"Get out — you aren't mine." The words hit like a verdict. Mrs. Moretti's voice cut across the drawing room and everyone inhaled as one. Crystal clinked. A servant's tray slipped; a cup rolled and stopped at Evelynn Hall's slippered toe. Silence snapped into a hundred small noises: skirts rustling, men clearing their throats, a child choking on a laugh that died on his lips. Marina Moretti stood under the chandelier, porcelain face a pale mask. Her parents stood behind her like a stage set; Mr. Moretti's mouth was a thin line of practiced shock. Evelynn didn't blink. She had already seen it. "Mrs. Moretti—" Mr. Moretti began, the old theatrical cadence of a man who'd given speeches and press statements since before Evelynn was born. "Don't," Mrs. Moretti said. Her hand was a blade. "We raised her. We showed her the house. We—" She gestured at Evelynn with the contempt of the suddenly dispossessed. "—we welcomed you, child. But that changed the moment our real blood returned." Murmurs swelled. Someone blessed themselves. A cousin laughed, sharp and false. Evelynn felt every eye. She felt the shape of the manor around her—the carved mahogany rail under her palm, the smell of lemon polish and old money. She felt the weight of the silk sash she'd worn through every reception and funeral, the token Master Qingfeng had tied into it the first year she'd been sent to the Moretti household: a