Della sat quietly in her room, curled beneath the window, a leather-bound book balanced on her knees. The pages flickered beneath her fingers, but her mind wandered. The world outside was warm and golden, but inside, her thoughts ran cool and still.
Though only nineteen, Della was known for her sharp mind and clever tongue. She read more than she spoke. She listened more than she argued. And she had long ago learned the cost of secrets.
Only Fredrick Harrison—her adoptive father...knew what she truly was.
Even so, she was grateful. Life under the Harrison roof had not been cruel. It had not been perfect either. Beth's hostility, and the cold weight of Edith's disapproval, often followed her like a chill draft. But she had a roof, safety, and a father who treated her like blood.
That was more than most orphans could say.
A soft knock pulled her from thought.
"Lady Della," came a maid's voice.
She rose, smoothing her skirt as she approached the door. When she opened it, the girl stood nervously in the corridor.
"Master wishes to see you," she said with a small curtsy.
Della gave her a gentle smile. "Thank you."
She made her way down the hall, heart heavy with uncertainty. When she reached the familiar oak door to Fredrick's study, she hesitated a moment before knocking.
"Come in, Della," came his voice.
Inside, the room was dim and lined with shelves of books and documents. Fredrick sat at his desk, reading glasses perched low on his nose. Edith stood by the window, her arms crossed tightly. Beth, ever the storm in velvet, lounged in one of the chairs with an expression that could curdle milk.
"Father. Mother," Della said softly, offering a respectful bow.
Fredrick's gaze lifted to her, calm but unreadable.
"Why aren't you attending the soirée with your sister?" he asked.
Della's heart thumped. Her eyes flickered to Edith, then to Beth—both visibly discontent. The answer hung heavy in the air. Because your wife forbade it. Because your daughter hates me. But she didn't speak that aloud.
"I don't wish to participate in such gatherings, Father," she answered carefully, her tone gentle but firm.
Fredrick leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. "Every young lady should be seen, should mingle, and eventually... marry. You are of age now, Della. Beth is sixteen. These events matter."
Marriage. The very thought felt foreign to her. What future could she offer a man...when she herself was a mystery?
Fredrick's voice drew her back. "The soirée is tonight, is it not?"
Beth nodded.
"Then prepare yourself," he said. "You'll attend."
"Yes, Father," Della said without protest, bowing slightly.
"You shouldn't let her go, Fredrick," Edith snapped, voice tight. "She's not needed there."
Fredrick turned to his wife, his frown deepening. "And why not? She is my daughter."
"She's adopted," Beth hissed, her voice sharp and poisonous.
Fredrick's voice rose, firm. "That is enough—from both of you. Della, you may go."
She nodded silently and stepped out, her chest aching. The words pierced, but her face betrayed nothing. Smiles were easier than confrontation.
Back in her room, she opened her wardrobe and ran her fingers along the gowns tucked neatly within. Her hand stopped at one she'd never worn—a deep red gown, bold and haunting, tucked in the back like a forgotten memory.
She laid it out across her bed, then reached for her gloves—enchanted fabric, woven to hide the witch in her. They, like the gown, had become armor.
She would attend. She would be seen. But only as much as she allowed.
⸻
Meanwhile, back in the study, the storm between Fredrick and Edith had not calmed.
"Why are you doing this?" Edith's voice trembled with frustration. "You humiliated our daughter."
Fredrick turned from his desk. "You humiliate both of them by pitting them against each other. Beth and Della are not enemies, Edith. They should be like sisters."
"She's not her sister!" Edith snapped. "She's not my child. She wasn't born into our bloodline, and she'll never belong in our world. You know that."
Fredrick's voice dropped to a tired sigh. "I wanted to raise Beth with kindness, not vanity. But look at her now. Rude, self-absorbed... You coddle her into cruelty."
"Support your only child, Fredrick," Edith hissed before storming out, her perfume lingering in her place.
Fredrick rubbed his temples, the weight of the years resting on his shoulders. So much had changed. And something darker loomed in the shadows of Westhill.
A soft knock pulled him from thought.
"Come in," he said.
Xavier entered, a folded letter in hand. The servant boy walked quietly across the study floor and handed it over.
He was a curious figure in the mansion—always watchful, always still. Few knew the truth behind those deep-set black eyes. Not even Della.
But Fredrick knew.
Xavier was a half-blood vampire, his lineage veiled, his loyalty tied to the Council. Known only in whispers, he went by many names, but among those who worked in shadows, he was called The Rat—the one who crept silently through secrets.
"Another letter from the northern coven," Xavier said, eyes narrowing. "They think the stones are hidden somewhere."
Fredrick's eyes scanned the parchment. "Where?"
Xavier's tone was grim. "Lord Lucas's estate."
Fredrick frowned, the name drawing tension to his jaw. "We cannot walk into his mansion uninvited. That man—"
"Is smarter than all of us," Xavier finished. "Yes, sire. I know. But the witches believe he's hiding something. And if they're right... the Meri Stones may be closer than we ever imagined."
Fredrick folded the letter, silent in thought.
The pieces were moving. The storm was coming.
And in the middle of it all—a girl in a red gown was preparing to walk straight into it.