Chapter 18: The Invisible Daughter
The Frost estate adjusted to its new resident with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine.
Ethan's rooms—the guest suite on the second floor, previously used only for the most important visitors—were prepared with Amelia's meticulous attention. Fresh flowers appeared daily. The linens were changed every morning. A decanter of his preferred whiskey materialized on the sideboard, sourced from God knew where.
And Serene? Serene stayed in the background where she belonged.
It wasn't difficult. She had spent years perfecting invisibility.
The morning after Ethan's arrival, she rose at five-thirty as always, dressed in her plainest clothes, and made her way to the kitchen. Mrs. Higgins, the cook, was already there—a stout woman with flour-dusted arms and a kind smile that she reserved for Serene alone.
"There you are, love," Mrs. Higgins said, not looking up from the dough she was kneading. "Need you to start on the breakfast trays. The new guest takes his tea with lemon, not milk. His lordship up there." She rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "Amelia's been on about it since dawn."
Serene nodded, moving to the pantry to gather ingredients. She knew this kitchen better than any room in the house—had spent countless hours here, learning from Mrs. Higgins, finding solace in the simple rhythms of chopping and stirring and baking.
She was slicing fruit for a platter when footsteps sounded in the hallway.
Ethan appeared in the doorway.
He was dressed casually—dark trousers, a soft grey sweater that made his eyes look almost silver in the morning light. His hair was slightly disheveled, as if he'd run his fingers through it without thinking. He looked younger like this, less like the polished businessman and more like the boy she remembered.
Serene's knife paused mid-slice. Her heart stuttered.
But his eyes swept over her without recognition—a brief glance at the servant in the kitchen, nothing more—before landing on Mrs. Higgins.
"Good morning," he said, his voice warm. "I hope I'm not intruding. I couldn't sleep and thought I'd find some tea."
Mrs. Higgins wiped her hands on her apron. "Not at all, sir. Serene here will fix you right up. Serene—tea for our guest."
Serene moved automatically, her body obeying commands her mind barely registered. She prepared the tea exactly as she'd been told—lemon, not milk—and placed it on a small tray with a linen napkin.
She carried it to the small table near the window, where guests sometimes took their morning coffee. Her eyes stayed down. Her movements were precise, practiced, invisible.
Ethan settled into the chair, murmuring thanks without really looking at her.
She returned to the counter and continued slicing fruit.
---
"You have a efficient staff," Ethan commented to Mrs. Higgins as she bustled about. "Everyone seems to know their role."
"Years of practice, sir," Mrs. Higgins replied. "The Frosts run a tight ship."
Serene's knife moved steadily through an apple. Slice. Slice. Slice.
"And the girl?" Ethan asked casually. "The one who brought my tea. I don't think I've seen her before."
Serene's hand froze for just a fraction of a second.
Mrs. Higgins glanced at her, something unreadable in her expression. "That's Serene, sir. She helps in the kitchen. Been here longer than most."
"Serene," Ethan repeated, as if tasting the word. "Pretty name."
He didn't say anything else. Didn't ask about her family, her history, why a girl her age was working as kitchen help in a house where she should have been a daughter.
He simply drank his tea, read the newspaper Mrs. Higgins produced from somewhere, and eventually left without a backward glance.
Serene finished slicing the fruit.
Her hands didn't shake.
Her eyes didn't tear.
She felt nothing at all.
---
That pattern became the new normal.
Ethan rose early, took his tea in the kitchen, exchanged pleasantries with Mrs. Higgins while Serene worked silently in the background. He attended meetings with Samuel, dined with the family in the evenings, allowed Ava to drape herself over him at every opportunity.
And through it all, he never once looked at Serene.
Not really.
Oh, his eyes passed over her occasionally—the way one might glance at a piece of furniture, a painting on the wall, a servant performing a function. But there was no recognition. No spark. No flicker of the boy who had once promised forever.
He didn't know her.
That was the thought that burrowed into Serene's chest and made its home there. After everything—after years of silence, after the letter that killed her hope, after learning to exist as Little Siren, as a voice without a body—he simply didn't know her.
She had become exactly what Amelia always wanted: invisible.
---
Lunch service was Serene's least favorite task.
It meant entering the dining room while the family ate, clearing plates, refilling glasses, performing the duties of a servant while Ava gossiped and Amelia schemed and Samuel discussed business with the man who should have been her husband.
Today was no different.
She moved around the table like a ghost, collecting plates, her eyes carefully averted from the head of the table where Ethan sat. Ava was in rare form, laughing too loudly at his every word, touching his arm, his shoulder, his hand whenever possible.
"And then I told Mother, absolutely not, I won't wear last season's colors to the Harrington ball. Can you imagine?" Ava's voice carried across the room. "Ethan, you must come with us. It's the event of the season. Everyone who's anyone will be there."
