I turn to face him. We share enough physical resemblance to make the connection undeniable, though I inherited more from my mother. My father’s eyes are brown, his hair several shades darker than mine, now almost fully gray. He still carries himselfas he always has, with the certainty of a man who assumes he is the largest presence in any room.
“It’s not happening, Dad. We’re happy in our home.”
“Of all places, you had to settle in Brooklyn?”
He says “Brooklyn” like it’s a downgrade. And in Richard Montgomerry’s world, I suppose it is.
I don’t bother replying. I just lift my eyebrows, letting silence do the work.
“Of course. Cecily’s parents live there.”
A pause. Calculated, needling.
“I suppose even my daughter-in-law isn’t entirely perfect.”
I refuse the bait. Cecilyisperfect, and mine is the only opinion that matters.
When we first got married, we lived in the penthouse my parents gifted us, not far from here. But I could see it in her eyes, she didn’t feel at home. I waited. The timing had to be right, the company was still new, and Jonathan and I had emptied our trust funds into keeping Montgomery Cliffordalive.
The moment I could, when Ethan turned three, I surprised her. Left the office early, picked her and Ethan up, and drove them to Brooklyn to show them the house I’d bought. Not next door to her parents, but close enough. Close enough for her to feel supported. Safe.
Years later, my parents still haven’t stopped trying to drag us back across the bridge.
What they’ll never understand is that my marriage isn’t like theirs. I love my wife. Her happiness comes before everything.Their marriage was a contract arranged by my grandparents. To this day, I’m not sure they ever loved each other. But they were civil, and attentive parents. A different kind of success, I suppose.
“I’ll check if Ceci and the kids are ready to go. Alicia has ballet in the morning.”
He looks like he wants to keep pushing, but instead he takes another sip of whiskey.
I leave him on the terrace, with the view he treasures so much, and go back inside to the only people who matter.
Maya
“Hello, you’ve reached Colin Montgomery’s office. This is Maya Fisher speaking. How can I help you?”
“Oh—sorry,” a woman answers, her voice soft but steady. “Is Margaret there? Or maybe you can put me through to Colin? He hasn’t answered his phone. This is Cecily, his wife.”
She rushes the last part, as if I wouldn’t already know exactly who she is.
Her voice… It’s infuriating. Clear, elegant, warm in that effortless way that feels like it’s been polished by a lifetime of people leaning in to listen. Every syllable perfectly placed, like she never has to raise her tone to be heard.
It’s composed. Confident. Almost regal.
And I hate it instantly.
“So sorry, Mrs. Montgomery,” I say, letting my voice drip with sugar. “He’s in a meeting at the moment. Would you like to leave a message? I’ll make sure he gets it the second he’s free.”
There’s a pause. Just long enough to make me smile.
“Um… could you just ask him to call me back? Thank you—”
“Maya,” I cut in, deliberately slow. “Maya Fisher.”
A beat.
“Thank you, Maya. Have a good day.”
“You too, Mrs. Montgomery.”
