Chapter 4 - THE FIRST WOMAN MY FATHER SENT HOME
Vanessa denied it.
Of course.
By the time we returned to the estate, she had changed into a cream dress and arranged herself on the drawing-room sofa like somebody expecting photographers.
Olivia sat beside her.
Camille near the fireplace.
Sophia checked her phone.
Beatrice stood by the windows.
Dad walked in carrying no briefcase.
That was how I knew someone was in trouble.
When Michael Harrington carried papers, he was negotiating.
When his hands were empty, he had already decided.
Vanessa smiled.
“Michael.”
“Pack.”
Her smile disappeared.
“What?”
“You are leaving.”
She looked toward me.
Then Emily.
Emily had not wanted to return.
Dad insisted only after promising Vanessa would not be allowed near her.
Now Emily stood near Mrs. Doyle.
Not employee.
Not guest.
Something between.
Vanessa laughed.
“This is ridiculous.”
Dad remained calm.
“You accessed an employee personnel file without authorization.”
“I did no such thing.”
“My security team traced your credentials.”
“My assistant may have—”
“Your assistant is not here.”
Vanessa’s face tightened.
“I was concerned.”
“About what?”
“Your daughter.”
I stared.
She continued.
“She chose a woman whose brother has a criminal record.”
Emily’s jaw tightened.
Dad said:
“Daniel Carter’s record consists of one regulatory conviction after acquittal on the major fraud charges.”
Vanessa blinked.
“You researched him too.”
“I had lawful access to my employee’s background file after security notified me it had been breached.”
Difference.
Vanessa stood.
“You brought five women into this house because you wanted us evaluated.”
“Yes.”
“Then I evaluated the situation.”
“No.”
Dad stepped closer.
“You stole private information about someone who works for me, gave it to the press, and attempted to damage her because a nine-year-old embarrassed you.”
Vanessa’s face flushed.
“I did not contact the press.”
Dad’s attorney entered.
“Ms. Montgomery’s communications consultant did.”
Silence.
Vanessa looked betrayed.
Apparently the consultant had answered a legal preservation request quickly.
Smart.
Dad continued.
“You’re leaving.”
“Michael, you cannot possibly choose a housekeeper over—”
He interrupted.
“I am not choosing Emily.”
My stomach dropped.
Emily’s face remained still.
Dad finished:
“I am choosing not to marry someone who abuses access to private information.”
Good.
Different.
Vanessa’s mouth opened.
Nothing.
Then she looked at me.
“This is your fault.”
Dad’s voice changed.
“Do not.”
Everybody froze.
He had rarely raised his voice all day.
He did not need to now.
“Do not make my daughter responsible for your conduct.”
Vanessa grabbed her purse.
“You’ll regret this.”
Dad looked almost bored.
“No.”
Then:
“My lawyers will contact you regarding the privacy breach.”
She left.
First luxury car gone.
Four women remained.
The room felt lighter.
Then Olivia said:
“While I agree Vanessa crossed a line, surely the larger question remains.”
Dad looked at her.
“What larger question?”
“Whether Emily is an appropriate influence on Ava.”
I stared.
Emily answered before Dad.
“That is not your decision.”
Olivia smiled.
“No. It is Michael’s.”
Emily looked at him.
Something important happened.
Dad said:
“Actually, Ava gets a vote.”
Not full decision.
A vote.
Progress.
Olivia’s smile thinned.
Then Dad addressed all four women.
“This month is no longer an audition.”
Sophia lowered her phone.
“What?”
“I handled this badly.”
I stared at him.
Michael Harrington admitting error in front of people?
Historic.
He continued.
“I invited you here under the premise that I was evaluating compatibility for marriage. In reality, I was attempting to structure a personal decision as though it were a board process.”
Mom would have applauded.
Camille said:
“At least you recognize it.”
I liked her slightly.
Dad went on.
“You are welcome to remain as guests if you choose. There will be no competition.”
