Chapter 8 - THE HEAD OF THE TABLE
We returned to the mansion just as the sun was beginning to rise over Lake Michigan, casting a golden light through the rain-streaked windows.
The wealthy guests had all fled. The police had come and gone, taking statements and securing the property.
The grand dining room, which just hours ago had been the scene of Vanessa’s cruel engagement dinner, was completely quiet.
I stood in the doorway, wearing a fresh, soft sweater and jeans that Margaret had found for me. My maid’s uniform was gone forever, thrown into the fireplace.
Vincent stood by the massive mahogany table.
He looked exhausted, but the heavy burden that had weighed on his shoulders for years seemed to have finally lifted.
He walked over to the shattered pieces of Margaret’s wooden box. He gently picked up the faded photograph of our mother holding me as a baby.
“I spent my whole life thinking she abandoned me,” Vincent said quietly. “But she was just trying to protect us both.”
“She loved you, Vincent,” Margaret said, stepping into the room. She was holding a tray with three steaming mugs of tea. “She never stopped watching you.”
Vincent smiled softly. He took the tray from Margaret and set it on the table.
Then, he turned to me.
He pulled out the chair at the absolute head of the table. The seat reserved for the master of the house.
He looked at me and gestured to the chair.
“Sit,” he said.
I hesitated. Old habits died hard. “Vincent, I can’t. That’s your chair.”
“Not anymore,” Vincent said, his voice thick with emotion. “The empire belongs to you, Emily. But more importantly, this family belongs to you. You don’t serve us anymore. You lead with me.”
Tears pricked my eyes. I walked slowly across the plush rug and sat down in the heavy, velvet-lined chair.
It felt strange, but it also felt... right.
Vincent pulled out the chair to my right and gestured for Margaret to sit.
“You saved our family, Margaret,” Vincent said, pressing a kiss to the old woman’s forehead. “You will never live in that drafty apartment again. This is your home now, for as long as you live.”
Margaret covered her mouth, weeping softly as she sat down in the seat of honor.
Finally, Vincent sat down in the chair to my left.
For the first time in twenty-eight years, the three of us sat together, not as boss, maid, and stranger, but as a family.
I looked at the silver bracelet with our mother’s initials resting on the table. Beside it was the child’s drawing, the pink ribbon, and the old rosary.
Objects that had kept our secrets, held our pain, and ultimately brought us back to each other.
I reached out and took Vincent’s large, scarred hand in mine.
He looked at me, a genuine, warm smile breaking across his handsome face.
“Welcome home, little sister,” he whispered.
I squeezed his hand, the morning light wrapping around us, and for the first time in my entire life, I knew exactly who I was.
May you like
I was Emily Moretti.
And I was exactly where I belonged.
