Chapter 4 - Breakfast with Wolves
The sun rose over the Miller estate like a dull gray slab.
By six in the morning, I had washed the blood from my face, applied heavy industrial concealer over the bruise, and pulled my hair back into a sleek, severe bun that masked the swelling. I changed out of the ruined wedding dress into a modest, slate-gray cashmere sweater and dark trousers.
I unlocked the bedroom door and walked down the sweeping mahogany staircase.
The kitchen was already alive with the sounds of sizzling bacon and boiling coffee. Florence sat at the head of the breakfast nook, sipping black tea while Jonathan and his younger brother, Bradley, scrolled through their tablets. His father, Richard Miller, sat with the Wall Street Journal spread out across the table.
When I entered, nobody looked up.
"You're late," Florence said without glancing at me. "The biscuits need to go in the oven, and Richard likes his eggs over-easy. You should have been down here an hour ago."
I stopped at the edge of the kitchen island. "Good morning, Richard. Bradley."
Bradley, a twenty-four-year-old dropout who lived on Jonathan's payroll, smirked. "Look who decided to join the living. Did you finish the bucket, sister-in-law?"
Jonathan looked up then. His eyes flicked to my cheek, catching the subtle discoloration beneath the foundation. A flicker of tension passed through his jaw, but he said nothing. He didn't ask how I was. He didn't apologize.
"Sit down and pour my father some coffee, Charlotte," Jonathan said, his voice flat. "We have a big day ahead. Let's put last night behind us."
"Put it behind us?" I repeated softly.
Richard lowered his newspaper, revealing cold, gray eyes identical to his son's. "In this family, young lady, we don't hold grudges, and we don't air dirty laundry. You made a scene last night. Jonathan corrected you. It's done. Now serve the table."
I looked around the room. Three generations of arrogant, entitled men, enabled by a bitter matriarch who took pleasure in breaking other women. They thought I was trapped. They thought that because I had signed a marriage certificate yesterday, my dignity now belonged to them.
"I won't be serving breakfast today," I said, my voice smooth as silk.
Florence slammed her teacup down, tea slopping onto the saucer. "Excuse me? Jonathan, are you going to let her speak to your father like that?"
Jonathan stood up, pushing his chair back with a scrape. "Charlotte, don't test me this morning. I have the most important meeting of my career at noon. Vanguard's preliminary committee is reviewing the final covenants. I do not have the patience for your attitude."
"Then you should focus on your meeting, Jonathan," I said calmly. "Because I have a feeling you're going to need all the patience you can muster."
Before he could reach for my arm, his phone on the table began to buzz violently.
The screen flashed: *ARTHUR PENDLETON - CFO.*
Jonathan frowned, snatched the phone, and answered. "Arthur? I told you not to call until the eleven o'clock briefing."
There was a frantic voice on the other end, loud enough that even from across the island, I could hear the tinny edge of absolute panic.
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Jonathan’s face lost all its color. "What do you mean, they froze the escrow? What do you mean, the audit has been reopened?"
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