husband with others, so she took my place. She’d always been the brave one.

Her handwriting was steady. She didn’t even sound scared. She told me to live my life, to be free in a way she never could.

My sister was smart and dignified. Everyone knew it.

She could walk into a room and own it with a single glance. People listened when she spoke—even the haters.

Once in the mansion, she caught Mr. Whitmore’s eye, and even the matriarch’s. Before long, she was on track to become a favored consort—until a string of miscarriages struck the household.

Rumors spread like wildfire. Every whispered accusation landed at her feet. She kept her head high, but I knew it was only a matter of time.

After an investigation, all the evidence pointed to my sister.

It didn’t matter if it was true. In this world, what people believed was all that mattered. The truth was just background noise.

Mr. Whitmore was furious and handed her over to the Lady for punishment. That beautiful, dignified Lady had my sister mutilated and sent home as a living corpse.

No trial, no mercy. Just a sentence carried out behind closed doors, away from prying eyes.

The Lady’s voice rang out above me: “You’re the new beauty from Silver Hollow?”

Her tone was ice-cold, but her words dripped with honey. My heart hammered in my chest as I kept my eyes glued to the floor.

I bowed my head obediently. “Yes.”

My voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried in the silent room. I could feel every eye on me, weighing, judging. I fought the urge to run.

She spoke: “Lift your head.”

The command left no room for argument. I swallowed hard and raised my chin, forcing myself to meet her gaze.

So I did, and saw the legendary Lady Whitmore. She truly was a stunning beauty—no wonder she was so adored. I got it, instantly.

Her features were sharp, almost regal. There was a coldness in her eyes that made me shiver, even as she smiled.

Even after marrying the former heir, she became Lady to the new head of the family.

She’d survived more than anyone knew. I wondered what it cost her.

She had the pedigree. Born into power, married into more. She wore her status like armor.

The Lady looked down at me as if I were an ant. When she saw my face, her expression flickered, then she smiled, but it never reached her eyes. “The Silver Hollow girl really does have a beautiful face.”

It was the kind of compliment that could cut you to pieces. I didn’t flinch.

I lowered my eyes. “Next to you, I’m nothing but background, my Lady.”

The words tasted strange in my mouth, like lines from a fairy tale. But it was the sort of thing people expected to hear in a house like this.

My sister and I looked nothing alike.

She was all soft lines and gentle smiles, while I was sharp angles and restless energy. People used to joke we couldn’t possibly be related.

She took after our father. I looked like our mother—sharp brows, striking, gorgeous.

My mother’s beauty was the kind that made people talk. She hid it away, hoping the world would forget.

Not the kind of looks considered proper in this world. After marrying my father, my mother rarely went out, afraid of gossip, and kept me at home too.

She said it was for my own good, but I always wondered if she was just trying to protect herself. Maybe both.

So hardly anyone in the city had seen us. Even those who had didn’t know I was Judge Harper’s second daughter. I had no reason to worry the Lady would recognize me.

It was a small mercy, one I clung to with both hands.

My obedient attitude pleased her. She didn’t make things hard, just waved me away. As I was about to leave, Mr. Whitmore arrived.

His footsteps echoed in the marble hallway, slow and deliberate. You could feel the temperature drop as soon as he entered. The air prickled with tension.

The Lady immediately greeted him: “Darling, what brings you here at this hour?”

Her voice softened, her whole demeanor shifting. She moved toward him like a moth to a flame.

He replied, “Have you forgotten? I promised to have lunch with you.”

He smiled, the kind of smile that never quite reached his eyes. I wondered how many times he’d used that same line before.

The Lady brightened. “I thought you’d forgotten!”

She laughed, a sound that was almost genuine. For a moment, I saw the girl she must have been, before all of this.

He pinched her cheek. “How could I forget something like that?”

It was a practiced gesture, but she ate it up. The room seemed to shrink around them.

Then his gaze landed on me. “Who’s this?”

His eyes were sharp, missing nothing. I felt like a bug under a microscope.

The Lady looked annoyed that I was interrupting her time with her husband, but she had to answer: “Just a new girl.”

She waved a dismissive hand, as if I were a stray cat that had wandered in by accident.

He said, “Oh, from Silver Hollow?”

He turned to me, waiting for my answer. I kept my head down, careful not to meet his gaze.

I bowed my head respectfully. “Yes, sir. I’m Savannah Lin, daughter of Mayor Lin of Silver Hollow. It’s an honor to meet you.”

My voice was steady, but my heart was pounding so loud I was sure they could hear it.

I’d entered the estate as Savannah Lin, daughter of the Mayor of Silver Hollow.

The name fit like a borrowed coat—strange at first, but comforting in its own way. I barely recognized myself.

Silver Hollow was remote—mountains and rivers far from the city. Mr. Whitmore was wary of rebellion there, so during the last selection, he ordered Mayor Lin to send his daughter to the mansion.

