Chapter 3: The Cold Welcome
1556 Words
The light was blinding, but the air that hit Serena’s face was not.
It was perfectly climate-controlled. Sterile.
Alfred led the way, his posture rigid. The grand double doors of the Vance Manor swung open, revealing a foyer that could have swallowed her entire apartment complex whole.
A crystal chandelier, massive and dripping with diamonds of glass, hung overhead like a guillotine.
“Wait here,” Alfred murmured, stepping into the living room.
Serena stood on the marble floor.
Her sneakers, cheap and worn, squeaked slightly. She looked down at her jeans. The stain from the gray sludge water had dried into a stiff, dark patch on her thigh.
She looked like a stain on the pristine perfection of this house.
“Bring her in.”
The voice was deep. Baritone. It carried the weight of a man who was used to being obeyed before he even finished a sentence.
Serena took a breath. Don’t show weakness.
She walked into the living room.
It was luxurious, bathed in warm gold light, filled with velvet furniture and antique vases.
Three people were there.
Arthur Vance sat on the central leather sofa. He didn’t stand up. He didn’t smile. He held a glass of whiskey in one hand, his eyes narrowing as they locked onto her.
He scanned her.
From her messy, champagne-gold hair down to her stained T-shirt and finally to her dirty sneakers.
There was no joy in his eyes. No “miracle of the lost daughter found”.
He looked like a customer who had ordered a limited-edition watch but had received a cheap knockoff instead.
“She looks like us,” Arthur said, his voice flat. He took a sip of whiskey. “But that outfit... Burn it. It’s a disgrace.”
Serena felt the words like a slap.
A defective product.
That was what she was to him.
“Arthur!”
The woman sitting next to him stood up. Eleanor Vance.
She was beautiful, elegant, wearing a silk dress that probably cost more than Martha’s lifetime earnings. Her eyes were red, swollen from crying.
She looked at Serena, and for a second, the judgment wasn’t there. Just pain.
“My baby...” Eleanor’s voice cracked.
Her hands trembled as she reached out. “Oh God, look at you. You’re so thin...”
She took a step forward, her arms opening.
Serena’s heart gave a traitorous thump. Maybe, she thought. Maybe this is real.
She instinctively leaned forward, craving the warmth she had been denied for twenty-two years.
“Mom!”
A shrill cry shattered the moment.
Before Eleanor could touch Serena, a white blur rushed down the grand staircase.
Lila.
She was petite, with dark, perfectly curled brown hair and skin the color of porcelain. She was wearing a white nightgown that made her look like a fragile, broken angel.
She didn’t run to her parents. She ran straight to Serena.
Thump.
Lila dropped to her knees right in front of Serena.
The sound was loud. Painful.
“Sister!” Lila wailed, grabbing the hem of Serena’s dirty jeans. Tears were already streaming down her face, perfect and photogenic. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! It’s all my fault!”
Serena froze, looking down at the girl clinging to her legs.
“I stole your life,” Lila sobbed, her chest heaving dramatically. “I stole your parents. I stole your happiness. I... I can’t live with this guilt. I’ll give it all back. I’ll pack my bags. I’ll leave tonight!”
She tried to stand up, but swayed, clutching her chest as if she couldn’t breathe.
“Lila!”
Eleanor screamed.
The mother who had been reaching for Serena a second ago spun around.
Serena stumbled back, nearly losing her footing on the polished floor.
“Lila, breathe! Breathe for Mommy!”Eleanor fell to her knees, wrapping her arms around the weeping girl. “You have a bad heart! You know you can’t get excited! Who told you to come down?”
“I have to go...” Lila gasped, her face burying into Eleanor’s shoulder. “I don’t belong here anymore...”
“No! No!” Eleanor was crying now, frantic. “You are my daughter! You aren’t going anywhere! Don’t you say that!”
Arthur Vance stood up, his face pale with worry. He rushed over, ignoring Serena completely, his hand resting on Lila’s shoulder. “Call the doctor! Alfred! Get her medicine!”
The living room erupted into chaos.
Servants rushed in with water and pills. The parents cooed and whispered, their faces twisted in agony over the girl in the white dress.
