Emily's POV
I stood frozen in the garden, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. The twilight had deepened around us, casting Victor's face in shadows, but I had seen it. That moment. That impossible, breathtaking moment when his body had tried to obey a command it shouldn't have been able to receive.
He'd tried to stand.
It had been involuntary, reflexive, a violent spasm of effort that lasted barely a second. But I had seen the strain in his torso. His legs hadn't responded, not really, but something had happened. Something that made my mind race with possibilities I was afraid to voice.
What if the paralysis wasn't as absolute as everyone believed? What if, with the right therapy, the right approach, the right motivation...
"Stop looking at me like that." Victor's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts, sharp and cold. His face had gone carefully blank, the mask slamming back into place so fast it made my chest ache.
"Like what?" I managed, though my voice came out barely above a whisper.
"Like I'm some broken thing you can fix." His hands gripped the wheelchair arms. "Like what just happened means something. It doesn't. It was nothing. A muscle spasm. The neurologist explained it years ago, random nerve firing that means absolutely nothing."
But his voice carried an edge of desperation that betrayed him. He was trying to convince himself as much as me.
"Victor..."
"I don't want to hear it, Emily." He spun the wheelchair away from me, facing the fountain. "Whatever you think you saw, whatever hope you're building in that relentlessly optimistic mind of yours, let it go. I've been examined by the best doctors in the world. The damage to my spine is permanent. There is no therapy, no medication, no miracle cure."
I took a step closer, my hands clasped tightly in front of me to keep them from shaking. "What if they were wrong?"
"They're not wrong."
"But what if..."
"They're. Not. Wrong." Each word was bitten off, sharp enough to draw blood. "Do you think I haven't hoped? Do you think I haven't spent the last five years praying for some sign, some indication that I might walk again? That I might be whole again?"
His voice cracked on the last word, and the raw pain in it made tears spring to my eyes.
"I'm not asking you to hope," I said softly. "I'm just asking you to consider..."
"There's nothing to consider." He turned back to face me, and his expression was so cold it made me shiver. "This conversation is over. We have more important matters to discuss."
The abrupt shift in topic felt like a sudden snap, but I saw the wall slamming down between us. This was Victor retreating, protecting himself the only way he knew how, by focusing on business, on control, on anything except the vulnerability he'd just displayed.
"What matters?" I asked, wrapping my arms around myself against the evening chill.
"We're hosting a dinner party." His voice had returned to that crisp, tone I never liked. "Next Friday. Key board members and their spouses. Robert suggested it....a more intimate setting to celebrate the company's renewed confidence. A way to seal this achievement."
My stomach dropped. "A dinner party? Here?"
"Where else would we host it?" One eyebrow arched. "This is our home, Emily. At least, that's what the world believes. And after the success of the gala, it's time to reinforce that image. Show them that we're not just a pretty picture for the cameras, but a real couple with a real life together."
"Victor, I've never hosted a dinner party in my life. I don't know the first thing about..."
"Then you'll learn." He wheeled himself closer, his eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that made my breath catch. "You've proven yourself more capable than I expected. The gala was a triumph. This will be no different."
"The gala had professionals handling everything. This is..." I gestured helplessly at the mansion looming behind us. "This is your home. Your world. What if I mess it up?"
"You won't." The absolute certainty in his voice should have been reassuring, but instead it felt like pressure settling on my shoulders. "You'll choose a menu, oversee the preparations, play hostess with the same grace you showed at the gala. It's not complicated, Emily. Jenkins will help with whatever you need."
"When?" The word came out strangled.
"Next Friday. That gives you a week to prepare." He paused, and something flickered across his face...something that might have been guilt or might have been satisfaction, I couldn't tell. "You can choose the time that's most convenient for you. At least you've earned that much."
The casual acknowledgment felt like another reminder of the transactional nature of our relationship. I'd performed well at the gala, so now I was being rewarded with more responsibility, more pressure, more chances to fail.
"Fine," I said. "I'll do it. I'll host your dinner party and play the perfect wife and make sure your board members leave convinced that we're the happiest couple in the world."
"Good." He turned his wheelchair toward the mansion. "Jenkins will have the guest list and dietary restrictions available for you tomorrow morning. The rest is up to you."
He started to leave, then paused, his back still to me.
"Emily?"
"Yes?"
"What you saw tonight..." His shoulders tensed. "It changes nothing. Do you understand? Nothing."
Before I could respond, he was gone, the motor of his wheelchair humming softly as he disappeared into the mansion, leaving me alone in the darkening garden with my racing thoughts and the impossible hope I couldn't quite put out.
The week that followed was filled with preparation that consumed every waking moment.
True to his word, Jenkins had brought a folder to me the next morning containing everything I needed, the guest list, detailed dietary restrictions, wine pairing suggestions, and even a sample menu from a previous dinner party Sharon had hosted six years ago.
I stared at Sharon's elegant handwriting, her notes about which guests preferred which dishes, and felt the familiar weight of comparison settling over me. How was I supposed to follow in the footsteps of a woman who'd been born into this world, who'd understood its unspoken rules instinctively?
