The car slid north out of the city, trading towers for trees, glass for stone. The skyline dissolved into the curated serenity of Westchester, where houses like my family’s were built to look eternal even as their owners changed—ancestral acreage designed to remind everyone that money came here to rest.
The wrought-iron gates swung open without my driver slowing. The mansion rose ahead of us, pale stone and ivy, the windows catching the morning light like mirrors.
The car glided to a stop before the stone portico, tires crunching softly against the gravel. My driver stepped out to open the door, and the familiar symmetry of the Caldwell estate unfolded before me—the columns, the manicured hedges, the sense of order that has always been here, unshaken by time or scandal.
Roger met me at the entrance before I took two steps inside. Decades had left almost no mark on him beyond a dusting of grey at his temples.
“Mr. Caldwell! What a surprise. We weren’t expecting you today.”
“I thought I’d pay my mother a visit,” I said, and my voice softened in spite of itself. There were very few people left in my life to whom I owed that kind of ease, but Roger was one of them.
He smiled—an expression of genuine warmth polished smooth by habit. “Mrs. Caldwell’s in her office, sir. In fine spirits. She’s been in all morning.”
As I crossed the threshold, I thought of how men like Roger were the true constants here. Staff who outlasted friends, even marriages. Their longevity is the family’s unspoken signature.
The corridor toward my mother’s wing smelt faintly of roses and furniture polish. My footsteps echoed against marble that had always been too pristine to feel lived in. I could picture her before I even reached the door: seated behind her desk, glasses perched low on her nose, a pen poised over some list that will fund an orchestra or restore a painting.
She thrives in motion, incapable of stillness even when she claims otherwise. The arts, heritage conservation, scholarships for young musicians—her chosen kingdoms. She left the family business to my father and meddles only in its presentation: the photographs, the speeches, the way the Caldwell name looks printed in gold. Her office is her stage and her fortress—fresh bouquets, silver frames, stationery embossed with her initials.
But as I approached, the sound that reached me wasn’t the solitary click of a pen. Laughter, and two feminine voices. My mother’s unmistakable lilt, and another I recognized instantly.
Anne Vanderhoof.
Of course.I should have anticipated it. She has been trailing behind my mother since her return from Cambridge,parroting her style, echoing her opinions, collecting influence like a debutante collecting pearls. She’s positioned herself as indispensable to every philanthropic committee my mother chairs, and by extension, to us.
I hesitated outside the door, considering a tactical retreat, but my mother’s voice carried before I could move.
“Oh, darling, what a pleasant interruption!”
There was no graceful exit after that.
Twin pairs of blue eyes found me as I stepped inside. Anne rose at once, practically glowing. Her blond hair gleamed under the filtered light, swinging behind her as she crossed the room with the enthusiasm of someone performing for an audience.
She took my arm before I could stop her, her perfume too sweet. The touch was light but possessive, the gesture of a woman rehearsing a role she hadn’t been cast in. Every muscle in my arm tightened, but I let her keep hold—etiquette was the only instinct stronger than irritation. Her laugh followed, as if to announce her comfort in my mother’s world—and by implication, in mine.
My mother watched us from behind her desk, chin resting on one hand, amusement flickering in her eyes. She didn’t have to say anything; she’d already read every thought crossing my face.
Anne led me toward the pair of chairs before the desk, and I sat, grateful for the buffer of distance.
My relief was short-lived.
Instead of taking the other chair, she perched on the edge of mine—a calculated encroachment masquerading as familiarity. Our knees grazed, and I felt the faintest tug of static from the silk of her dress. It was a gesture that would read as flirtatious to anyone else, but to me it was invasive.
“You’re not here to check on your mother’s latest campaign?” she asked brightly. “We were just finalising patrons for theSpring Arts Fund. She’s become utterly indispensable to every board in the city.”
“I’m sure she always was,” I replied, my tone detached. “I didn’t realise you’d be joining her today.”
“Anne’s helping me finalise the donor list for next quarter. We’re almost done.” My mother said.
I noticed, even as she spoke, that Anne’s gaze remained half-fixed on me. She nodded at my mother’s words but smiled only at me, her lips painted the kind of red that feels performative. I glanced toward the door, craving air that didn’t reek of her cloying gardenia scent.
“Then I’ll come back later.” I said.
Anne’s hand closed around my sleeve. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. We’ve had plenty of private conversations over the years, haven’t we?”
I felt my patience fray at the edges, but I kept my tone even. “It’s a personal matter. I’d prefer to discuss it with my mother alone.”
As I spoke, she toyed with the diamond tennis bracelet at her wrist—tiny movements designed to catch the light and the eye. The need to be seen was a reflex with her, one that exhausted me.