Ethan's response was smooth, diplomatic. "I'll have to check my schedule. The development project is demanding."
"Nonsense. You need a break. All work and no play makes Ethan a dull boy." Ava pouted prettily. "Say you'll come. For me?"
Serene reached for Ethan's plate. His hand was still resting near it—close enough that she could see the veins in his wrist, the familiar shape of his fingers, the way his signet ring caught the light.
She didn't touch him. Didn't brush against him. Didn't do anything to draw attention.
But something made him look up.
Their eyes met for the first time in four years.
His green eyes—those eyes she had dreamed about, written about, mourned for—looked directly into hers. And in that moment, something flickered. Confusion. Recognition. A question.
Serene's heart stopped.
Then his gaze slid away, dismissing her as completely as if she'd never existed.
"Of course, Ava," he said. "If it's important to you, I'll make it work."
Serene gathered the last of the plates and fled to the kitchen.
---
In the safety of the pantry, she pressed her back against the shelves and breathed.
He had looked at her.
He had seen her.
And he had seen nothing.
No spark of memory. No flicker of the love they'd shared. Just a servant doing her job, easily dismissed, instantly forgotten.
She should have been relieved. This was what she wanted, wasn't it? To be invisible? To not care?
But her chest ached with a pain she thought she'd killed years ago.
Mrs. Higgins found her moments later, leaning against the shelves with her eyes closed.
"You alright, love?" the cook asked gently.
Serene opened her eyes, nodded, and signed quickly: Fine. Just tired.
Mrs. Higgins had learned some sign language over the years—enough to understand basic communications. She studied Serene's face with concern.
"He doesn't know who you are, does he?" she asked quietly. "The Leo gentleman."
Serene's hands stilled. She shook her head slowly.
Mrs. Higgins sighed, a heavy sound full of years of watching unfairness unfold. "His loss. His bloody loss." She patted Serene's arm. "Come on. We've got dinner prep to start. Keep busy—that's the trick."
Serene followed her back to the kitchen.
Keep busy.
Don't think.
Don't feel.
Don't remember.
She was very good at all of those things.
---
Weeks passed in the same pattern.
Ethan became a fixture in the household, his presence as familiar as the morning sun. He took meals with the family, accompanied Samuel to meetings, allowed Ava to monopolize his evenings with endless chatter about society events and mutual acquaintances.
And Serene remained in the background—a servant among servants, indistinguishable from the maids who made beds and the kitchen girls who washed dishes.
Some of the newer staff didn't even know she was Samuel's daughter.
"Who's the quiet one?" a young maid whispered to another during a break. "The one who works with Mrs. Higgins?"
"Dunno. Some charity case, I think. Been here forever. Doesn't talk."
"Deaf?"
"Dumb. Literally. Can't speak. Nice enough, though. Keeps to herself."
The words washed over Serene as she passed. She didn't correct them. Didn't explain. What would be the point?
She was exactly what they thought: a silent servant with no history, no family, no story worth telling.
---
One evening, late, she found herself in the greenhouse.
She hadn't visited in years—couldn't bear the memories that clung to every surface. But tonight, something pulled her there. Maybe the need to prove she could. Maybe the need to face the ghost of who she'd been.
The glass panels were dusty, the plants neglected, the heating system long since broken. It was cold inside—colder than the winter air outside—but she didn't mind.
She moved through the space like a mourner at a funeral, touching the crate where they'd sat, the shelf where he'd caught her, the spot where he'd first kissed her.
Her fingers traced the cold glass of the window where they'd watched snow fall together.
So much had happened here.
So much love.
So much hope.
So much that could never be recovered.
She pressed her palm flat against the glass and closed her eyes.
I'm still here, she thought. I'm still the girl who loved you. But you'll never know.
A sound behind her made her spin around.
Ethan stood in the doorway.
He was silhouetted against the moonlight, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, neither of them moved.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
His voice was neutral—polite interest in a servant's unusual behavior. Nothing more.
Serene's hands twitched at her sides. She could sign. She could explain. She could tell him everything.
But what would be the point? He didn't know her. He didn't want to know her. He had made that clear in a letter that still haunted her dreams.
She simply shook her head, moved past him, and walked back toward the house.
She didn't look back.
She didn't see the way his eyes followed her, confusion flickering across his features.
She didn't see his hand reach out slightly, as if to stop her, then fall back to his side.
She didn't see the ghost of a memory cross his face—something half-remembered, half-forgotten, struggling to break through the walls he'd built.
She was already gone.
And in the empty greenhouse, Ethan stood alone, wondering why the silent servant's presence felt like a wound he couldn't name.
---
The next morning, Serene served his tea as usual.
He didn't mention the greenhouse.
He didn't ask her name again.
He didn't look at her any differently than he had before.
And Serene, who had stopped hoping years ago, felt nothing at all.
Or so she told herself.