"Mrs. Hawthorne?"
I looked up to find Jenkins standing in the doorway, his expression kind and encouraging.
"I thought you might need some assistance with the menu," he said, moving into the room. "Planning a dinner party of this magnitude can be... overwhelming, especially for someone new to it."
Relief flooded through me. "Jenkins, I would be so grateful for your help. I have no idea where to even start."
"Then we'll start at the beginning." He settled into the chair across from me in my room, pulling out a notebook. "First, let's discuss the overall tone you want to set. Formal or intimate? Traditional or modern?"
We spent the next two hours going over every detail. Jenkins was patient and knowledgeable, offering suggestions without making me feel incompetent. We settled on a menu that was elegant but not pretentious: a first course of seared scallops with citrus butter, a second course of herb-crusted lamb with roasted vegetables, and a dessert of chocolate soufflé with raspberry coulis.
"The lamb will need to be perfectly seasoned," Jenkins noted, making a mark in his notebook. "I'll work with the chef personally to ensure everything is executed flawlessly."
"What about wine?" I asked, feeling completely out of my depth.
"Leave that to me as well. I know Mr. Hawthorne's cellar intimately, and I can select pairings that will complement each course beautifully."
By the time we finished planning, I felt less terrified. Jenkins had a way of making everything seem manageable, breaking down the overwhelming task into smaller, achievable steps.
"You're going to do wonderfully, Mrs. Hawthorne," he said as he stood to leave. "Mr. Hawthorne is fortunate to have you."
The kindness in his voice made my throat tight. "Thank you, Jenkins. For everything."
The remaining days were a whirlwind. I worked with the housekeeping staff to prepare the dining room, choosing linens and centerpieces, polishing silver until it gleamed.
Victor remained distant throughout, taking his meals in his study, communicating through Jenkins or brief, impersonal emails. I told myself it was better this way, easier to focus on the dinner party without the distraction of his presence, without the memory of that kiss or that moment in the garden.
But late at night, alone in my room, I couldn't stop thinking about what I'd seen. The desperate strain in his body, the way he'd looked at his legs with something like shocked hope before the mask slammed down.
What if the doctors had been wrong? What if Victor's paralysis was as much psychological as physical.
I had no way to prove it, no medical expertise to back up my instincts. But I couldn't shake the feeling that Victor was trapped not by his wheelchair, but by his own certainty that he would never escape it.
Friday arrived with breathtaking speed.
I spent the entire day overseeing final preparations, checking and rechecking every detail until even the patient housekeeping staff started to look tired.
The dining room looked perfect, elegant without being os showy, the table set with expensive crystal and china.
"The first course is ready for final tasting," Jenkins announced at six o'clock, just an hour before the guests were scheduled to arrive.
I followed him to the kitchen, where the chef had prepared a sample plate of the seared scallops. I took a bite, and relief flooded through me. Perfect. The scallops were tender and flavorful, the citrus butter bright without being overpowering.
"It's wonderful," I told the chef, who beamed with pride.
"And the lamb?" I asked Jenkins.
"Being prepared now. I'll bring you a sample as soon as it's ready."
I nodded, already mentally moving on to the next item on my checklist. I needed to change into my dress, fix my makeup, make sure Lily was settled with dinner in her room before the guests arrived...
"Mrs. Hawthorne?" One of the housekeepers appeared in the doorway. "Mr. Hawthorne is asking for you in his study."
My stomach clenched, but I nodded and made my way down the hall.
I found Victor dressed impeccably in a dark suit, his silver-threaded hair perfectly combed, looking every inch the powerful executive. He glanced up as I entered, his eyes taking in my casual clothes with a slight frown.
"You need to get ready," he said. "The guests will be arriving in less than an hour."
"I know. I just wanted to make sure everything was perfect first."
"Is it?" The question was sharp, demanding.
"Yes. The dining room looks beautiful, the menu is finalized, the wine has been selected..."
"Good." He wheeled himself closer, studying my face. "You look exhausted."
"I'm fine."
"Emily." His voice slightly softened. "This dinner party is important, but not at the cost of your health. I need you functioning tonight, not collapsing from stress."
The concern in his tone caught me off guard. "I said I'm fine, Victor. I can handle this."
"I know you can." He held my gaze for a long moment. "That's not what I'm questioning."
Before I could figure out what he meant, he turned away. "Go get ready. Jenkins will handle any last-minute issues."
I left his study feeling unsettled, Victor's unexpected concern lingering in my mind as I walked to my room.
Thirty minutes later, I stood in front of my mirror, barely recognizing the woman staring back at me. I'd chosen a red sequence off shoulder dress that hugged my curves before falling in soft folds to just below my knee. My hair was swept up in an elegant chignon, and I'd applied makeup with a slightly heavier hand than usual, enough to look polished and confident.
"You can do this," I whispered to my reflection.
The doorbell chimed at precisely seven o'clock.
I opened my room door to find Victor already positioned in the foyer, looking calm and controlled. His eyes swept over me as I approached, and something flickered in their depths before he masked it.
"You look beautiful," he said quietly.