People whispered that Silver Hollow was a world apart, a place where the old rules didn’t apply. I hoped that distance would keep me safe, at least for a while.

At the time, Savannah Lin was too young to enter, so they thought they’d escaped. But Mr. Whitmore decreed she’d be sent in as soon as she came of age.

No one ever really escaped. The past always caught up, one way or another.

Last year was the right time, but she broke both legs in an accident and couldn’t go. Her father reported this, delaying for another year.

I’d heard the story from the maids—how she’d thrown herself down the stairs, desperate to avoid the mansion. It made me like her, just a little.

But everyone knew they couldn’t keep stalling. Savannah Lin was wild—so wild she broke her own legs to avoid the mansion. That took guts.

In another life, we might have been friends.

So I showed up in Silver Hollow, took her identity, and entered the mansion as a consort.

It wasn’t the first time I’d stepped into someone else’s life, but it was the first time it felt like I was trying to save someone, not just myself.

I had to find out why the Lady was so ruthless—why she’d tortured my sister so horribly.

I repeated it like a mantra every night before I slept. I owed my sister that much.

I had to avenge my sister!

No matter what it cost me. No matter how long it took. I whispered it to myself, over and over.

As soon as I finished speaking, I felt a cold, sharp gaze on me. Then the Lady said, “Darling, I had your favorite pan-fried trout prepared.”

Her words snapped the tension, but the chill lingered in the air. It didn’t help.

Mr. Whitmore smiled. “Really?”

He sounded almost surprised, as if he’d forgotten what it was like to be cared for.

“Let’s go see what you’ve made.”

She slipped her arm through his, her smile bright and brittle. Together, they left the room, leaving me standing in their wake.

One of the Lady’s maids sneered, “Shameless little vixen, trying to seduce Mr. Whitmore right in front of the Lady.”

Her voice was sharp, meant to wound. I bit my tongue, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reaction. Not today.

She shoved me roughly. “Get out of here. Are you trying to interrupt their meal?”

I stumbled, catching myself on the edge of a table. I kept my head down and walked away, my cheeks burning.

I said nothing, just quietly left the Whitmore Mansion’s grand hall.

The echo of their laughter followed me down the hallway, but I kept my back straight and my steps even.

Though I’d just entered the estate, I knew the Lady, for all her rank, was extremely jealous. Otherwise, why would Mr. Whitmore have waited five years before holding another selection?

Jealousy got into everything here. I’d seen it before, but never so raw, so unchecked.

As a girl raised in the modern world, I could understand the Lady’s feelings. What woman doesn’t want to have her beloved all to herself?

I’d watched enough soap operas to know how these stories ended. But living it was something else entirely.

But if that’s what she wanted, she shouldn’t have allowed the selection, or fed her own jealousy so much.

It was like lighting a match and then complaining about the fire. No one in this house was truly innocent—not even me.

My sister, and all the other women forced into the mansion—how innocent were they, to be caught up in the couple’s emotional games?

We were all pawns, shuffled and sacrificed at someone else’s whim.

After my sister entered the mansion for me, she told me she understood the bond between Mr. Whitmore and the Lady, had no intention of vying for favor, just wanted to survive quietly.

She’d written it in her letter, the ink smudged from her tears. She never wanted to be a threat. She just wanted to live. She just wanted peace.

She said dozens of women entered the mansion that time, and she wasn’t the most outstanding. As long as she was careful, she wouldn’t offend the Lady.

She tried so hard to stay invisible, to be just another face in the crowd. It wasn’t enough.

Besides, Mr. Whitmore had agreed to the selection; as Lady, she should be gracious.

It was the unspoken rule—if you open the door, you can’t complain about who walks through it.

She often paid respects to the matriarch, and there were plenty of other ambitious, exceptional women in the mansion. The Lady didn’t notice my sister until news of her pregnancy came out. Even then, though my sister wasn’t favored, she became a thorn in the Lady’s side.

Pregnancy changed everything. Suddenly, she was a rival, whether she wanted to be or not. That’s how it worked here.

But with the matriarch’s protection, there was nothing the Lady could do. My sister only gave birth to a daughter, which eased the Lady’s mind.

A daughter wasn’t a threat—not in this world. The Lady relaxed, for a while.

Other women began having children, and a single daughter didn’t matter. The Lady ignored my sister and targeted others—until my sister quietly rose in rank and Mr. Whitmore started visiting her more often. Then the Lady finally saw her as a threat.

Favor was a dangerous thing. It could turn friends into enemies overnight. Nobody was safe.

That’s when the accusations started.

It started with whispers, then outright accusations. The walls seemed to close in, the air growing thick and heavy, pressing down on her.

All the evidence pointed to my sister harming other women and their children.

It was a setup—too neat, too perfect. But no one cared about the truth.

Truth is, if you want to frame someone, you’ll always find an excuse. People will believe whatever suits them. Always.

Sis, just wait. I’ll make that wretched woman pay for what she did to you!

I clenched my fists, heart pounding. This wasn’t over—not by a long shot.