Chapter 6: Uninvited Guest and a Declaration of War

Isabella's POV

Margot recovered faster than I expected.

She blinked twice, reset her expression into something that was probably meant to look composed, and then turned to Owen like I hadn't just introduced myself. "I'm sorry—who exactly is this woman?"

Owen's face stayed perfectly neutral. "That would be Mr. Winston's private matter, Ms. Caldwell."

I watched the flicker of irritation cross her face.

"Ms. Caldwell," I kept my voice light, tilting my head like I was genuinely puzzled. "Can I call you Margot? You look incredible, by the way. Are you Richard's mother? You're so well put together, I wasn't sure—"

"His mother." The words came out like I'd bitten her. "I am his cousin. Margot Caldwell."

"Oh!" I pressed a hand to my chest. "His cousin. Of course. I'm so sorry, I just—you seemed so at home here, I assumed—" I let the sentence hang, and watched her jaw go tight.

Her eyes snagged on my collar.

I'd been adjusting it absently when I came downstairs, and I hadn't thought twice about it—but the bruising from Richard's grip two nights ago had faded to a yellowish smudge at the base of my throat.

Not dramatic. Just visible enough that when Margot's gaze caught it, something shifted behind her eyes.

Her face went a very specific shade of pale.

"You and Richard do—" She stopped. Started again. "What is your relationship with him?"

I smiled. "I live here."

"That's not what I asked."

"He's been very good to me." I said it simply, warmly, the way you'd say it about someone you trusted completely.

She hadn't expected that.

She stared at me with jealousy, while I kept my eyes on him and smiled.

"I've been part of this family for fourteen years," she said finally.

The warmth in her voice had dried up entirely. "I helped raise those children when their father was—occupied. I think that gives me a certain standing here that you might not fully appreciate."

"Oh, absolutely." I nodded. "That sounds exhausting, honestly. Especially as a—" I turned to Owen. "What's the exact relation again? On Richard's mother's side?"

Owen's expression didn't move. "Ms. Caldwell is from the maternal branch, ma'am. Quite a distant connection."

"Ah." I turned back to Margot with the most sympathetic look I could manufacture.

"So you came all this way, all these years, for children who aren't really your family, out of the goodness of your heart."

I paused. "Did Richard compensate you for your time? That seems only fair."

The color that flooded her face was something between fury and humiliation.

"I don't need to be compensated," she said, each word bitten off clean. "I did it because I care about this family."

"Of course you do." I kept my voice gentle. "You're a very devoted—guest."

She put the gift bag down on the console table with a sharp click. "Let me be direct with you. I don't know what game you're running, but I've watched women like you try to get their hooks into Richard before."

"It doesn't work! He sees through it eventually, and when he does, I will personally make sure you leave with nothing. So I'd suggest you pack your things and walk out that door before this gets unpleasant."

I let her finish. I let the silence sit for exactly three seconds.

"Mm." I glanced at Owen again. "Owen, has she ever actually been given a key to this house?"

"No, ma'am."

"Has she ever been listed as an emergency contact for the children?"

"No, ma'am."

"Has she ever had any formal role here—legal, financial, anything documented?"

Owen's pause was very small and very deliberate. "No, ma'am."

I looked back at Margot. "Fourteen years," I said. "And you're still a visitor."

She went rigid.

"You told this house isn't for just anyone." I took a step toward her, not aggressive, just steady. "You're right. It isn't."

Before she could answer, footsteps came down the stairs.

Margot heard them and turned fast, her whole posture shifting—shoulders back, chin up, the performance switching on like a light.

By the time Richard reached the bottom step, she had a concerned smile ready and everything.

"Richard, thank God." She stepped forward. "I came to drop off some things for Matthew, and I—I think we need to talk. There's a woman in your house, and the children will be home soon, and I'm worried that—"

"Owen." Richard's voice was flat. He walked to where I was standing and put his hand on my shoulder, unhurried, like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Send Ms. Caldwell out."

Margot blinked. "I—what? Richard, I'm trying to tell you—"

"I heard you."

She laughed, a short, disbelieving sound. "You can't be serious."

"Ricky." I turned to him, letting my voice go soft, just a little wounded. "She told me I didn't belong here. That I should leave before things got unpleasant."

Richard's expression didn't change. But something in his eyes did.

He looked at Margot, and the temperature in the room dropped about ten degrees. "From this point forward, Isabella decides who comes into this house and who doesn't. That includes you."

He looked at Owen. "Please see her out. If she comes back without an invitation, call security."

Owen moved toward Margot with the practiced, courteous efficiency of someone who had removed difficult guests before. "Ms. Caldwell. This way, please."

Margot didn't move for a full three seconds.

She was staring at me—not at Richard, at me—and the expression on her face had moved past anger into something rawer. Something that looked almost like fear.

Then Owen touched her elbow, gently but firmly, and she went.

The entryway was quiet.

I turned to Richard. "How many women tried to get their hooks into you?"

He had the decency to look slightly uncomfortable. "Bella—"

"Because she said she'd done this before. Watched women try. Which means she's been standing guard over you like some kind of self-appointed—"

I stopped. Breathed. "You let her do that. You let her walk in and out of this house for fourteen years, around my children, and you never once thought to ask what she was actually doing here?"

"I thought she cared about them."

"She was using them." I kept my voice low, controlled. "She was using your kids to stay close to you, Ricky. That's not care. That's strategy."

"I—"

"I know you know. I need you to actually feel how bad it was." I jabbed him once in the chest, not hard, just enough.

"She had access to Matthew and Olivia for fourteen years. Whatever they think about themselves, about this family, about whether they're loved—some of that came from her. Do you understand that?"

He looked at me, and I could see him actually processing it, not just absorbing the words but sitting with the weight of them.

"Yes," he said. "I understand."

I exhaled.

"Good." I turned toward the hallway. "Now come with me. We need to figure out what we're going to do before Olivia gets home Tuesday, because I am not walking into that conversation without a plan."

We were halfway to the study when the phone on the hall console rang.

Richard glanced at the display. Something moved across his face.

"Is that Alex?" I asked.

"Yes."

I nodded at the phone.

He picked it up. "Alex."

The silence on the other end lasted about two seconds.

Then my son's voice came through, clipped and cold and completely controlled. "Put her on."

Richard went still. "What?"

"The woman." A pause, and the word.

"Put her on the phone. I have something to say to her."