Chapter 2 - The Tables Turn
The silence in the dining room was absolute. You could hear the faint drip of water from the kitchen faucet and the crackle of the fireplace, but no one dared to breathe.
My father, Richard, looked as though he had suffered a sudden stroke. He clutched his wine glass so tightly I thought the crystal would shatter.
"Fiancée?" my mother squeaked out, her voice dropping three octaves from her usual poised tone. "Alexander—Mr. Hayes—there must be a misunderstanding. Emma is... well, Emma is just helping out tonight. She isn't..."
"She isn't what, Mrs. Whitmore?" Alexander asked, his voice deceptively soft, yet carrying an edge that made my brother Logan flinch. "Not worthy to sit at your table?"
Vanessa stepped forward, her cashmere heels clicking loudly against the hardwood floor. She forced a bright, practiced smile, adjusting her diamond necklace. "Mr. Hayes, what my mother means is that Emma has always preferred being in the background. She's... unconventional. We had no idea you two even knew each other. Emma, why didn't you say anything?"
I looked at my sister. For seven years, Vanessa had treated me like unpaid staff, leaving her dry cleaning for me to pick up and making passive-aggressive comments about my wardrobe.
Before I could answer, Alexander’s arm slid around my waist. The heat of his body was grounding, pulling me out of the numb survival mode I had lived in for years.
"Emma didn't mention it because we value our privacy," Alexander lied smoothly, leaning down to press a soft kiss against my temple. "And frankly, seeing how her own family treats her, I completely understand why she kept me a secret from you."
My father pushed his chair back, rushing over with his arms outstretched in a desperate attempt at mid-event damage control. "Alexander! Please, come sit down! We have a place at the head of the table for you. Logan, move your coat! Diane, set a plate for Mr. Hayes and... and for Emma!"
"Don't bother," Alexander said, holding up a single gloved hand. "I didn't come here to eat your food, Richard. I came to pick up my wife-to-be and to discuss the buyout contract for Whitmore Enterprises."
My father’s eyes lit up with pathetic hope. "The contract! Yes! I have the papers right in my study. We can sign them tonight—"
"I brought my own papers," Alexander interrupted, pulling a thick leather folder from his leather briefcase. He laid it flat on the kitchen island, right beside the bowl of leftover mashed potatoes I had just whipped.
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"Before I sign a single dollar over to keep your company afloat," Alexander continued, staring directly into my father's desperate eyes, "we need to clear up a few accounting discrepancies from seven years ago. Specifically, the fifty thousand dollars that was stolen from your treasury."
My brother Logan dropped his glass of bourbon. It shattered against the floor, amber liquid soaking into the expensive rug.
