A Legacy of Lies

The morning after the masquerade, Celia sat in her mother's study, velvet walls heavy with the scent of old perfume and older secrets.

She'd come to talk about the hotel — about saving it from being swallowed by larger investors — but the conversation had shifted.

Shifted in a way Celia couldn't have predicted.

"You don't understand what's at stake," her mother said, voice low and cold. "This hotel isn't just walls and chandeliers. It's... complicated."

Celia swallowed, anger and dread swirling in her chest. "Tell me, then."

Her mother's silence was louder than any confession. Finally, she spoke. "Your father... isn't your father."

The words felt unreal. As if they belonged to another girl in another family.

"I don't believe you," Celia whispered.

Her mother flinched, but went on. "You were born from a mistake. A secret I paid to keep buried."

Outside, rain tapped against stained glass. Inside, Celia felt everything she knew splinter.

All her memories — birthdays, gentle smiles, the man who taught her to dance — blurred under the weight of this truth.

"Who am I, really?" she whispered.

And there was no answer.