Serena stood alone in the center of the room.
Her arms were still half-raised, waiting for a hug that never came.
She slowly lowered them.
The coldness that washed over her wasn’t from the air conditioning. It was from the realization that blood didn’t matter.
Lila was the masterpiece. Serena was just the rough draft that had turned up twenty years too late.
“Enough.”
The word wasn’t shouted. It was spoken at a normal volume, but it cut through the hysteria like a blade.
The room went instantly silent.
A young man walked out from the shadows of the hallway.
Brandon Vance.
He was tall, wearing a charcoal gray suit without a tie. His features were sharp, his jawline defined, his eyes dark and unreadable.
Brandon walked past Serena without glancing at her.
He simply reached down, took Lila’s arm, and pulled her to her feet. His movement was restrained, natural, but firm.
“No one is asking you to leave, Lila,”Brandon said.
He looked around the room. “No one.”
It wasn’t a comfort. It was a command.
He was telling the servants, the parents, and most importantly, the stranger standing in the middle of the room, that the status quo would not change.
Lila sniffled, leaning against him, looking small and protected.
Then, Brandon turned.
For the first time, he looked at Serena.
His eyes were a piercing icy blue—the same color as hers.
There was no warmth in them.
No curiosity.
He looked at her the way a CEO looks at a sudden audit report.
A complication.
A logistical issue that needed to be managed.
“Your name?” he asked.
Serena met his gaze. She lifted her chin.
“Serena.”
Brandon nodded once.
“Alfred,” Brandon said, not breaking eye contact with Serena.
“Yes, Sir?”
“Show the guest to her room.”
Brandon turned back to Lila, murmuring something about her heart rate, smoothing her hair.
Arthur sat back down, relieved. Eleanor was busy wiping Lila’s tears.
No one looked at Serena again.
She stood there for one heartbeat longer, etching this scene into her memory. The warmth of their family circle. The wall of backs turned against her.
“Miss?“ Alfred’s voice was soft, apologetic.
Serena turned on her heel.
“Lead the way, please.”
Alfred led her down a long corridor, past the main family wing, to the far end of the second floor.
“This is the guest suite,” Alfred said, opening the door. “It has... been prepared for you.”
Serena stepped inside.
It was nice. Nicer than any hotel she had ever seen in magazines. King-sized bed, beige carpets, heavy velvet curtains.
“Dinner is at seven,” Alfred said, lingering by the door. “I suggest you... freshen up. I will have some clothes sent up. They might not be your style, but they will be clean.”
“Thank you, Alfred.”
He nodded and closed the door.
Serena was finally alone.
She dropped her meager backpack on the floor. It looked pathetic against the plush carpet.
She walked to the center of the room, closing her eyes, finally letting her shoulders slump.
She was exhausted. Her bones ached from the scrubbing she had done that morning—was that really only this morning? It felt like a lifetime ago.
She took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves.
Then, she stopped.
She frowned.
Serena inhaled again, short, sharp sniffs.
Her nose twitched.
Serena wasn’t just a poor girl from the slums. She was a scholar.
She had spent the last four years studying Chemistry and Olfactory Science on a full scholarship at the city’s top university.
She had just finished writing a thesis on the molecular breakdown of floral absolutes.
She was an uncertified, brilliant perfumer.
Her sense of smell was her superpower. It was how she survived Martha.
Vinegar and old sweat. Martha was angry.
Cheap gin and spearmint gum. Martha was lying.
Stale smoke and metallic copper. Martha had been at the slots.
Serena knew scents.
And right now, in this unused guest room, something was wrong.
A heavy, sweet, creamy floral scent.
Tuberose.
It was aggressive. Carnal. Indolic.
It was a very specific, very expensive perfume.
Serena’s eyes narrowed.
Lila had been wearing this scent downstairs. The fragile girl with the weak heart.
Lila had been in here.
Recently.
Less than twenty minutes ago.
Lila had been in this room while Serena was in the car.
She smiled. A cold, cynical smile that didn't reach her eyes.
Lila had come here to set a trap.
“Game on, sister,” Serena whispered.
- Writer