"Thank you." I moved to stand beside his wheelchair, and his hand immediately found mine, our fingers interlocking in a gesture that had become second nature.
Jenkins opened the door to reveal Robert Graf and his wife, Helen...a warm woman in her late fourties with laugh lines around her eyes.
"Victor! Emily!" Robert's booming voice filled the foyer as he clasped Victor's free hand. "Thank you for having us. Helen has been looking forward to this all week."
"The pleasure is ours," I said, finding my voice and my smile. "Please, come in. Can I offer you a drink?"
The next thirty minutes passed in a blur of arrivals and small talk. The board members and their spouses were gracious and friendly, complimenting the house, asking about Lily, making me feel almost like I belonged.
When Jenkins announced that dinner was served, I felt a flutter of nervous excitement. This was it. The moment where all my preparation would either pay off or fall apart spectacularly.
We moved into the dining room, and I heard the collective intake of breath as the guests took in the scene. The table glowed with candlelight, the crystal sparkled, the flower arrangements I'd agonized over looked elegant and understated.
"Emily, this is absolutely stunning," Helen Graf said, squeezing my arm. "You have exquisite taste."
Pride bloomed warm in my chest. Maybe I could do this after all.
The first course was served, and conversation flowed easily around the table. The scallops were perfect, just as they'd been during the tasting. Guests praised the delicate flavors, the presentation, the wine pairing.
"This is exceptional, Emily," Robert said, raising his glass to me. "You're a natural hostess."
I felt Victor's hand find mine under the table, squeezing gently. When I glanced at him, he was smiling...a real smile, touched with what looked like pride.
For one perfect moment, I let myself relax. This was going well. Everything was going to be fine.
Then Jenkins emerged from the kitchen carrying the first plate of the second course.
The herb-crusted lamb looked perfect, the presentation flawless. My mouth watered just looking at it. Jenkins set the plates before each guest with his characteristic grace, and I watched as forks were lifted, as the first bites were taken.
And then I saw it.
Amy Russell's face contorted slightly, her eyebrows drawing together. Across the table, David Foster reached immediately for his water glass, taking a long drink. One by one, I watched the same reaction ripple around the table...lips pressing together, uncomfortable glances exchanged, water glasses emptied.
My stomach dropped like a stone.
No. No, no, no.
"Emily?" Helen Graf's voice was gentle but strained. "Is everything... alright?"
My fork trembled as I lifted it. The first bite hit my tongue...salt, overwhelming, inedible
The room temperature dropped ten degrees. Or maybe that was just my blood, turning to slush in my veins. I had tasted this. I had stood in the kitchen and tasted the lamb before I'd left it to Jenkins so I could get ready, and it had been perfect. Perfect.
"I'm so sorry," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper. "I don't... this isn't... I tasted this earlier, and it was perfect. I don't understand what happened."
Victor set down his fork with carefully, but I could see the fury building behind his neutral expression. His jaw was clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping, and his hands gripped the edge of the table hard enough that his knuckles went pale.
"Jenkins." The single word carried enough ice to freeze the entire room.
Jenkins appeared in the doorway, his face carefully composed, but I saw the flicker of concern in his eyes as he took in the scene.
"Remove the second course," Victor ordered, his voice dangerously quiet. "All of it. Immediately."
"Of course, sir." Jenkins moved swiftly, gathering plates with the help of two other staff members who'd appeared behind him.
The silence at the table was deafening. I wanted to disappear, to sink through the floor and never resurface. This was my responsibility. My failure. I had tasted that lamb, had approved it, and somehow between the kitchen and the table, it had been ruined.
But who would do that? Who would deliberately sabotage...
"Please accept my sincerest apologies," Victor said, his voice carrying to every corner of the room. "There has clearly been a catastrophic failure in the kitchen. We will, of course, move directly to dessert, which I assure you will be flawless."
"Victor, please," Robert said kindly. "These things happen. Don't worry about it."
"It shouldn't have happened." Victor's eyes found mine, and the fury in them made my breath catch. "Not in my home. Not at a dinner party my wife planned so meticulously."
The emphasis on "my wife" felt like an accusation. Your failure. Your responsibility.
Tears burned behind my eyes, but I blinked them back furiously.
"I'm so sorry," I said again, my voice stronger this time. "I take full responsibility for this. The menu, the preparation, all of it was my job, and clearly I failed to ensure proper quality control."
"Emily, darling, don't be so hard on yourself," Helen said gently. "Mistakes happen, even in the best kitchens."
But I could see it in their eyes, all of them. The uncomfortable sympathy. The second-guessing.
The dessert was flawless, the chocolate soufflés rising perfectly, the raspberry coulis bright and not too sweet. Conversation gradually resumed, though it never quite recovered its earlier ease. The guests were gracious, making efforts to move past the disaster, but the damage had been done.
When the last guest finally left, when the door closed behind Robert and Helen with their sympathetic smiles and reassuring pats on my arm, I stood in the foyer feeling like I'd been hollowed out.
Victor wheeled himself to face me, and the cold fury in his eyes made me take an involuntary step backward.
"My study," he said quietly. "Now."