Chapter 5: The First Lesson
Isabella's POV
I woke up with my face stuck to something.
Paper. A folder. One of Matthew's school reports—the one about some art award he'd won two years ago that nobody had bothered to attend.
The file slipped off the desk edge and hit the floor with a smack that made me jolt fully awake.
I don't know when I fell asleep.
Gray light was creeping through the windows. Early. Maybe six.
I rubbed my neck—stiff as hell—and pushed myself up from the desk. My eyes felt swollen. Everything hurt.
I stumbled to the door and pulled it open, already thinking about coffee, about washing my face, about—
I nearly tripped over Richard.
He was sitting on the floor. Back against the hallway wall, legs stretched out, suit jacket folded on his lap like a blanket.
His tie was hanging loose around his neck, and his eyes were bloodshot, but the second the door opened they snapped to me, sharp and alert.
"You slept out here." Not a question.
"You told me to leave the room." His voice was rough. "You didn't say I had to leave the hallway."
I stared at him.
This man.
I crouched down and flicked him on the forehead. Hard.
"Ow—"
"You're impossible." I grabbed his arm and hauled him up.
He came without resistance, and I shoved him toward the bedroom. "Bathroom. Now. You look like you've been living in a dumpster."
He didn't argue.
I sat on the little stool by the bathroom door with a mug of coffee and watched him shave.
"When did you last talk to Olivia?" I asked.
He paused mid-stroke, eyes flicking to me in the mirror. "Last Tuesday."
"What about?"
"She needed money."
I took a sip of coffee. "And you gave it to her."
"I always do."
"Of course you do. But if you dare try this again?" I set the mug down, and the clink of ceramic on tile sounded louder than it should have. "What about Matthew?"
"He emails when he needs art supplies."
I pressed my tongue against my teeth. Counted to three. "Where are they right now?"
"Olivia's in Paris. Exchange program. She's supposed to fly back next Tuesday." He set the razor down and reached for a towel.
"Matthew's in Boston. An art club. He'll be back Sunday night."
I took a breath.
I grabbed his hand—the one I'd bandaged last night—and pulled him out of the bathroom.
We’d just stepped out of the bathroom when there was a knock on the bedroom door.
"Come in," Richard called.
The door opened.
A man stepped in—older, maybe late fifties, impeccable posture.
He looked like a butler, but I didn’t recognize him.
He must have been hired sometime over these past fourteen years.
"Sir. Miss Olivia is calling." He held out the tablet. "She seems... urgent."
Richard took it. Glanced at me.
I nodded.
He answered.
The screen lit up, and there she was.
Olivia.
My baby girl.
Except she wasn't a baby anymore. She was sixteen. Brown hair just like mine—big eyes, a face that was all angles and pout.
She didn't even say hello.
"Daddy, I need you to raise Jason's transfer limit. Like, today. Eight hundred thousand. My US account."
You got to be fucking kidding me. Eight hundred thousand? Is she serious?
She said it fast. Casual. Like she was asking him to pick up milk.
And then she was already moving to hang up.
I shot him a cold glance.
"Olivia." Richard caught the message. "What's it for?"
She blinked. "What?"
"The money. What do you need it for?"
I watched her face. Watched the flicker of surprise, the quick calculation behind her eyes.
"Shopping," she said smoothly. "There's this Chanel thing this week, and if I don't move fast—"
I tilted my head.
She was lying.
Richard felt me shift beside him. His voice went cold. "Olivia. Don't."
Silence on the other end.
Then: "It's for Ethan." Her voice dropped. Defensive. "His dad owes people money, okay? It's getting bad. I just want to help him."
"Is he your boyfriend?"
"No." Fast. Too fast. "He doesn't even know I'm doing this. It's my decision."
Richard's face didn't move. "Request denied."
He ended the call.
The screen went black.
I took the tablet from him and set it on the nightstand.
"You know why she didn't bother making up a better excuse?" I said. My voice was calm. Flat. "Because she's never had to. You never ask. She just says 'I need money' and you hand it over."
He didn't answer.
"She thinks money is air. That it's just... there. Always. No questions, no limits, no consequences." I turned to face him fully. "That's not raising her, Ricky. That's giving up."
"Bella, but you said you’d spend a fortune on our daughter."
I jabbed him hard in the ribs.
"I meant spending money to raise her into a spiritually fulfilled girl."
I closed my eyes. Breathed.
"Forget it, I’m ignoring you. I need to get myself together and look my best as a mom."
Later that noon, I was in the kitchen—trying to figure out the espresso machine, which was way more complicated than it needed to be.
Owen—the butler who’d come to inform us of daughter’s phone call—his phone rang—when I heard him answer.
"Ms. Caldwell." His voice was perfectly polite. Perfectly neutral. "Is there something I can assist you with?"
A pause.
"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss the household's private matters. If you need to reach Mr. Winston, I suggest contacting his office directly."
Another pause. Shorter.
"Of course. Have a lovely day."
He hung up. Slipped the phone back into his pocket.
I looked up from the espresso machine. "Who's Caldwell?"
"Margot Caldwell, Mr. Winston's cousin." Owen's expression didn't change. "She's been... involved with the children over the years."
Something in the way he said involved made my stomach tighten.
"Involved how?"
"She’d often come to keep Miss Olivia and Master Matthew company when Mr. Winston was away." He paused. "She kept asking if Mr. Winston was back, eager to update him on the children."
I bet she had.
She might’ve known there was a new woman on the estate.
Because the next morning, Margot showed up.
I heard voices downstairs and I pulled on one of Richard's old Columbia hoodies and went to see what the hell was going on.
She was standing in the entryway. Chanel suit, perfectly styled hair, holding a gift bag like it was a passport.
"I brought these for Matthew," she was saying. "I know he's coming back Sunday, so I thought I'd drop them off early—"
She looked up.
Saw me.
Her smile froze.
I came down the stairs slowly. No shoes. Hair in a messy ponytail. Face mask still on because I'd been in the middle of my morning routine.
I looked like I'd just rolled out of bed.
Her eyes went from my face to my body to the oversized hoodie that very clearly belonged to a man, and her grip on the gift bag tightened until her knuckles went white.
I smiled. "Oh. We have a visitor."
I looked at Owen. "Is Ricky still asleep?"
"I believe so, ma'am."
"Good. Let him rest. He's been working too hard." I turned back to Margot, still smiling. "I'm Isabella. You must be Ms. Caldwell. Owen's mentioned you."
Margot's face went through about five different colors.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Nothing came out.
I kept smiling.
Owen, behind her, didn't move. Didn't blink.
But I swear I saw the corner of his mouth twitch.
