One Month Later
A light mist rises from the dew-kissed lawns, and the conservatory is bathed in the early September morning light. The breakfast table is spread with flaky pastries from the local artisanal bakery in Sands Point, bowls of ripe strawberries and sliced mangoes, and Freya's favorite—whole-grain toast slathered in almond butter, cut into neat triangles.
I sit at the head and watch them—my mother, her frail frame draped in a cashmere cardigan over a silk blouse, delicately sipping her Earl Grey tea; and Freya, my five-year-old whirlwind, a mess of tousled golden curls, kicking her legs under the table, and nibbling dreamily on her toast. It's peaceful here, the kind of quiet that sinks into your bones, broken only by the soft clink of silverware.
No raised voices, no tension humming like a live wire.
It's been this way for the past month, ever since Carolyn announced her need for some improvements—breast augmentation and a rhinoplasty—and checked into one of the opulent suites overlooking Central Park at The Pierre for recovery. I didn't question it; why would I? If she wants to carve herself into something new, let her.
Especially if it keeps her out of my hair.
My mother sets her cup down with a gentle clatter; her hands tremble slightly these days. The arthritis is creeping in. She glances at me, her sharp blue eyes narrowing just a fraction. "It's been a peaceful month, hasn't it?" Her voice is measured, but laced with that undercurrent of disapproval she reserves for Carolyn. There's a pause, the steam from her tea curls lazily in the sunlight.
"Yes," I agree quietly, my gaze drifting to Freya, who hums a little tune under her breath, oblivious and peaceful. No petty arguments, no cold shoulders, no pouting. Just us, the way it should be.
"But she's returning soon, isn't she?" my mother continues, her tone sharpening. She folds her napkin precisely with jerky movements. "And we'll have to deal with her again. All that... annoyance."
I feel a flicker of tension in my chest, but I push it down, focusing on the warmth of the coffee cup in my palm. Deal with her. That's what my marriage has become—a negotiation, a deliberate dance of indifference. I nod, spearing a strawberry and slipping it into my mouth, its juice bursts sweet and tart on my tongue.
"She is," I say evenly.
Frances sighs and leans back in her chair, the wicker creaking faintly. "Blake, I cannot understand why on earth you would let her do such a thing? As your wife, she represents you—us, this family." Her words hang in the still air, heavy withjudgment. Her frail hands gesture vaguely, as if encompassing the estate, our legacy. The Bessants don't do frivolous; we build empires, we don’t belong on plastic surgeon’s tables. Her only saving grace was her looks, but now she'll join that growing army of ballooned-up plastic dolls. It’s beyond me why you would remain with such an unpleasant and manipulative character. You deserve better."
Her words carry truth. Unpleasant and manipulative. That's a good description of my wife. The fire of our marriage cooled some time ago. There is no affection left in it, but it suits me to remain attached. I don’t need the distraction of being single and available.
"I don't care what she does or what she looks like. We have an arrangement that works for both of us… for the moment. When it doesn’t, I’ll rectify the situation." I use the final voice I use for closing a deal in the boardroom. Setting my fork down, I wipe my mouth with a napkin.
My mother's lips purse, etching deeper lines around her mouth, and she shakes her head with disapproval, but she doesn't press. She knows better than to beat her head against a brick wall. Instead, she turns to Freya, her expression softening, a grandmotherly warmth breaking through. "And how's your breakfast, darling?"
Freya looks up, almond butter smeared at the corner of her mouth, her big eyes innocent and bright. "Yummy, Gran."
I watch them, a quiet love blooming in my chest—their interaction is blameless and uncomplicated, the kind I’ll fight to the death to protect. I clear my throat, drawing Freya's gaze.
"Are you done with your work in the garden? To pay for the vase you broke?"
She lowers her head, her curls falling forward like a curtain, her little shoulders slumping as she pokes at her toast. "I have three hours left," she mumbles, voice small and full of a childishremorse that unexpectedly tugs at me, but she needs to learn the value of things, of consequences. In a world of wealth, it's too easy to forget.
Her grandmother arches a brow. "Out of how many?"
"Sixteen." Freya's reply is barely audible, and her cheeks are flushed pink.
We share a glance then, my mother and I—a slightly amused look, the corners of my mouth twitching despite myself, her eyes twinkling just a fraction. Parenting's hard edges, softened by love. But I lean in, my hand resting on the table's edge.
"You know why you’ll have to be extra good to make up for it, right?" I ask gently.
I watch her fidget, then nod unhappily.
“That was an expensive and special object. A family heirloom from Gran’s side, and you were careless with it. What have you learned from this experience?”
“No bike in the house…ever."
“Very good.” I finish my coffee, push back my chair, and stand, buttoning my navy blazer over my shirt. I’m raring and ready for another day of mergers and markets. I round the table, leaning down to kiss my mother’s papery cheek first, her skin scented with her signature Chanel No. 5. "Bye, Mom. Call if you need anything."
She pats my hand, her touch soft and affectionate. "Be safe, dear."
Then, Freya, her face tilting up eagerly. I press a kiss to her young skin and inhale the sweet scent of her apple shampoo. "Be good for Gran, okay? I love you."
"Love you more, Daddy," she whispers.
