Emily's POV
Jenkins appeared with breakfast, and the formal atmosphere reasserted itself. The table was laden with an elaborate spread, fluffy scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, grilled tomatoes, mushrooms sautéed in butter, strawberries, toast points arranged in precise rows, and yes, a stack of pancakes drizzled with golden syrup.
Lily's eyes went wide. "Is all this for us? All of it?"
"It's a proper English breakfast," Victor said, his tone returning to its usual coolness, though something in his voice had softened slightly. "You should eat well to start the day."
"Can I have pancakes, Mommy? Please?"
I nodded, smiling at her excitement, and served her a generous stack. As we ate, Lily peppered Victor with questions in that fearless way that only children possess.
"Do you have a favorite color, Mr. Hawthorne?"
"Blue," he answered after a pause.
"That's a good color! Mine is pink. Do you like animals?"
"I... suppose so. I haven't thought about it much."
"We used to have a goldfish named Bubbles, but he died. Mommy said he went to fish heaven. Do you think there's a fish heaven?"
"I'm not qualified to answer theological questions about fish, young lady."
Lily giggled at his serious tone. "You talk fancy. Mommy says using big words means you're smart. Are you smart?"
Despite himself, I saw the corners of Victor's mouth twitch. "I've been told so."
"Then maybe you can always help me with my math homework! Numbers are hard sometimes."
Victor's expression flickered with surprise. "Perhaps," he said carefully. "If your mother approves."
He glanced at me for the first time since Lily's card presentation, and our eyes met across the table. The moment stretched between us, loaded with everything we couldn't say in front of my daughter. I saw question in his gaze, maybe even a hint of something like longing, before he looked away.
Throughout the meal, Victor tried to maintain his stern demeanor, but Lily's innocent persistence kept chipping away at it. She told him about her favorite books, how Mr. Hops was actually a magical bunny who protected her from bad dreams. Despite himself, Victor listened, occasionally responding with comments that were less harsh than I'd expected.
I watched this interaction with emotions churning in my chest. Part of me wanted to protect Lily from potential hurt if Victor pushed her away. But another part, a part I was afraid to acknowledge, felt something warm and achingly tender watching this cold, damaged man trying so hard to engage with my daughter's bright, uncomplicated joy.
When breakfast ended, Victor set down his napkin with characteristic precision. "Emily," he said, finally looking directly at me for the first time since sitting down. "Your etiquette coach will be arriving shortly. Mrs. Lena Olin. I've arranged for her to meet with you twice a a week until you're properly prepared for public appearances."
The way he said "properly prepared" made me tremble, but I forced myself to nod. "Of course."
"She's very good at what she does," he continued. "Though I warn you, she can be... exacting in her standards. But that's what we need. You'll need to know how to navigate social situations, how to deflect questions about our relationship, how to present yourself as Mrs. Hawthorne should be presented."
Each word felt like a small cut, reminding me that I wasn't good enough as I was, that I needed to be molded and shaped and perfected before I could be shown to his world.
"I'll do my best," I said tightly.
Something flickered across his face, was it regret? "I have no doubt you will." He said, staring at me again "Jenkins will show Mrs. Olin to the drawing room when she arrives."
----
Mrs. Lena Olin arrived exactly an hour later, announced by Jenkins with the same formality he might use for visiting royalty. I'd changed into one of the dresses from my new wardrobe, a simple navy blue sheath that felt appropriate for lessons in being a society wife, and waited nervously.
The woman who walked into the room looked like she'd stepped out of a fashion magazine from the 1960s. Tall and reed-thin, she wore a white suit so pristine it seemed to glow. Her silver hair was pulled back, not a strand out of place. Pale blue eyes swept over me with the cold assessment of someone finding me wanting before I'd even opened my mouth.
"Mrs. Hawthorne." Her voice was clipped, each word enunciated with BBC precision. "I am Mrs. Olin. Your husband has hired me to help you navigate society with... appropriate grace."
The pause before "appropriate grace" spoke volumes.
