Emily's POV
By the time I reached the kitchen, Jenkins was already awake, of course he was. The air hummed with the quiet rhythm of morning, the clink of china, the low buzz of the refrigerator, the faint aroma of coffee.
He stood at the marble counter, slicing fresh fruit with surgical precision. When he looked up and saw me, his weathered face broke into that warm, familiar smile that always reminded me why I'd grown so fond of him during my months working here.
"Good morning, Emily," he said, voice rich with that gentle, fatherly tone I'd come to depend on. "You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep much," I admitted, moving to stand beside him. "Thought I'd come help with breakfast."
"That's kind of you, but you don't need to do that anymore." His eyes crinkled with amusement. "You're not staff now. You're the lady of the house."
The words felt foreign, like clothes that didn't quite fit. I busied myself with arranging fruit on a platter, needing something to do with my hands. "Old habits die hard, I suppose."
We worked in silence for a while, the easy kind that comes from comfort. Over the past six months, Jenkins had been my anchor during those difficult months as Victor's caregiver, always kind when Victor was cruel, always offering a sympathetic ear when I needed to vent. He'd become something of a father figure to me, filling a void I hadn't realized was there since my own father passed when I was twelve.
Then he paused mid-slice, eyes catching on something. "Emily… is that…?"
I followed his gaze to my left hand, where the simple diamond band glinted in the morning light. My throat tightened. Of course Jenkins would notice. Nothing in this house escaped him.
"Yes," I said softly, twisting the ring unconsciously. "As of yesterday, I'm officially Mrs. Hawthorne."
Jenkins set down the knife and wiped his hands on a pristine white towel. He came around the counter and placed both hands on my shoulders, eyes filled with genuine warmth.
"My dear girl, congratulations. This calls for celebration."
But beneath his smile, I saw it…concern flickering in his gaze as he took in the shadows beneath my eyes, the stiffness in my posture.
"How does it feel?" he asked carefully, his hands dropping back to his sides. "Being Mrs. Hawthorne? It must be quite an adjustment. And besides, you should be happy, yet you look..."
"It's... different," I said carefully. "Still getting used to it."
He moved closer, his voice soft. "Emily, you don't look happy. Is everything alright?"
His kindness made my throat ache. I wanted to tell him everything…the contract, the arrangement, the coldness of the man I'd just legally bound myself to, but I couldn't. The contract demanded absolute silence.
"I'm fine," I said quickly, turning back to the fruit. My hands trembled as I picked up the knife he'd abandoned. "Really, Jenkins, I'm fine."
He studied me for a long moment, then nodded. "You know I'm here if you need to talk, don't you? You've become like a daughter to me."
Tears stung my eyes. "I know. Thank you. That means more than you realize."
He patted my shoulder gently. "Well, if you insist on helping, you can finish that fruit platter while I see to the eggs."
We worked side by side again, and despite the weight pressing on my chest, his presence brought me a small measure of comfort. At least there was one person in this enormous house who felt like home.
When breakfast was ready, I excused myself to check on Mom before Lily woke. The corridor was long and quiet as I made my way to her room. The door stood slightly ajar, and I knocked softly before entering.
The sight that greeted me made my heart both ache and swell with gratitude. Mom lay in the massive bed, still peacefully sleeping, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.
Nurse Mary sat in the corner, already dressed in her crisp white uniform, reviewing notes on her tablet. She looked up as I entered, her kind face breaking into a smile. "Good morning, Mrs. Hawthorne."
"Good morning, Mary," I said, moving closer to the bed. "How was her night?"
"Very good," Mary said, standing to join me. "She woke once around two, a bit confused, but settled quickly after I gave her some water and reminded her where she was. Her vitals are all excellent this morning."
I reached out and gently brushed her hair. It was hard to reconcile this frail woman with the strong mother who'd once worked two jobs to keep us fed, who'd never let me see her cry even when I knew she must have wanted to.
