Chapter 4
Not to our bedroom.
To the small guest room at the end of the hallway.
Because when I asked where she had been sleeping, she pointed toward it.
I opened the door.
Inside was a narrow bed, an old dresser, and a small lamp.
No television.
No comfortable furniture.
No sign that this was the home of a woman married to a multimillionaire.
I stared at the room.
“Emma... where are your things?”
She opened the dresser.
Inside were a few worn dresses, two pairs of jeans, and several faded shirts.
I recognized one sweater immediately.
She had worn it the winter we opened our first restaurant.
The elbows were almost transparent.
I picked it up.
“Why are you still wearing this?”
Emma looked away.
“Because it's comfortable.”
I gently folded it.
“Sweetheart.”
She sat on the edge of the bed.
And finally, everything came pouring out.
My mother had taken control of the household within months of my departure.
At first, the changes seemed small.
Emma was told not to make financial decisions.
Then her access to our joint household accounts stopped working.
When she questioned it, Margaret claimed the bank had made an error.
Jennifer began organizing parties without consulting her.
Michael moved into the west wing with his friends.
And eventually, my family started treating Emma as though she were an unwanted guest.
“They told me you were embarrassed by me,” Emma whispered.
I felt sick.
“What?”
She wiped her eyes.
“Your mother said you were meeting important investors overseas. She said I wasn't educated enough to be seen beside you anymore.”
“Emma—”
“She told me you wanted me to stay out of the public eye.”
I shook my head.
“No. Never.”
Emma continued.
“Then Jennifer showed me messages.”
My stomach dropped.
“What messages?”
“Screenshots. Supposedly from you.”
She opened an old phone and found them.
I read the first one.
Emma needs to understand her place. I can't have her embarrassing me.
The second was worse.
Keep her away from the business accounts. She's not capable of handling them.
I stared at the screen.
“I never wrote these.”
Emma looked up.
“You didn't?”
“Not one word.”
Tears spilled down her cheeks.
“They told me you didn't want to speak to me anymore.”
I closed my eyes.
For years, I had believed Emma was too busy to answer my calls.
My mother often said she was visiting relatives.