Emily's Point of View
I'd been awake for hours, staring at the ceiling and replaying yesterday's confrontation with Mrs. Olins in my mind. The memory of Victor's unexpected support still felt surreal, like something I'd imagined.
A soft knock interrupted my thoughts.
"Come in," I called, sitting up and smoothing my sleep-tousled hair.
Jenkins entered, carrying a silver tray with my morning coffee and what looked like fresh croissants.
"Good morning, Mrs. Hawthorne. I trust you slept well?"
"Well enough." I accepted the coffee he poured, breathing in the rich aroma. "You seem pleased about something."
"Mr. Hawthorne asked me to inform you that he'd like to see you in his study at your earliest convenience."
My stomach tightened. "Did he say what it's about?"
"He didn't say, but I believe you'll be pleased." Jenkins set a covered plate on the bedside table.
Twenty minutes later, dressed in body fitted dress that brought out small of my curves, I made my way to his study. The familiar walk felt different now, less like approaching a judge's chambers and more like... what? I wasn't sure yet.
I knocked twice.
"Enter."
Victor sat behind his desk, but this time his laptop was closed, and his attention was fully focused on several glossy brochures spread before him. He looked up as I entered.
He looked... nervous? No, that wasn't quite right. Uncertain, maybe. As if he'd planned something and wasn't sure how it would be received.
"Emily. Good morning. Please, sit."
I lowered myself into the chair across from him, my hands folded on my lap. "Jenkins said you wanted to see me?"
"Yes." He pushed one of the brochures toward me. "I've been making arrangements for Lily's education."
I picked up the brochure, and my heart stumbled. Ashford Academy. Even I had heard of it...one of the most prestigious private schools in the state. The kind of place where senators and CEOs sent their children.
"Victor, I don't understand…"
"She's starting next Monday." He said it matter-of-fact, as if enrolling my daughter in an elite school was as simple as ordering groceries. "Small class sizes, excellent faculty, comprehensive arts and athletics programs. I thought it would suit her."
A dozen emotions crashed through me at once. Gratitude. Excitement. And underneath it all, a sharp spike of anger.
"You enrolled her?" I set the brochure down carefully, fighting to keep my voice level. "Without asking me first?"
Victor's jaw tightened…that familiar defensive gesture. "I'm informing you now."
"That's not the same thing." The words came out sharper than I intended. "She's my daughter, Victor. I should have been part of this decision."
Silence fell between us, thick with tension. I could see him struggling, his hands gripping the arms of his wheelchair as if he wanted to push away from this conversation, from the vulnerability of potential conflict.
Finally, he exhaled slowly.
"You're right." The admission seemed to cost him something. "I should have consulted you first. But I wanted..." He paused, searching for words. "I wanted to give her something. To show that she matters. That her future matters."
The sincerity in his voice disarmed me completely.
"I've arranged for you to visit the school this afternoon," he continued. "Meet the principal, tour the facilities, see the classrooms. If you don't think it's right for Lily, we'll look elsewhere. But I think…I hope…you'll be pleased."
The anger drained out of me, replaced by something more complicated. "You really want my opinion?"
"Of course." He looked genuinely confused. "She's your daughter. You know her better than anyone."
I picked up the brochure again, studying the images of bright classrooms and laughing children. A school like this had been beyond my wildest dreams just a week ago.
"When can I go?"
"Today, if you'd like. I've arranged for you to meet with Principal Morrison at one o'clock."
"Steve will drive you at noon. Your appointment with Principal Morrison is at one o'clock." He paused. "And Emily? Take your time. Ask questions. Make sure it's the right fit."
I nodded, too overwhelmed to trust my voice.
I stood to leave, then paused. "Victor?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For thinking of her."
Something flickered across his face. "She's a remarkable child. She deserves great opportunities."
—
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of nervous energy. I checked on Mom, who was having a good day and seemed genuinely happy in her new surroundings. Lily was in the conservatory with one of the housekeepers Victor had hired before our arrival, learning to arrange flowers and chattering away about Mr. Hops's latest adventures.
Everything seemed... peaceful. Too peaceful. Like the calm before a storm.
At Twelve sharp, Steve pulled the car around. The drive to Ashford Academy took forty minutes through increasingly affluent neighborhoods.
The school itself was stunning. Red brick buildings arranged around a central quad, ancient oak trees providing shade, children in neat uniforms playing during their lunch break. It looked like something from a movie.
Principal Morrison was a warm woman in her fifties, with kind eyes and a firm handshake. She gave me a comprehensive tour, explaining the curriculum, the extracurricular options, the school's philosophy of nurturing individual talents while maintaining academic excellence.
