I hesitated, clutching the bouquet closer.
“I gave it to someone who needed it more.”
His eyes widened as if I’d confessed to a crime.
“A stranger on the street? You’re unbelievable.”
“Daniel,” I began carefully, “she was freezing. I couldn’t just—”
“You could have thought for once. This isn’t one of your charity cases, Anna. This is my mother.”
The words stung. Not just their cruelty, but the truth they revealed.
Somewhere along the way, Daniel had stopped seeing kindness as strength. He saw it as weakness. Something to hide. To apologize for.
I looked at him—really looked—and saw the frightened boy behind the expensive suit, the man who’d spent his life trying to please someone who never smiled.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “But if your mother can’t forgive me for being late because I helped someone, then maybe this dinner says more about her than about me.”
He flinched.
“Don’t say that, Anna. Please. Just let me do the talking tonight.”
The butler reappeared.
“Mrs. Huxley will see you now.”
The words carried the weight of a verdict.
We followed him through a corridor lined with portraits—stern men, elegant women, all painted with the same cold, watchful eyes. Each step I took echoed louder than the last. I felt like an intruder in a museum of judgment.
The dining room doors opened soundlessly.
It was like stepping into another century.
A chandelier glimmered above a long mahogany table set for three. The silverware gleamed. A fire burned low in the marble hearth, more for atmosphere than warmth.
And at the far end of the table sat her.
Margaret Huxley.
She was older than I’d imagined—late sixties, perhaps—but striking. Silver hair in an immaculate twist, posture ramrod straight, eyes a pale, piercing gray.
She looked carved from the same stone as the mansion itself.
Her gaze flicked from Daniel to me, assessing, calculating.
I expected cold disapproval, maybe a polite smile.
But what I saw made my stomach drop.
Recognition.
For a split second, her expression softened—so quickly I almost thought I imagined it.
But then she looked away, hiding something behind that perfect composure.
“Mother,” Daniel said, forcing cheerfulness, “this is Anna Walker.”
Mrs. Huxley nodded once.
“Miss Walker. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”
Her tone made a great deal sound like an indictment.
“Thank you for having me, Mrs. Huxley,” I said. “It’s an honor.”
My voice was steady, even though my hands weren’t.
We sat.
The butler poured wine, the kind that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
I reached for my napkin and froze.
There, resting across the back of Mrs. Huxley’s chair, was something I recognized instantly.
My scarf.
The same navy cashmere scarf I’d given to the woman outside the grocery store an hour earlier.
It couldn’t be.
My mind scrambled for logic.
Maybe she’d bought the same one. Maybe it was coincidence.
But no.
The frayed corner. The small snag in the weave where it had caught on my bracelet.
It was mine.
I must have gone pale, because Daniel frowned at me.
“Anna?”
“I’m fine,” I whispered, eyes still fixed on the scarf.
Mrs. Huxley noticed my stare.
Slowly, she adjusted the fabric around her shoulders, her lips curving in what almost looked like a smile.
“Chilly night,” she said casually. “Yes, it is.”
Dinner began in silence, punctuated only by the soft clink of silverware and the butler’s quiet footsteps. The food looked exquisite—roasted duck, delicate greens—but I couldn’t taste a thing.
Every sense was tangled in confusion.
Had she been the woman at the store?
The tremor in her hands, the same soft rasp in her voice—it all aligned.
And yet it was impossible.