I stood, extending my hand. "It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Olin."
She looked at my outstretched hand as if I'd offered her a dead fish. Her own remained at her sides, fingers barely curling in what might have been a dismissive wave.
"We'll begin with basic posture and deportment." She gestured toward the chair behind me. "Sit."
The command made my jaw tighten, but I obeyed.
"No, no, no." She circled me like a predator, her heels clicking against the marble floor. "Your spine should be straight, imagine a string pulling you up from the crown of your head. Shoulders back but relaxed, not hunched like you're expecting a blow. Hands folded elegantly in your lap, wrists crossed."
I adjusted my posture, feeling each muscle strain with the effort of holding myself so unnaturally.
"Better." She made a note in her leather-bound portfolio, a quick scratch that sounded like judgment being rendered. "Though you'll need significant work. You carry yourself like someone accustomed to servitude."
Heat flooded my cheeks. "I was a caregiver."
"Were being the operative word." Mrs. Olin settled into the chair across from me with the kind of grace that came from a lifetime of privilege.
Each word felt like a small cut, precise and deliberate.
"Now, let's discuss wine." She pulled a folder from her portfolio, flipping it open with a snap. "You'll need to know the basics at minimum. Red wines pair with red meats, white wines with fish and poultry, though of course there are exceptions. Can you tell me the difference between a Merlot and a Cabernet Sauvignon?"
The question hung in the air like a trap waiting to spring.
"No," I admitted, hating how small my voice sounded. "I can't."
She sighed deeply. "Of course not." She leaned back, one perfectly manicured hand smoothing the folder. Well, we'll start there. A Merlot is generally smoother, with softer tannins, while a Cabernet Sauvignon is more bold and…are you even listening?"
I was, but I was also watching the condescension drip from every word, and my patience was wearing thin. "Yes, Mrs. Olin. I'm listening."
"You need to pay attention if you hope to represent your husband well." She leaned forward, her voice dropping into something imtimate, almost kind, which somehow made it worse.
"People will judge you, Mrs. Hawthorne. They will be looking for any sign that you don't belong. That you're out of your depth."
She paused, pale eyes boring into mine.
"That you're some gold-digger who trapped a vulnerable man."
The word landed like a slap.
Every muscle in my body went rigid. "What did you say?"
"I'm simply stating what others will think," Mrs. Olins continued, as if she hadn't just called me a whore in expensive language. "Given the circumstances…an older, wealthy man in a wheelchair, bereaved. A young, financially struggling woman who was in his employ. The optics are... unfortunate."
Blood roared in my ears. My hands clenched into fists in my lap, nails digging into my palms.
"You know nothing about the circumstances."
"I know what I can see." She waved a dismissive hand, the gesture so casual it made my vision blur with rage. "And more importantly, I know what society will see. My job is to teach you how to navigate their judgment, how to deflect the whispers, how to…"
Mrs. Olin blinked, clearly surprised I'd interrupted. "If you insist on being crude about it, yes. You need to learn the codes, the signals, the subtle ways we communicate our breeding and education. Right now, you have neither."
Something inside me cracked.
I stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor with a sound like a scream.
"Excuse me?" My voice shook, but not with fear. With fury held barely in check. "You walk in here with your expensive suit and your judgmental looks and your wine pairings, and in less than thirty minutes you've called me a gold-digger, told me I lack breeding, and made it crystal clear that I'm some project that needs fixing."
"Mrs. Hawthorne, I think you're misunderstanding…"
"No." I stepped forward, and she actually leaned back. "I understand perfectly. You looked at me and saw someone beneath you. Someone you could mold and criticize and tear down. Someone who doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as your precious social circle."
My hands trembled at my sides, but I pressed on, words pouring out in a flood I couldn't have stopped if I'd wanted to.
"Well, I'm sorry I'm not to your standards, Mrs. Olin. I'm sorry I don't know my Merlots from my Cabernets. I'm sorry I slouch and sit wrong and apparently reek of servitude. I'm sorry I had to work for a living instead of being born into money and manners."