"Your daughter would be very welcome here, Mrs. Hawthorne," she said as we concluded the tour in her office. "Mr. Hawthorne spoke highly of her artistic abilities. We have an exceptional arts program that I think Lily would thrive in."
"It's... it's wonderful," I admitted, and it was. Everything about the school felt right. Safe, enriching, exactly the kind of environment I'd always wished I could provide for Lily. "When would she start?"
"Next Monday. We'll have her uniform ready by Friday for you to pick up. And please, don't hesitate to contact me if you have any concerns. We believe education is a partnership between school and family."
As Steve drove me back to the mansion, I stared out the window, emotions churning in my chest. This was real. My daughter was going to attend one of the best schools in the state. She'd have opportunities I could barely comprehend.
And it was all because I'd signed a contract to pretend to be Victor Hawthorne's wife.
Two days later, I was in the kitchen helping Jenkins prepare lunch when I heard voices in the foyer. One was Victor's deep rumble, the other unfamiliar but professional.
"That must be Dr. Emerson," Jenkins said, wiping his hands on a towel. "He's here for your mom's examination."
My stomach clenched. "Already?"
"Mr. Hawthorne scheduled it for this morning. Didn't he tell you?"
Of course he did. I replied hastingly.
I hurried toward Mom's room, helping Nurse Mary prepare for the examination. We'd dressed Mom in comfortable clothes, made sure she'd had a light breakfast, arranged her medications in neat rows for the doctor to review.
"You're hovering, dear," Mom said with surprising clarity, patting my hand. "I'll be fine. The doctor is just going to poke and prod a bit, ask me silly questions I probably can't answer. Nothing to worry about."
Her lucidity this morning was a blessing and a curse. It meant she understood what was happening, but it also meant she was aware of her own declining memory. I squeezed her hand, fighting back tears.
Just then Jenkins knocked as he walked in with a distinguished-looking man in his forties carrying a leather medical bag. Nurse Mary stood by Mom's bedside, where Mom sat looking slightly confused by all the activity.
"Mrs. Hawthorne," he said, extending his hand to me with a warm smile. "I'm Dr. David Emerson. And you must be Margaret." He turned to Mom with the same genuine warmth. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
"He's handsome," Mom whispered loudly to me, and despite my anxiety, I couldn't help but smile.
"I'll take that as a compliment," Dr. Emerson said with a chuckle. "Now, Margaret, I'm going to do a thorough examination today. Some of it might seem a bit tedious, but I promise to make it as painless as possible."
Victor wheeled himself into the room then, his presence immediately filling the space. He positioned himself near the door, as if uncertain whether to stay or go, his expression carefully neutral.
Dr. Emerson acknowledged him with a nod. "Mr. Hawthorne. Thank you for arranging this consultation."
Victor's response was curt. "You came highly recommended, Doctor. I expect thorough results."
The coldness in his tone made the room temperature seem to drop several degrees. But Dr. Emerson, accustomed to difficult patients and demanding families, simply nodded and turned his attention back to Mom.
The examination was comprehensive. Dr. Emerson checked Mom's vitals, tested her reflexes, looked into her eyes with a small light. Then came the cognitive assessments, the questions designed to reveal the extent of her memory loss.
"Margaret, can you tell me what day of the week it is?"
Mom frowned, her fingers plucking at her sleeve. "It's... Thursday? Or is it Friday?"
"It's Thursday. Good. And can you tell me the name of the current president?"
The confusion on her face broke my heart. "Is it... is it still Reagan?"
I felt Victor shift behind me, but I didn't turn around. I couldn't bear to see whatever expression might be on his face.
Dr. Emerson continued patiently, asking about seasons, recent events, family members. Mom knew me and Lily without hesitation, but couldn't remember what she'd had for breakfast. She knew she lived in a big house now but couldn't say how long she'd been here.
The gaps in her memory were chasms I wanted desperately to fill.
After forty-five minutes, Dr. Emerson set down his tablet and smiled gently at Mom. "You did wonderfully, Margaret. Thank you for being such a cooperative patient."
"Did I pass?" Mom asked, a childlike hope in her voice that made my throat tight.
"You did beautifully," he assured her. Then he turned to Nurse Mary. "I'd like to review the medication regimen and meal plan you've been following. Could you show me your records?"
As Nurse Mary pulled out her detailed logs, Dr. Emerson studied them with the focused attention of someone who missed nothing. He asked pointed questions about Mom's sleep patterns, her appetite, any behavioral changes Mary had noticed.
