Chapter 4 - The Party Planned Around a Signature
On the morning of the tea party, I stood in front of the mirror and chose the pale-blue dress my mother had once said matched the color of my eyes when I was trying not to cry.
Its clean lines and ordinary silver earrings felt almost absurdly formal for what I intended to do.
I had slept less than four hours.
Every time I closed my eyes, I imagined my father's face when he learned his expected child had never existed.
I imagined him blaming me, and the possibility frightened me more than Vivienne's anger.
Then I remembered the signature line waiting on the documents Miles had prepared.
My fear could not be allowed to decide the future of our family.
When I reached the mansion shortly before noon, white tables stretched across the terrace beneath flowering trees.
Golden ribbons were tied around the chairs, and crystal cups caught the sunlight like small pieces of ice.
A florist was arranging garden roses in tall silver vases.
Sofia moved between the tables with a clipboard, giving instructions to servers while quietly inspecting the stability of the serving stands.
She looked up when I approached.
"You came," she said.
"I told you I would."
"She's already asked whether you can be seated at the far end."
I glanced toward the mansion.
"Did Dad agree?"
"He said you should sit wherever you feel comfortable."
For reasons I could not explain, that small sentence gave me hope.
Sofia lowered her voice.
"There's another thing."
She pointed with her pen toward a covered table near the garden entrance.
"Mr. Trent asked us to leave an empty place setting beside your father's chair after the speeches."
"For whom?"
"He said a document case would be delivered there."
A signature ceremony disguised as a family celebration seemed perfectly suited to Vivienne's instincts.
She loved to arrange moments when refusal would look cruel before an audience.
I crossed the terrace and saw my father standing under the pergola, straightening the cuff of his expensive black suit.
At forty-seven, he still carried himself with the physical assurance of a man who worked out every morning before most of his employees reached their desks.
His dark hair had only a few threads of gray at the temples.
When he saw me, his eyes softened.
"Avery," he said, opening his arms.
I stepped into his embrace and held on longer than usual.
He drew back and studied me.
"You look worried."
"I need to talk to you before the guests arrive."
He checked his watch.
"Can it wait until tonight?"
"No, Dad."
He sighed, not impatiently but with the exhaustion of someone who believed every family conversation was about to become a dispute.
"Is this about Vivienne?"
"It's about what Miles is asking you to sign."
He frowned.
"I haven't signed anything."
"I know."
"Then there's no emergency."
I wanted to tell him exactly what I had seen in the dressing room.
I opened my mouth, but Vivienne appeared at the top of the garden steps before the words came.
She wore the burgundy maternity dress, black heels, and a diamond necklace bright enough to command every eye in the courtyard.
Her large belly projected beneath the fitted fabric.
She rested one hand on it and smiled with the practiced tenderness that had made my father's friends call her glowing.
"There you are," she said to him.
"Our guests are arriving."
She kissed his cheek and examined me with a glance so brief that nobody else would have noticed the warning.
"Avery, dear, I'm delighted you decided not to make today difficult."
My father looked from one of us to the other.
"We were just talking about Miles's paperwork," I said.
Vivienne's fingers tightened against the cloth over her stomach.
"Not now," she replied.
"The baby has been moving all morning, and I can't handle stress."
My father immediately touched her shoulder.
"Then we'll deal with it another day."
"Miles said today was important," I reminded him.
She laughed softly.
"He said the paperwork could be completed if we were all feeling comfortable."
That was the entire trap expressed in one elegant sentence.
If my father refused, he would appear to distrust the future mother of his child.
If he signed, he could congratulate himself on generosity while surrendering authority he had not taken time to understand.
I watched Vivienne move into the sunlight and greet the earliest arrivals.
She accepted a tiny knitted blanket from one woman and kissed another's cheek while telling her how excited she was to meet her son.
My father stood beside her with the pride of a man who had been offered a second chance at a family.
I felt cruel for what I knew I was about to destroy.
But cruelty had begun long before I arrived with a question.
It began when Vivienne decided my father's grief could be used as leverage.
I walked to the kitchen entrance and found a server filling water pitchers.
I touched the outside of one glass jug to confirm the water was merely lukewarm after standing in the service room.
There was no reason anyone should be burned or injured by it.
I asked Sofia whether she would be nearby if the conversation became difficult.
"I won't leave the terrace," she promised.
"But be careful, Avery."
"I will."
I meant to give Vivienne one last opportunity to tell the truth while her guests still believed everything.
At half past two, I approached her beside the main tea table and asked whether we could speak privately.
She looked at the assembled audience and raised her voice just enough for the nearest people to hear.
"Are you going to accuse me of inventing my pregnancy again?"
Several guests turned toward us.
I had never made that accusation publicly, but she had just supplied it herself.
"You can still tell Dad," I answered.
Her smile disappeared.
"No one will believe you."
Across the lawn, Miles Trent raised his document case in a small, almost invisible signal to her.
I saw her glance toward it and then toward my father.
The arrangement was no longer simply a lie preserved by habit.
May you like
It had a deadline.
I reached for the pitcher.
