The drive to the Liang Family Manor felt endless, though it was only one and a half hour. The silence in the car pressed against Lily's chest, heavy and suffocating. To pass her time Lily replayed her conversation with Jinhai last night over and over again. She had never talked to someone so easily before. He was a good person even outside his stage character. He had warmly comforted her and given her a shoulder to lean on. Even going as far as to carry her home while she was peacefully asleep. She smiled at last night's memories as she gazed outside her window, where the countryside gave way to a private stretch of road lined with sycamores that seemed to bow under the weight of their age.
But her smile soon disappeared as her car made a turn around a familiar curve of road that she had passed through millions of times.
She clasped the edge of her skirt tightly in her lap, knuckles paling. She was about to enter her gilded cage once again.
Large iron gates flanked by tall hedges opened painstakingly slowly as they gave way for the sedan to enter.
When the manor finally came into view, her breath hitched.
The Liang Family Manor was no ordinary home. It rose like a palace carved out of arrogance and old money. Seven stories of grey stone crowned with dark-tiled roofs towered above her, every balcony lined with gilded railings that glinted in the late afternoon light. The windows—tall, arched, and endless—were trimmed with intricate carvings of dragons and phoenixes, symbols of wealth and supremacy.
The lawn stretched out like a green sea, at least a hundred acres of manicured grass and carefully sculpted hedges. A pair of marble lions crouched at the base of the grand staircase, their stone eyes staring at her as if they knew her sins. She remembered, with a sharp pang, being a little girl standing before these very lions, clutching the head maid's hand. That day, her stepbrother Feng Liang had whispered in her ear: "Even the lions know you don't belong here."
The car rolled to a stop at the foot of the staircase. Two bellboys rushed forward, immaculate in pressed uniforms. They bowed deeply, though their eyes slid past her, toward the house. She caught the flicker of disdain there and quickly lowered her gaze.
The door opened, and Lily stepped out. The air smelled faintly of roses, but it felt poisoned.
The marble staircase loomed ahead, wide enough for a procession, polished until it reflected the sun like glass. Golden pillars framed the shaded patio at the top, and a fountain trickled delicately in the garden behind her, its gentle music mocking the storm inside her chest. Plush white sofas sat on the patio, a place for her stepmother and stepsister to sip tea while mocking her, just as they had years ago.
"That chair isn't for you, Lily. You'll dirty it."
She clenched her jaw, keeping her steps steady as she ascended.
Atop the marble staircase a black persian cat was sprawled, yawning with all the indifference in the world. He was her stepmother's cat named 'Kamekichi'.
Kamekichi HATED Lily with all his guts. So as soon as Kamekichi's eyes pranced upon Lily's nearing figure, it let out a loud growl and padded it's way towards the patio sofa.
Lily scoffed as she regarded the scurrying cat. She wasn't even safe from angry cats in this house.
"Miss, this way," a maid said softly from behind her. Lily turned slightly, noticing the girl's downcast eyes, her hands folded neatly at her waist. She followed three steps behind, always three steps.
Lily hated it. It made her feel like a criminal being escorted to her prison cell. But she didn't say anything. She had learned long ago that words in this house were weapons that could be used against her.
The enormous double doors swung open, revealing a cavernous entryway. Chandeliers dangled from the ceiling like clusters of diamonds, scattering light across polished floors of black marble veined with gold. Twin staircases curved upward in opposite directions, converging on a mezzanine that overlooked the grand hall.
As she stepped across the threshold, her chest tightened. She remembered being nine years old, dripping wet from the rain after she had been dragged to the Liang Mansion through the rain. She had stood right there, trembling, while her stepmother's voice rang out:
"Don't let her upstairs. She's not part of this family."
Lily swallowed as she took the lift upon the maid's carefully guidance up, up, until the third floor.
Eacg cooridoor she passed was lined with family portraits. Her father's sharp eyes watched from the walls, her stepmother's painted smile gleamed, her siblings adorned in silk. In one painting, Lily herself was barely more than a shadow, tucked in the far corner as though the artist had been instructed not to waste his brush on her.
Her chest ached, but her face gave nothing away.
At last, the maid stopped at a pair of tall doors and pushed them open. Lily stepped inside.
The room was cool, the curtains drawn so that shafts of filtered light cast patterns across the polished floor. At the center stood Auntie Mei, the head maid, her silver-streaked hair pinned neatly back. Her eyes, sharp and discerning, softened just slightly at the sight of Lily.
Behind her, seven or eight younger maids stood in perfect formation, their heads bowed, their bodies tense, waiting.
Auntie Mei inclined into a deep bow. "Welcome back to the Liang Manor, Young Miss."
Lily immediately bent lower, deeper, her forehead nearly touching her knees. She forced her voice to remain steady. "It is good to see you again, Auntie Mei."
