Chapter 3 - The Golden Goose That Never Lay Eggs
"Oh, you're out of bed," Beatrice said, pausing mid-stride. She wore an immaculate cream-colored trench coat, her dyed blonde hair held in place by an invisible cloud of hairspray. Her cold blue eyes swept over me, taking in my casual leggings and oversized sweater with the familiar subtle disdain she had wielded since our first dinner.
"Just getting some water, Beatrice," I said, offering a faint, strained smile. "The nausea passed about an hour ago."
"Well, you look pale. Julian worries so much about you," she said, setting a decorative tin of tea on the kitchen counter. She casually wandered toward the dining table, her fingers trailing over the mahogany surface. "He’s such a dedicated provider. Few young men these days would buy an entire home for their bride outright. You are extraordinarily fortunate, Clara."
"I know I am," I replied evenly, leaning against the counter. "Julian reminds me constantly."
Beatrice chuckled, a hollow sound devoid of warmth. "As he should. Marriage is about gratitude, my dear. Particularly when two people come from... different walks of life. A woman needs to know her role."
She walked over to the tall windows, gazing out at the riverboats cruising past the bluff. "Speaking of families, Julian mentioned your father was thinking about retiring soon. Robert, isn't it? He’s been at that government facility for quite a while."
Here it was. The probe. The fishing line being cast into the water to see what bit.
"Yes, Dad’s been an engineer there for over thirty years," I said, keeping my tone flat, almost apologetic. "He talks about downsizing the old house in Brunswick and buying an aluminum fishing boat. He’s very simple."
Beatrice’s mouth twitched, a tiny flash of disappointment breaking through her aristocratic mask before she smoothed it over. "Just a fishing boat? Surely an engineer with three decades of government service has accumulated substantial pension assets? Perhaps patents? Real estate holdings?"
I looked down at the mug in my hands, allowing a small, nervous laugh to escape my lips. "Dad’s pension mostly went toward my mother’s medical care before she passed, Beatrice. He always told me that a quiet life with no debts was better than chasing fortune. We never really talked about money at home."
I could see the gears turning behind her eyes. In her mind, she was recalculating Julian’s timeline. If Robert Bennett was just a broken-down engineer with a modest pension and an old pickup truck, the long-term con was a dead end. There was no massive inheritance to bleed dry over a five-year marriage. There was only the condo.
"A pity," Beatrice murmured, her voice losing its sugary edge and turning brittle. "Ambition is what separates men from dreamers. Julian has always possessed ambition. It’s what makes him a Mercer."
"I admire how focused he is," I replied meekly.
"Yes. Well. Don't let your simple upbringing drag him backward, Clara," she said coldly, picking up her leather purse from the stool. "He has an image to maintain in this city. A wife should elevate her husband, not weigh him down with sentimental notions about fishing boats."
"I'll remember that, Beatrice."
"Drink the tea," she commanded, not bothering to embrace me as she walked toward the door. "Julian has a board meeting with his partners on Friday regarding the regional acquisitions. He needs you to be presentable for the celebratory dinner afterward. Don't embarrass him with that dowdy green dress you wore to the rehearsal."
The door slammed shut.
I stood in the silence of the modern kitchen, listening to the echo of her heels fade down the tiled hallway.
I pulled out my phone and dialed my father.
"Dad?"
"Caroline is at the house, Clara. We have everything we need," Robert Bennett said, his deep, resonant voice steady as bedrock. "Did Beatrice take the bait?"
"Hook, line, and sinker," I said, a genuine smile finally touching my lips. "She thinks you're broke, Dad. She thinks our entire family is living off a depleted federal pension."
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My father let out a low, rumbling laugh—the laugh of a man who held twenty-two proprietary aerospace design patents and whose trust funds were quietly managed by private wealth divisions in Boston.
"Good," Dad said quietly. "Let them strike first. Caroline has arranged the venue for Friday. When Julian moves, he won't be hitting a brick wall. He’ll be stepping into a vacuum."