"You've been following the customized meal plan I sent?" he asked.
"Yes, Doctor. Every meal, every day. Fresh vegetables, lean proteins, omega-3 rich fish, the specific supplements you recommended. Mrs. Stevenson has been very cooperative about eating, which helps tremendously."
"Excellent." Dr. Emerson made notes on his tablet. "And the medication schedule? No missed doses?"
"None, Doctor. I keep detailed logs." Mary showed him her charts, color-coded and meticulous.
The doctor nodded approvingly, then spent several minutes reviewing the medication bottles themselves, checking dosages and expiration dates with the thoroughness that had undoubtedly earned him his reputation.
Finally, he looked up, addressing the room. "Well, I have good news. Margaret is showing definite improvement from her baseline assessment at the hospital. Her vital signs are excellent, her response to the current medication regimen is positive, and the structured care environment is clearly beneficial."
Relief flooded through me so powerfully I had to sit down. "Really? She's really improving?"
"The Alzheimer's is still progressing, Mrs. Hawthorne. I want to be clear about that. We cannot reverse the disease." His tone was gentle but firm. "However, we are managing her symptoms more effectively than her previous treatment plan allowed. The combination of proper medication, excellent nutrition, consistent routine, and attentive care is giving her the best possible quality of life."
"How long?" Victor's voice cut through from his position by the door. "How long can she maintain this level of function?"
Dr. Emerson turned to address him directly, two professionals assessing each other. "With continued excellent care? Possibly several years at her current level, perhaps with gradual decline rather than rapid deterioration. The key, as I'm sure you understand, Mr. Hawthorne, is consistency and vigilance. Any disruption to her routine or care could accelerate the progression."
The weight of those words settled over me like a heavy blanket. Consistency. Vigilance. Continued excellent care. All things that required Victor's resources, Victor's money, Victor's mansion.
What would happen in three years when our contract ended?
"I'm adding one medication to her regimen," Dr. Emerson continued, pulling out a prescription pad. "It's a newer drug, quite effective for patients at her stage. I'll write out detailed instructions for administration, and I want Nurse Mary to contact me immediately if there are any adverse reactions."
He spent the next ten minutes going over the new medication with Nurse Mary, explaining dosages, timing, potential side effects to watch for. His thoroughness was impressive, leaving no detail unaddressed.
"I'll schedule a follow-up two weeks from now," he said, packing his bag. "Barring any complications, we'll then move to monthly assessments. My office will contact you with the appointment time."
"Thank you, Doctor," I said, standing to shake his hand. "Thank you so much."
His smile was warm. "It's my pleasure, Mrs. Hawthorne. Your mother is fortunate to have such devoted care. Both from you and from Nurse Mary here."
He nodded to Victor, a gesture of professional respect between equals. "Mr. Hawthorne. Thank you for bringing me in on this case. I'll send my detailed report to your email by end of day."
Victor's response was a curt nod. "Jenkins will see you out, Doctor."
As if summoned, Jenkins appeared in the doorway. "This way, Dr. Emerson."
The moment they left, Victor wheeled himself out of the room without a word, without looking at me, his departure as abrupt as his arrival had been.
I stood there, caught between relief at Mom's positive prognosis and confusion at Victor's coldness. Just when I thought I was beginning to understand him, he retreated behind his walls again.
"That went well," Nurse Mary said cheerfully, organizing the new prescription information. "Dr. Emerson is truly excellent. Mrs. Stevenson is in the best possible hands."
Mom had dozed off in her chair, exhausted by the examination. I pulled a blanket over her lap and kissed her forehead.
"Yes," I murmured. "The best possible hands."
But as I left Mom's room and walked through the mansion's endless corridors, I couldn't shake the image of Victor wheeling himself away, couldn't forget the way he'd stood apart during the entire examination, present but separate, involved but distant.
He'd arranged for the best doctor in the country to care for my mother. He'd given advance notice of the appointment. He'd even stayed for the examination, though his discomfort had been palpable.
These were not the actions of a man who viewed us as merely a business transaction.
But they weren't quite the actions of family either.
We existed in some undefined space between, and I had no idea how to navigate it.
I found myself standing outside Victor's study, my hand raised to knock, then hesitating. What would I even say? Thank you for caring about my mother? Thank you for being present even though it clearly made you uncomfortable? Thank you for slowly, incrementally, letting people into your corner even though it terrifies you?
In the end, I lowered my hand and walked away.
Some conversations, I was learning, were better left unspoken.
At least for now.