Chapter 1
Margaret stood against the closed kitchen doors with two of my bodyguards between her and the children.
“You want my daughter in the kitchen,” I said through clenched teeth, “and I want you in a nursing home.”
Her face changed.
Not because she believed I was about to have her dragged into one.
Because for the first time in decades, somebody had spoken to her as though being the oldest Moretti woman did not make her untouchable.
Emma stood behind me holding Laura’s hand.
Three years old.
Eyes wet.
Dinner gone.
Chair still lying on its side several feet away.
Margaret straightened her pearls.
“This is what happens when you let sentiment replace blood.”
The ballroom went completely silent.
I looked at her.
“Say it again.”
Laura whispered, “Dad.”
I raised one hand.
Not at her.
To reassure her.
Margaret lifted her chin.
“She is adopted.”
Emma’s fingers tightened around Laura’s.
I saw it.
So did David.
My sixteen-year-old grandson looked at Margaret with something close to hatred.
I stepped closer.
“She is my daughter’s child.”
“By choice.”
“Yes.”
“That is precisely the problem.”
There.
Not one bad dinner.
Not one cruel outburst.
Philosophy.
I looked around the room.
Several older relatives would not meet my eyes.
Interesting.
“How many of you knew Margaret believed Emma shouldn’t sit at this table?”
No one spoke.
Then David did.
“I did.”
Laura turned sharply.
“What?”
His face went pale.
“Aunt Margaret told me months ago.”
Margaret snapped his name.
David looked at her.
Then at me.
“She said Emma would eventually take my place.”
My jaw tightened.
“What place?”
He swallowed.
“Yours.”
That changed the room.
Emma being adopted was not the real argument.
Succession was.
I looked at Margaret again.
She had not kicked a three-year-old’s chair away because she cared where children ate.
She had been making a public statement.
Who counted.
Who did not.
May you like
Who belonged close to me.
And who she believed should inherit everything when I was gone.