"I really think you're overreacting…"
"And you know what else?" I moved closer, and satisfaction flashed through me when she flinched. "I'm a damn good caregiver. I'm a good mother. I've kept my family afloat through things you couldn't even imagine. I've worked double shifts and picked up extra hours so my daughter could eat. I've bathed my mother when she didn't recognize my face and held her hand through panic attacks at three in the morning."
My voice cracked, tears burning behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.
"So maybe I don't know which fork to use at a formal dinner. Maybe I can't tell you the vintage year of a good Bordeaux or make small talk about vacations in the Hamptons. But I know how to survive. I know how to love. I know how to fight for what matters."
I was breathing hard now, my chest heaving, my whole body shaking with the force of emotions I'd kept locked down since signing those papers.
"And if that's not good enough for you or your social circle, then maybe, just maybe, the problem isn't with me."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Mrs. Olin stared at me mouth opened and closed like a fish, her composed mask cracking just enough to show something underneath…shock, yes, but also something that might have been grudging respect.
"Well." She stood slowly, smoothing her suit with hands that weren't quite steady. "You certainly have spirit. I'll give you that."
"My spirit is not up for discussion." I shot back.
The door to the drawing room opened before she could respond, and Victor wheeled himself in. His expression was dark as a thundercloud, jaw tight with barely controlled anger. He must have heard the raised voices from down the hall.
"Is there a problem here?" His voice was dangerously quiet.
Mrs. Olin recovered her composure with visible effort. "Mr. Hawthorne. Your wife and I were simply having a... spirited discussion about her training."
"It sounded like more than a discussion." Victor's dark eyes moved to me, taking in my flushed face, my defensive posture, the way my hands were still clenched into fists. "Emily?"
I expected him to side with Mrs. Olin. To remind me that I was here to play a role and needed to learn it properly, no matter how much it hurt. To tell me I was being unreasonable, ungrateful, difficult.
Instead, he did something I never expected.
"Mrs. Olin." His voice carried the same cold authority I'd heard him use on incompetent employees. "I believe that will be all for today."
She blinked. "But Mr. Hawthorne, we've barely scratched the surface of what she needs to…"
"I said that will be all." There was steel in his tone now, the kind of finality that brooked no argument. "Jenkins will show you out."
Mrs. Olin's lips pressed into a thin line. She looked between us, clearly wanting to argue, to defend her methods, to insist she knew best. But she'd recognize a dismissal when she heard one…that much breeding she did have.
"Very well." She gathered her portfolio with stiff dignity. "I'll schedule our next session for…"
"I'll contact you if we require your services again," Victor interrupted.
The implication was clear. Don't call us, we'll call you. And we won't be calling.
Color rose in Mrs. Olin's powdered cheeks. She nodded once, sharply, and swept from the room with as much grace as she could muster. Jenkins appeared as if summoned, guiding her toward the exit with the same polite deference he showed everyone.
The door clicked shut behind them.
I stood frozen in the middle of the drawing room, suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline that had carried me through the confrontation drained away, leaving me hollow and shaking.
"I'm sorry." The words came out automatically. "I shouldn't have lost my temper like that."
"Don't." Victor wheeled closer, his expression unreadable. "Don't apologize."
I looked up, surprised. "But she was here to teach me, and I…"
"She was here to break you," he corrected, voice flat. "To make you feel small and inadequate so you'd be easier to mold. I've seen her do it to others. It's her method, destroy their confidence, then rebuild them in whatever image her client desires."
He stopped a few feet away, his eyes studying my face with an intensity that made my breath catch.
"I didn't expect you to push back so forcefully. Most people don't."
Most people probably have better self-control than I do," I muttered, sinking back into the chair before my legs could give out.
To my absolute shock, Victor smiled. It was small, barely there, but unmistakable.
"Your fire is an asset, Emily. Don't let them extinguish it." He paused, something flickering across his face…was it regret? "Not Mrs. Olin, not my social circle, not anyone."
