Chapter 1 - The Dinner That Could Not Be Interrupted
Three months earlier, Vivian Ashford woke to the sound of Sabina crying.
It was shortly after five in the morning.
Rain tapped softly against the windows of Ashford Manor, and the long hall outside the bedroom was still dark. Thatcher had not yet returned from the city. He had attended a private gathering with investors and had sent a brief message after midnight saying that he would sleep at his club.
Vivian found Sabina curled beneath her blankets.
The little girl’s face was flushed, and her dark hair was stuck to her forehead with sweat.
“Mom,” she whispered. “My stomach hurts.”
Vivian touched her daughter’s cheek and immediately felt the heat.
She brought water, a cool cloth, and the digital thermometer from the bathroom cabinet.
The reading was high.
Too high.
Vivian called the family medical office. A nurse advised her to monitor Sabina closely and bring her in if the fever did not fall or if the pain increased.
For several hours, Vivian remained beside the bed.
Sabina drifted in and out of sleep.
By late morning, the fever had dropped slightly, but the stomach pain remained. Vivian tried calling Thatcher. Her first call went unanswered. Her second call was rejected. On the third attempt, he sent a message.
Important dinner tonight. Handle it.
Vivian stared at the words.
Handle it.
That was how Thatcher described everything related to their daughter.
School conferences.
Nightmares.
Doctor appointments.
Birthday plans.
Tears.
He believed fatherhood meant providing a surname and paying bills. Everything else, he said, belonged to Vivian.
At noon, a parade of caterers arrived at the manor.
Silver trays were carried into the kitchen. Florists filled the dining room with white orchids. A sommelier placed bottles of imported wine into crystal buckets.
Vivian went downstairs and found Beatrix Vale directing the staff.
Beatrix wore a pale blue dress and held a clipboard as if she owned the house.
“What is happening?” Vivian asked.
Beatrix did not turn around.
“Tonight’s dinner.”
“Thatcher said it was a business dinner.”
“It is.”
“In our home?”
Beatrix finally looked at her.
“Mr. Harcourt prefers private settings. Thatcher is trying to secure the Halcyon contract. Surely you remember.”
Vivian did remember.
The Halcyon contract was worth hundreds of millions of dollars and had occupied Thatcher’s thoughts for almost a year. He had repeatedly said that obtaining it would secure the future of the Ashford family.
Sabina called weakly from upstairs.
“Mom?”
Vivian immediately turned.
Beatrix caught her arm.
“You need to approve the seating arrangements.”
“My daughter is sick.”
“So hire a nurse.”
Vivian pulled away.
“She wants her mother.”
Beatrix smiled without warmth.
“Children always want something.”
Vivian had disliked Beatrix from their first meeting two years earlier.
Officially, Beatrix was Thatcher’s strategic adviser. Unofficially, she had become involved in every private part of their lives. She selected Thatcher’s clothes, managed his social schedule, chose the guests invited to the manor, and spoke about Vivian as if she were an inconvenient employee.
Thatcher insisted that Beatrix was indispensable.
Vivian suspected the relationship between them extended far beyond business, but she had never found proof.
By four in the afternoon, Sabina’s fever rose again.
She vomited twice.
Vivian called the medical office, but the regular doctor had left to assist with an emergency surgery. The nurse told her to take Sabina to Saint Catherine’s Hospital immediately if the pain became severe or if she appeared unusually weak.
Vivian packed a small bag.
She placed Sabina’s medical documents inside, along with a sweater, water, and the stuffed white fox Sabina had owned since infancy.
At five thirty, Thatcher returned.
He walked through the front door while speaking on the phone.
“No excuses,” he said. “Harcourt arrives at seven. Everything must be flawless.”
He ended the call and noticed Vivian standing at the foot of the staircase.
She held Sabina’s coat.
“We need to talk,” Vivian said.
Thatcher adjusted his cuff links.
“Not now.”
“Sabina is very sick.”
“She has a fever.”
“She has severe stomach pain, and she can barely stay awake.”
Thatcher sighed.
“Vivian, every time I have an important event, something happens.”
She stared at him.
“What are you suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting that you have a talent for creating emergencies when attention isn’t focused on you.”
A cold silence settled between them.
Vivian had tolerated Thatcher’s indifference for years.
She had tolerated his late nights, his contempt, his public jokes at her expense, and his refusal to acknowledge the sacrifices she had made for his family.
But she had never heard him accuse her of using their daughter’s illness for attention.
Before Vivian could respond, Beatrix entered from the dining room.
“The floral arrangement has been corrected,” she said. “But Vivian still hasn’t changed.”
Thatcher looked at his wife’s simple gray sweater and jeans.
“Why aren’t you dressed?”
“I’m not attending dinner.”
“You are the hostess.”
“I am taking Sabina to the hospital.”
Beatrix rolled her eyes.
“She’s eight years old, not eight months old.”
Footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Sabina appeared, gripping the railing with both hands.
Her face was almost white.
“Mom,” she whispered. “It hurts more.”
Vivian rushed toward her.
Sabina’s knees collapsed before Vivian reached the first step.
Vivian caught her.
Thatcher remained where he stood.
For one brief moment, fear crossed his face.
Then the front bell rang.
Beatrix glanced through the window.
“The first guests are early.”
Thatcher’s fear disappeared beneath irritation.
“Take Sabina upstairs,” he ordered. “I’ll call a private nurse after dinner.”
Vivian lifted her daughter.
“No. We’re leaving now.”
She carried Sabina toward the front door.
Thatcher stepped into her path.
“Where are you going?”
“To the hospital.”
Beatrix smirked.
“It’s just a fever. Don’t act like she’s dying. Come inside and do your duty.”
Sabina groaned against Vivian’s shoulder.
“Mom, it hurts.”
Thatcher lowered his voice.
“Stop the charade. My guest is my top priority.”
Beatrix folded her arms.
“Don’t disgrace this family anymore, you selfish woman.”
Vivian looked at both of them.
“Would you rather impress strangers than save your daughter?”
Thatcher’s answer came without hesitation.
“She’s your problem.”
Something inside Vivian became perfectly still.
She shifted Sabina’s weight and pushed the front door open with her shoulder.
Thatcher followed them onto the steps.
“Get out of there,” he shouted, “and don’t even think about coming back.”
Vivian turned once.
Rain swept across the stone driveway.
Music began inside the manor as the first guests entered through another door.
May you like
“Keep your damned dinner,” she said.
Then she carried Sabina to the car.
