Chapter 123

Chapter 123

Amelia stared at the honey cake on her plate, her expression darkening. She'd avoided honey since childhood—even the lowest-ranking servant in the Taylor family knew that. The kitchen had never made such a mistake before. And the servant's explanation, "Mrs. Taylor wanted it," was even more unprecedented. Imogen used to care more about her preferences than she did herself. Breakfast had always been prepared to her taste, while Imogen never fussed about what she herself liked. Now this honey pastry appearing on the table felt like a silent announcement, declaring that something was quietly changing.

Amelia set down her utensils, suddenly feeling a tightness in her chest. She forced herself to maintain a calm expression and waved the servant away. "Take it. I'm not hungry."

The servant responded and carried the plate away. Amelia sat alone in the dining room. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, falling across her carefully made-up features, yet unable to penetrate the shadow in her eyes. She thought back to the birthday party a few days ago, to the look in Imogen's eyes. At the time, she hadn't given it much thought, but now, recalling it, there had been something she'd never seen before—like a thin layer of ice forming over what had once been warm water. She pulled out her phone and opened Imogen's chat. The last message was from three days ago: [Happy birthday, my most beloved daughter.] She used to find comfort in reading those words over and over. Now, inexplicably, they stung. She typed a few words, then deleted them. After several attempts, she locked the screen and set the phone face-down on the table.

She told herself not to overthink it. Imogen's kindness over the years had been real. Even if things had been unpleasant lately because of Evelyn, their mother-daughter bond could withstand the test. She reassured herself this way, but somewhere deep inside, something was sinking beyond her control.

Meanwhile, upstairs in the master bedroom, Imogen stood staring blankly at the mirror in her walk-in closet. The woman reflected back looked pale, with obvious dark circles beneath her eyes—clearly from a sleepless night. Beside her sat an old wooden box containing Evelyn's childhood belongings: a lock of baby hair, a silver pendant, a photograph from her first birthday. The little girl in the photo smiled with crescent-moon eyes, barely resembling the current Evelyn, yet the spirit in those eyes was unmistakably the same stubborn brightness. Imogen's fingertips brushed across the photograph. A sourness rose in her throat, and she suddenly realized she hadn't truly looked at this face in many years.

She closed the box, took a deep breath, and picked up her phone to dial that number. After a few rings, it was answered. Vaughn's puzzled voice came through. "What's wrong?"

Imogen considered for a moment before speaking. "Can you set up a meeting with Scott for me today? I need to consult him about something."

Vaughn sounded even more confused. "Consult about what?"

Imogen didn't answer. She only said, "I'll explain when I get back," and hung up. She changed into going-out clothes. As she emerged from the closet, she ran into Amelia at the top of the stairs. Their eyes met. Amelia put on her usual sweet smile. "Mom, you're up so early? I was just coming to call you for breakfast."

Imogen looked at that face, which bore some resemblance to Evelyn's, and suddenly recalled something Scott had casually mentioned years ago: "Mrs. Taylor, don't you think the resemblance between this child and your daughter seems almost... deliberate?"

At the time, she'd taken it as a compliment. Now, looking back, it had clearly been a gentle warning. She avoided Amelia's gaze, her tone flat. "I already ate. I have to go out." Her steps didn't pause as she headed downstairs.

Amelia's smile froze for an instant. She hurried after her and linked her arm through Imogen's. "Mom, you're acting strange today. Are you feeling unwell? Let me come with you."

Imogen's steps halted. She looked down at the hand looped through her arm—slender, nails painted in a delicate nude pink, clearly accustomed to being carefully pampered. She wanted to pull away, but ultimately didn't make it too obvious. She simply shifted half a step to the side. "That's not necessary. I'll be back soon."

Amelia stood in place, watching Imogen's figure disappear into the entryway, her smile fading bit by bit. She returned to the dining room and sat down again, staring at the now-cold glass of milk. Suddenly, she swept her hand across the table, sending the glass crashing to the floor. The sharp sound of shattering porcelain made the kitchen staff peek out nervously before quickly retreating. Amelia's chest heaved violently. She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms. The pain helped her calm down slightly. She told herself not to panic, not to lose control. She'd come this far not through luck.

Imogen got into the car. She didn't have the driver take her—she gripped the steering wheel herself and drove all the way to Scott's office building. She sat in the car for a long time, long enough for a thin layer of condensation to form on the windows, before finally pushing the door open and heading upstairs. When she opened the office door, Scott was sitting behind his desk organizing files. He looked up at her, his face showing little surprise. "Mrs. Taylor, I guessed you'd be coming these past few days."

Imogen sat across from him, hands clasped in her lap, her voice slightly strained. "I want to know every detail about that child from back then."

Scott set down his papers, removed his glasses and cleaned them, remaining silent for a good ten seconds before putting them back on. He retrieved a manila envelope from the cabinet—inside was a thick stack of yellowed documents. "Eighteen years ago, when you asked me to investigate that child's background, I discovered some things. But at the time, the Taylor family was in the middle of the adoption process, and the White family had already attributed the credit to her. After much consideration, I didn't report everything to you." He pulled out a handwritten statement from a retired caregiver at the orphanage.

The caregiver had said that when Amelia was brought in, she was already old enough to remember things. Unlike other children who cried or withdrew into silence, she'd been remarkably quiet, observing her surroundings, flashing just the right smile at every adult who entered. The caregiver also mentioned one detail: when Amelia first arrived, there had been a very faint old scar on her wrist. When asked, she'd said it was from a fall, but the shape of that scar looked more like the mark left by being tied with rope for an extended period. Scott had followed that lead at the time and discovered that Amelia's residence before being sent to the orphanage pointed to a rural area. The head of household was Imogen's brother, Brian.

Imogen's hands began to tremble. She turned to the next page—a record from a visit to the rural township back then. It stated that a girl had stayed at Brian's home, for approximately a year and a half. According to neighbors, "That little girl was pretty, just didn't talk much. Brian told people she was a relative's child, but nobody ever saw the parents come by."