The compliment caught me so off guard I couldn't find words to respond. We sat in silence for a moment, something unspoken passing between us. A recognition that we were both trapped in roles that didn't quite fit.
"I'll find you a different etiquette coach," he said finally. "Someone less... condescending."
"Thank you."
He nodded, turning his wheelchair toward the door. Then he paused, hand resting on the wheel, shoulders tense in a way that suggested he was weighing his next words carefully.
"Emily?"
"Yes?"
"What you said about being a good mother, about keeping your family together through impossible circumstances..." He still didn't turn to look at me. "You were right. Those things matter more than knowing wine pairings or which fork to use."
Before I could respond, before I could process the unexpected kindness in his words, he was gone. The door closed softly behind him, leaving me alone in the drawing room with a strange warmth blooming in my chest.
I stared at the space where he'd been, my mind replaying the entire bizarre morning.
I touched the ring on my finger, feeling the weight of it differently now.
Maybe, just maybe, this impossible situation wasn't as black and white as I'd thought.
After the confrontation, I needed to ground myself in something real. I made my way to Mom's room, my steps steadier than they'd been in hours.
The door was slightly ajar, and I could hear Nurse Mary's gentle voice talking Mom through her morning medications. I knocked softly before entering.
"Emily!" Mom's face lit up with recognition…a good day, then. "Come sit with me, sweetheart. Mary was just telling me about the garden."
I settled into the chair beside her bed, taking her hand. "How are you feeling, Mom?"
"Like a queen." She gestured around the spacious room with its large windows overlooking the grounds. "This place is better than any hospital I've ever been in. Better than home, even. Don't tell Mrs. Johnson I said that."
I laughed despite the tightness in my throat. "Your secret's safe with me."
Nurse Mary excused herself to give us privacy, and Mom's expression grew more serious as she studied my face.
"You look troubled, Emily. What's wrong?"
"Nothing, Mom. Just... adjusting."
"To being married to a man you don't love?"
The question was so direct, so clear-eyed, that I couldn't hide my shock. Mom squeezed my hand, her eyes holding mine with unexpected intensity.
"I may forget things, sweetheart, but I'm not blind. I can see the ring on your finger, I see how you two are together. Or rather, how you're not together." She paused. "Why did you really marry him?"
I could have lied. Should have lied, according to the contract. But this was my mother, and she was having a lucid moment, and I was so tired of pretending.
"For you," I whispered. "For you and Lily. So you could have the care you need. So she could have opportunities I never had."
Mom's eyes filled with tears. "Oh, my brave, foolish girl."
"I'm not foolish mom. I'm practical."
"You're sacrificing your happiness for us." She reached up with her free hand to cup my cheek. "Just like you always have. Even as a child, you put everyone else first. Your father used to worry about that."
The mention of Dad made my own eyes burn. "He would have done the same thing."
"No." Mom shook her head firmly. "Your father would have wanted you to be happy. To find love again after Tom. Not to trap yourself."
"It's not a trap," I said, even I didn't quite believe it. "It's temporary. Three years, and then…"
"And then what? You think you can spend three years with someone and not have it change you?" Mom's fingers trembled against my cheek. "Hearts don't follow contracts, Emily. They don't respect timelines or legal documents."
I pulled back gently, not wanting to hear this. Not wanting to think about the dangerous warmth I'd felt when Victor defended me, the way my pulse had quickened when he smiled.
"Victor doesn't want my heart, Mom. He wants a wife who can play a part. Nothing more."
"And what do you want?"
The question hung in the air between us, heavy with implications I wasn't ready to explore.
"I want you to get better," I said finally. "I want Lily to have everything she deserves. I want us to be okay."
"We were okay before." Mom's voice was gentle but firm. "Poor, yes. Struggling, certainly. But we had each other, and we had love. Don't forget that in all this luxury."
Before I could respond, her expression clouded. The clarity faded from her eyes like mist burning off in sunlight.