"I'll feed her breakfast when she wakes," Mary continued, making notes on her tablet. "Mr. Hawthorne arranged for a special diet plan from Dr. Emerson. Very comprehensive."
Gratitude should have come easily. Instead, all I felt was the tightening of invisible chains.
"Thank you, Mary," I said quietly. "For everything you do for her. I know she can be... challenging sometimes."
Mary's face softened. "Your mother is a delight, Mrs. Hawthorne. Even on her worst days, she never forgets how much she loves you and Lily."
The lump in my throat grew too large to speak. I squeezed Mom's hand gently and slipped out before the tears fall.
Lily's room was chaos…colorful, joyful chaos. Stuffed animals littered the floor, her art supplies had somehow migrated to the windowsill, and Mr. Hops sat propped on the bed like a furry king.
My daughter was still asleep, curled up in a ball beneath her princess comforter, her curls spread across the pillow. She looked so small in the massive canopy bed, so innocent.
What had I done? What kind of mother dragged her child into a loveless marriage?
But then I thought of Mom's fragile health, of all the nights I'd cried wondering how to keep us afloat. This was for them. Everything I'd done, I'd done for love.
I sat on the edge of Lily's bed and gently shook her shoulder. "Lily, baby. Time to wake up."
She stirred, her eyelids fluttering open. For a moment, she looked confused, as if she'd forgotten where she was. Then recognition dawned, and she sat bolt upright.
"Mommy! This wasn't a dream! We really live in the castle!"
Despite everything, I couldn't help but smile at her enthusiasm. "Yes, sweetheart. We really do. Now come on, we need to get you dressed for breakfast."
"Is Mr. Hawthorne going to be there?" she asked, scrambling out of bed with Mr. Hops clutched to her chest.
I hesitated. "Yes, probably."
"Good!" She ran to her dresser and pulled out the card she'd been working on last night, a piece of construction paper folded in half, covered in crayon drawings of flowers and hearts. In her careful, seven-year-old handwriting, she'd written: "Get Well Soon! Love, Lily."
"I want to give him this," she said proudly, hugging the card to her chest. "To make him feel better. Mrs. Johnson says cards always make people feel better when they're sad."
My eyes burned. "That's very kind of you, honey. Just remember, Mr. Hawthorne's not feeling well, so he might seem grumpy sometimes, but that doesn't mean he's bad. He's just… sad about things that happened to him."
"Like how you get sad about Daddy sometimes?"
The simple comparison gutted me. "Yes, sweetheart. Something like that."
"Okay." She nodded seriously. "Then I'll try to make him smile. Like how I try to make you smile when you're sad."
I pulled her into a tight hug. "You're the best girl in the whole world."
"Can I wear my new blue dress today?" she asked, pulling back with excitement. "The one with the flowers on it?"
"Of course you can. Let's get you ready for breakfast. We don't want to keep Mr. Hawthorne waiting."
Twenty minutes later, Lily was dressed and picture-perfect, clutching the card behind her back as we made our way to the dining room. I'd changed into jeans and a comfortable sweatshirt, trying to strike a balance between the casual me and whoever Mrs. Hawthorne was supposed to be. I'd styled my hair carefully, letting it cascade down my back, and applied a light makeup, just enough to look put-together without feeling like I was wearing a mask.
But as we approached the dining room, my stomach churned with anxiety. This would be our first real breakfast as a... family? No, that wasn't the right word. As residents of this house? As participants in this bizarre arrangement?
The quiet hum of the motor reached my ears before I saw him, the faint squeak of one wheel, the steady rhythm of control.
Victor appeared moments later, sharply dressed as if he were heading to a board meeting instead of breakfast. Even seated in his wheelchair, he radiated authority. Dark blue slacks, crisp white shirt, silver-threaded hair immaculately combed. A man built for command, not for warmth.
And now he was my husband.
