The next morning, Bianca DeLuca stood before her mirror, choosing her outfit with unusual care. She told herself it was只是因为 this was business—a strategic alliance, a suitable match. Nothing more.
But as she slipped into a flowing sundress and simple sandals, she caught her reflection and paused. For once, she wasn't dressing to impress. She was dressing for... herself.
Downstairs, Jenny was polishing the banister when Bianca descended. The house help had learned to fade into the background, but she couldn't help glancing up as Bianca passed.
She looks different today, Jenny thought. Softer.
Bianca didn't notice. She swept out the door, where a sleek car awaited.
Zeke arrived at the restaurant first, as was his habit. He wanted to observe before being observed.
When Bianca walked in, he was genuinely surprised. She wasn't dressed like the others—no suffocating designer gown, no diamonds dripping from her ears. Just elegant simplicity. Her hair loose. Her smile, when she saw him, almost shy.
"Miss DeLuca," he said, standing.
"Mr. Black." She extended her hand. "Please, call me Bianca."
"And I'm Zeke."
They sat. The conversation started formally—business, family expectations, the absurdity of arranged dating. But somewhere between the appetizer and the main course, the walls began to crack.
"You don't want this either, do you?" Zeke asked, studying her.
Bianca laughed softly. "Is it that obvious?"
"You look like a caged bird trying to pretend the bars are comfortable."
She met his eyes. "And you look like a man who's already planned his escape route."
Zeke smirked. "Touché."
After lunch, they walked through the city streets, the conversation flowing easier now. Zeke noticed her gaze drifting—not at him, but past him. Toward a colorful sprawl in the distance.
An amusement park. Ferris wheel spinning lazily. The distant shrieks of children on roller coasters.
"You keep looking over there," Zeke said.
Bianca's cheeks colored. "I... I used to go to places like that. With my parents."
Something in her voice made Zeke pause. It wasn't longing. It was grief.
"Do you want to go?" he asked, surprising himself.
Bianca looked at him, startled. "What?"
"To the amusement park. Do you want to go?"
She stared at him for a long moment, then laughed—a real laugh, unguarded. "You're serious?"
"I'm known for my spontaneity," he deadpanned.
"By whom?"
"By me. Just now."
Bianca shook her head, but she was smiling. "Yes," she said quietly. "Yes, I'd like that."
---
They spent the afternoon like children. Rode the Ferris wheel twice—once to see the view, once because Bianca admitted she'd been too nervous the first time to look down. Zeke won her a ridiculous stuffed bear at a ring toss game, cheating shamelessly when the carny wasn't looking.
"Did you just—" Bianca gasped, laughing.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Zeke said, handing her the bear with an innocent expression.
They shared cotton candy, got lost in the funhouse mirror maze, and screamed together on a roller coaster that made Bianca grip his arm so tightly he thought she might draw blood.
When they stumbled off, breathless and laughing, something had shifted.
They weren't two heirs performing for their families anymore.
They were just... two people. Having fun.
They sat on a bench near the carousel, the afternoon sun warming their faces. The stuffed bear sat between them like a chaperone.
"My parents died five years ago," Bianca said suddenly, her voice quiet.
Zeke didn't interrupt. He just listened.
"Plane crash. They were coming back from a business trip. There was... there was nothing left." She stared at the spinning carousel, but her eyes were somewhere else. "After that, I was sent to live with my uncle. He's... controlling. He believes women shouldn't own businesses, shouldn't have opinions, shouldn't even breathe without permission."
She looked down at her hands. "I built my companies in secret. Every night, after he thought I was asleep, I worked. I don't have friends, Zeke. I have employees and rivals and people who want my money. That's all."
Zeke was silent for a long moment.
"My grandfather arranged those blind dates," he said finally. "Five women in one afternoon. I was supposed to pick one like a prize at an auction."
Bianca winced. "I know. My uncle made me one of them."
"But you're different." He turned to look at her. "You're not pretending to be something you're not."
Bianca met his gaze. "Neither are you."
The carousel played its tinny music. Children laughed. The Ferris wheel turned.
And for a moment, the weight of their worlds lifted.
"I'm usually alone," Bianca whispered. "Even in a room full of people."
Zeke reached over and took her hand. It was a simple gesture, but it said everything.
"You're not alone right now," he said.
Bianca's eyes glistened. She didn't pull away.
They sat like that, hands intertwined, watching the sun begin its slow descent.
Neither knew what tomorrow would bring. But for now, in this stolen pocket of time, they had found something unexpected.
A connection.
---
The driver took Bianca home as evening fell. She clutched the stuffed bear, a small smile on her lips.