Olivia stood.
“Then what exactly are we doing here?”
“Apparently learning whether we enjoy one another’s company.”
She stared.
“How ordinary.”
“Extremely.”
Sophia laughed.
Beatrice smiled.
Olivia did not.
“I came here because my father and your board both believed a Harrington-Prescott marriage would strengthen several philanthropic initiatives.”
Dad nodded.
“I know.”
“Without that purpose, this is a waste of time.”
“Then you should leave.”
Second car.
Gone.
I almost smiled.
Two down.
Three remaining.
Camille stayed because she said she had already blocked the month from work.
Sophia stayed because the mansion would apparently make excellent material for a memoir she was “not writing.”
Beatrice stayed because she had nowhere urgent to be.
I did not trust any of them yet.
Emily wanted to return to work the next morning.
Dad said no.
She said that sounded like punishment.
He corrected:
“Paid leave until we resolve the privacy breach.”
Emily considered.
“Fine.”
Then:
“I want a copy of everything accessed.”
“Yes.”
“And I choose my own attorney if legal action becomes necessary.”
“Yes.”
“And the company pays reasonable fees because the breach happened through your system.”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Doyle looked impressed.
So did I.
Emily was not asking to be rescued.
She was negotiating.
Dad noticed too.
That night, I went to Emily’s room in the staff wing.
She was packing.
My chest tightened.
“You promised.”
“I did.”
“Then why?”
“I’m moving temporarily.”
“Where?”
“A hotel.”
“Why?”
“Because this house is not neutral anymore.”
I hated that.
“You think Dad will fire you?”
“No.”
“Then?”
Emily sat on the bed.
“Ava, you chose me in front of five women your father might marry.”
“Yes.”
“That changed how everyone sees me.”
“So?”
“So I cannot keep being your housekeeper while people ask whether I’m trying to become your mother.”
I felt tears coming.
“But I don’t care what they think.”
“I know.”
She touched my hair.
“But I have to care what I think.”
“What do you think?”
“That you’re grieving.”
I looked away.
She continued gently.
“And your father is grieving.”
“Yes.”
“And I loved your mother as a friend.”
My heart tightened.
“Does that mean you can’t love me?”
Emily’s eyes filled.
“No.”
“Then?”
“Love does not mean I should step into a role because you’re afraid of losing another person.”
I started crying.
“I’m not.”
She waited.
I hated when adults waited until I stopped lying.
“Maybe.”
Emily hugged me.
“You don’t need to choose a new mother this month.”
“But Dad said—”
“Your father was wrong.”
I laughed through tears.
“You say that a lot.”
“He gives me opportunities.”
Then:
“You are allowed to miss your mother without replacing her.”
That sentence felt like permission I did not know I needed.
I cried harder.
Later Dad found me asleep against Emily’s shoulder.
He stood in the doorway.
Emily looked at him.
“She needs a therapist.”
“I know.”
“Not another candidate.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He looked ashamed.
“Yes.”
Then he carried me to bed.
I woke briefly in his arms.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t make Emily leave.”
He looked toward the hallway.
“She gets to decide.”
The right answer.
I fell asleep.
The next morning, Emily moved to a hotel.
Not fired.
Not vanished.
Her choice.
She texted me before breakfast.
Still here. Just not in the staff wing.
I smiled.
Then Mrs. Doyle entered with another problem.
One of the three remaining women had been in Mom’s art room overnight.
Nothing stolen.
But one drawer had been forced open.
The same drawer where Mrs. Doyle found Emily’s letter.
Security cameras showed a woman entering at 1:17 a.m.
Sophia Langley.
And when Dad asked why, Sophia said she had been looking for material.
“For what?”
He asked.
Her answer:
“A book.”
Three cars left by noon.
Only Camille Whitmore and Beatrice Cole remained.
May you like
And suddenly the month was becoming less about which woman I would choose—
and more about which adults could survive being asked who they really were.