The thought made my chest tighten.
As he wheeled himself to the head of the table, the title Mrs. Hawthorne felt like borrowed clothes…too big, too heavy, and not meant for me.
His dark eyes swept the room, landing first on Lily, then on me, his expression unreadable. "Good morning. I trust you both slept well? Are you settling in well?"
The words were stilted, formal, as if he were addressing business associates rather than his new family.
"Good morning, Mr. Hawthorne," I replied, my voice steadier than I felt. "We're fine, thank you," I replied, my voice equally formal. "The rooms are very comfortable."
"And your mother?" He still wasn't looking directly at me, his gaze fixed somewhere over my left shoulder. "How is she this morning?"
"Stable. Nurse Mary says her night was good."
He nodded once, seemingly satisfied, and reached for his coffee cup.
Lily, bless her brave heart, piped up cheerfully. "Good morning, sir!"
Victor's gaze shifted to her, and I saw his jaw tighten slightly. "Good morning," he said to her, his tone marginally softer.
Before the uncomfortable silence could stretch any longer, Lily cleared her throat...a small, nervous sound that made my heart squeeze. Her hand had crept into her pocket, fingers clutching the card.
"Mr. Hawthorne?" Her voice was small but determined. "I... I made something for you."
For the first time since entering the room, Victor's attention focused entirely on my daughter. His expression shifted, surprise flickering across his features.
Lily slid out of her chair and approached him with careful steps, as if she were approaching a wild animal that might spook. When she reached his wheelchair, she pulled out the card and held it up with both hands, her face a mixture of hope and anxiety.
"It's a get-well card," she explained, her words tumbling out in a rush. "Because Mommy said you're not feeling well, and Mrs. Johnson always says that cards make people feel better when they're sad, so I made you one. See? I drew flowers because flowers are happy, and hearts because... because hearts mean love and caring and stuff."
The silence that followed felt endless. Victor stared at the card in Lily's small hands, his face a battlefield of emotions…shock, confusion, something that might have been pain, and underneath it all, something softer that he was fighting desperately to control.
Slowly, as if his arms weighed a thousand pounds each, he reached out and took the card from her. His large hands dwarfed it, making the bright crayon drawings look even more childish and innocent. He opened it carefully, reverently, and read the simple message inside.
I watched his throat work as he swallowed hard. His jaw clenched and unclenched. For a moment, just a fleeting moment, his carefully constructed walls crumbled, and I saw past the cold, intimidating businessman. The man who'd lost his wife, his mobility, his identity. The man who'd isolated himself so thoroughly that a simple handmade card from a seven-year-old could shake him to his core.
"Thank you," he said finally, his voice rougher than usual, gravelly with suppressed emotion. He looked at Lily, really looked at her, and something in his expression softened. "This is... very thoughtful. No one has... I haven't received a card in a very long time."
Lily's face broke into a brilliant smile. "Do you like the flowers? I tried to make them different colors because a garden should have lots of colors, not just one.
"It's beautiful," Victor said, and I could tell he meant it. His thumb traced over one of the crayon flowers, careful not to smudge it. "I'll keep it somewhere safe. Somewhere I can see it every day."
"Really?" Lily bounced on her toes, practically vibrating with joy. "You're not just saying that?"
A ghost of a smile, the first genuine one I'd seen from him, touched Victor's lips. "Really. I never say things I don't mean."
Lily threw her arms around his neck in an impulsive hug, and I saw Victor freeze, his entire body going rigid. But then, slowly, carefully, one of his hands came up to pat her back awkwardly, as if he weren't quite sure how to handle this small, affectionate creature who'd burst into his carefully controlled life.
When Lily pulled back and skipped back to her chair, Victor's walls were already rebuilding themselves, brick by brick. But I'd seen what was underneath, and the image was seared into my memory, a man so starved for genuine human connection that a child's simple gesture could reduce him to barely-controlled emotion.