Zeke watched her go , and he had to admit he had fun .
The morning after Zeke and Bianca's date, Jenny rose early as usual. She dressed in her simple gray uniform, checked on Irene—still sleeping peacefully in their small room—and reported for duty.
Her day was unremarkable. Nothing strange happened. Nothing interesting at all.
She dusted the east wing's bookshelves. She polished the silver in the dining room. She swept the marble floors of the grand corridor. She scrubbed the kitchen counters until they gleamed. One chore after another, the same rhythm as every day.
By midday, her arms ached. Her back hurt. But she didn't complain. This was survival.
After a brief lunch in the servants' hall—bread and cheese, eaten quickly—she returned to work. Lady Amia had assigned her to clean the upper gallery, a long hallway lined with portraits and antique furniture.
Jenny worked quietly, dusting frames, wiping down tables. She was so focused on her task that she almost didn't notice the figure standing motionless near the far end of the gallery.
Bianca DeLuca.
Jenny froze mid-swipe. She had become skilled at fading into the background, at making herself invisible. But something about Bianca's posture made Jenny pause.
Her employer wasn't moving. She was standing before a large portrait, her back to Jenny, utterly still. Her shoulders were tense, her head tilted slightly upward as if lost in another world.
Jenny recognized the portrait. It was the DeLuca family—a man and a woman with warm smiles, and between them, a young girl with bright eyes and pigtails.
Bianca's parents. And Bianca as a child.
The woman in the painting was so different from the cold, distant figure before her now. Jenny felt a pang of something—sympathy, perhaps.
She was about to turn away, to retreat before Bianca noticed her. Invisibility was her best protection.
But as she shifted her weight, her hand knocked against a small crystal vase on the side table. The vase wobbled, tipped—
And shattered on the marble floor.
The sound was like a gunshot in the silent gallery.
Jenny gasped, dropping to her knees. "I'm so sorry, Miss DeLuca—I didn't mean—"
She reached for the larger shards, her fingers closing around a jagged piece. A sharp sting shot through her palm.
"Ah—" She pulled back, wincing. A thin line of blood welled up from a deep cut.
Bianca turned.
Her eyes were red-rimmed. Glistening with tears she had been trying to hide. But at the sight of Jenny bleeding on the floor, the tears vanished, replaced by alarm.
"You're hurt," Bianca said, her voice sharper than Jenny had ever heard—but not angry. Worried.
Jenny shook her head, clutching her bleeding hand. "It's nothing. I'll clean this up. I'm so sorry—"
"Stop." Bianca crossed the distance in quick strides, her silk robe flowing behind her. She knelt—actually knelt—beside Jenny and took her injured hand.
"Don't touch the glass with bare hands," Bianca said, examining the cut. "You could get infected."
Jenny stared. Bianca DeLuca, the woman who ruled this mansion like a queen, was kneeling on the floor, holding her hand.
"I..." Jenny stammered. "Miss DeLuca, you don't have to—"
"Be quiet," Bianca said, but her voice was soft. "Stay here."
She rose, disappeared into a nearby closet, and returned with a first aid kit. She knelt again, pulled out antiseptic and bandages, and began cleaning Jenny's wound with careful, practiced movements.
Jenny watched, speechless.
Bianca didn't look up as she worked. "That portrait," she said quietly, "is my parents. They died five years ago. Sometimes I stand here and pretend they're still alive. Foolish, isn't it?"
Jenny's throat tightened. "No," she whispered. "It's not foolish. I understand."
Bianca paused, glancing up at her. Their eyes met.
"My parents are gone too," Jenny said, surprised by her own honesty. "It's just me and my sister now."
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then Bianca finished wrapping the bandage and stood, pulling Jenny gently to her feet.
"Be more careful," Bianca said. But there was no ice in her voice. Only something that sounded almost like... kindness.
Jenny nodded, cradling her bandaged hand. "Thank you, Miss DeLuca."
Bianca looked at the shattered vase, then back at Jenny. "Clean this up. Then take the rest of the day off. Rest that hand."
"Yes, ma'am."
Jenny watched as Bianca turned and walked away, her silk robe trailing behind her. But just before she disappeared around the corner, she paused.
"Jenny."
"Yes?"
"The sister you mentioned. What's her name?"
"Irene."
Bianca nodded slowly. "Bring her to the kitchen at dinner time. I'll have Cook prepare extra."
Then she was gone.
Jenny stood alone in the gallery, surrounded by portraits of the dead, her heart pounding.
Something had shifted. Somehow, inexplicably, she had just made a connection with the one person in this mansion she had been taught to fear.