The rustle of the maids' skirts as they bowed filled the room like a sigh. Lily straightened slowly, the weight of all their gazes pressing down on her. She kept her smile polite, her posture calm.
But inside, her heart whispered the truth: she had returned to cursed ground.The air in the room shifted. One by one, the maids stepped back, replaced by another group who entered briskly with polished cases, racks of clothing, and gleaming instruments. They weren't household servants—they were professionals. Stylists, beauticians, experts summoned like a pit crew to transform her before the clock struck nine.
Lily's stomach sank.
"Set her on the chair," Auntie Mei ordered, her voice clipped. "Every detail must be seen to. The Shulong family will not think us careless."
A sleek woman in her thirties approached first, her hair in a glossy bob, a tablet in her hand. She circled Lily slowly, her sharp eyes assessing as though Lily were nothing more than a mannequin.
"Skin pale. Good bone structure," the woman murmured, making notes. "Dark circles under the eyes… minimal, but concealable. Body—slender, fragile build. Not ideal for long-term health, but useful for the image they want to project."
Her assistant leaned in. "She'll photograph well in lighter shades. White or pastels. Red would overwhelm her."
"Agreed," the woman said without even glancing at Lily.
"Strip her," one of them said simply, snapping her fingers.
The maids moved quickly, loosening Lily's robe. She shivered as the robe slipped from her shoulders, baring her to their cool, professional gazes. Tape measures unfurled, brushing against her waist, her hips, her shoulders.
"Eighty-two," one stylist murmured, writing down the number. "Too thin. But it will do."
Another tapped her chin with a manicured nail. "That jawline—delicate. We'll play it up with soft curls, not severe styles."
"Her hands," a third observed, lifting Lily's fingers. "Calloused. Likely from working. They'll need to be scrubbed, waxed, polished. Cannot risk the Shulongs noticing imperfections."
Lily's face burned. She felt like a specimen under glass.
"Begin."
The room erupted into motion.
She was guided into a bath—this one not gentle, but clinical. Oils and perfumes were poured into the steaming water, filling the air with an intoxicating sweetness. A pair of women scrubbed her arms and legs in brisk, practiced strokes, their hands quick and impersonal. Another massaged her scalp with fragrant shampoo, while yet another carefully exfoliated her face with a cream that stung faintly.
When she emerged, skin flushed and gleaming, towels were draped around her. She was led to another chair where warm wax was applied and stripped away, leaving her skin smooth, raw, vulnerable. 'Miss Dior' Perfume was misted onto her wrists, behind her ears, at the hollow of her throat—layers upon layers, until she no longer smelled like herself.
Next came her hair. Stylists crowded around her, blow dryers whirring, brushes pulling, curlers heating. Her long black hair was coaxed into cascading waves that caught the light, each strand polished until it shone like silk.
Makeup followed. A primer smoothed her skin, a delicate powder set upon her cheeks, a faint blush blooming at her high cheekbones. Her lips were tinted a gentle rose, her brows refined with careful strokes.
"Too much liner will make her look harsh," one of them warned.
"Then keep it soft," another replied. "She must look delicate, untouchable. Like a flower in glass."
Hours blurred into motion—hands tugging, brushing, polishing, painting. She sat still, her reflection shifting with every touch, every decision made about her, never with her.
When at last they stepped back, Lily hardly recognized the girl in the mirror. Her skin was luminous, her lips soft as petals, her hair flowing like ink across her shoulders. She looked perfect. Too perfect.
But not like herself.
A rack of dresses was wheeled in then, each garment encased in silk covers. One by one they were revealed: tweed dresses from Dior, shimmering gold YSL gowns, crimson satin suits, each more elaborate and expensive than the last. Jewelry followed—strings of pearls from good knows what brand, van cleef jewelry, bright jade pendants, diamond earrings from Swarovski that glittered with silent promises of power.
"White would emphasize purity," one stylist suggested, holding a tweed gown against Lily's frame.
"Gold would speak of wealth," another countered. "The Shulongs will respect opulence."
"A Red Suit," a third chimed in, "would make her unforgettable."
They argued over her as if she were a doll to be dressed for an auction.
Lily's hands curled in her lap. Is this what I am to them? A package? A gift-wrapped lamb for sacrifice?
Her gaze slid past the gowns, lingering on one piece tucked almost carelessly at the end of the rack. A simple white dress. Mini-length, unadorned, understated. Against the sea of jewels and lace, it looked plain.
And yet—her chest eased.
That was the dress.
Not because it was the finest. But because it was the only one that didn't feel like a costume.
I don't want to look like a spoiled brat, Lily thought fiercely. I don't want them to think I'm trying to compete. I want them to see me as I am—frail, quiet, innocent. Someone they might learn to love. Someone who doesn't threaten anyone.
She touched the hem of the simple dress with trembling fingers.
"This one," she whispered.
The room fell silent.