Margaret rang the bell, and the door swung open almost at once.
“I’m so glad you came,” Lydia said, attempting to mask the nervous tremor in her voice.
“Hello, dear,” Margaret replied in a measured tone, brushing her daughter-in-law’s cheek lightly with her fingertips. “And where is our little princess?”
“In her room. She’s… packing,” Lydia answered quietly.
“Packing again?” Margaret asked as she slipped off her shoes and stepped inside.
The sight that greeted her made her pause. The familiar living room had been transformed into a field of disorder—half-filled boxes stacked against the walls, toys scattered across the floor, small dresses draped over chairs as if the house itself had given up resisting the upheaval.
“Two weeks,” Lydia said dully, taking a book from the shelf and placing it into a box with mechanical resignation.
Margaret crossed the room, removed the book from the box, and returned it firmly to its place. “Let’s slow down,” she said calmly but with unmistakable authority. “Push these boxes into a corner for now. I haven’t spoken to my son yet. His so-called business trips have always had a way of stretching indefinitely.”
Lydia let out a strained, uncertain sound, her gaze darting between the chaos and her mother-in-law’s composed face.
“And where is my sunshine?” Margaret called out warmly. “Ellie!”
A small figure burst from the bedroom, curls bouncing. “Grandma!” Ellie squealed, launching herself forward.
“Oh, you precious thing… my little star, my amber treasure,” Margaret murmured, enveloping the child in a tight embrace.
“Grandma, grandma, grandma,” Ellie chanted happily, burrowing into her.
“How about we go to the park?” Margaret suggested, lifting her carefully. “We’ll show the autumn leaves what a talented young artist you are.”
Lydia hesitated, her eyes drifting again to the boxes. She said nothing, but the question in her expression was unmistakable.
“Until the end of the week,” Margaret said gently, though her tone left no room for debate. “Give me that much time.”
Lydia exhaled, relief softening her tense shoulders. “All right.” She moved to get her coat, uncertainty still clinging to her movements, but now accompanied by a fragile thread of hope.
A few days later, golden autumn light streamed through the tall windows of an upscale restaurant, bathing the white tablecloths in a warm glow as Margaret stepped inside. Elegant as ever, she immediately spotted Ryan seated at a table near the window. Across from him sat a young woman—beautiful, carefully styled, and visibly on edge.
Margaret approached and took her seat without haste.
“Ryan,” she began quietly, folding her gloves on the table. “I had expected a private conversation. Care to explain why… this person is present?”
“Mom, this is Sophie. My fiancée,” Ryan replied, a faint crease forming between his brows.
“How touching,” Margaret answered coolly. “My invitation, however, was addressed to you. Not to showcase temporary enthusiasms.”
Sophie flushed, clearly sensing the chill beneath the polished words.
“Perhaps I should leave?” she offered softly.
“No,” Ryan said sharply, placing a possessive hand on her shoulder. Then, meeting his mother’s eyes, he added with defiance, “I don’t keep secrets from Sophie. She’ll know everything sooner or later.”
“I see. Very well, she may stay. It will simply allow you to appreciate the full charm of your decision more efficiently,” Margaret replied, letting her gaze travel over Sophie as though assessing a decorative item of questionable value.
Sophie’s lashes fluttered. The color drained from her face.
“My son,” Margaret continued, adjusting her pearl necklace with deliberate precision, “we are here to discuss the apartment. More specifically, your ambitious attempt to remove Lydia from it.”
“That’s settled,” Ryan said, leaning back in his chair with forced nonchalance. The tension in his jaw betrayed him. “There’s nothing to discuss.”
“You’re mistaken, darling,” Margaret answered evenly. “A matter is settled when all parties agree. I do not.”
“I need that apartment. I’m marrying Sophie, and we’re going to live there,” he insisted, his voice rising.
“No. You are not. And I’ll explain why.” She turned slightly toward Sophie, her tone taking on a deceptively sweet edge. “My dear, you may want to powder your nose—or cover your ears. You might hear something that disrupts your… innocent delight.”
“Sit down,” Ryan ordered Sophie, squeezing her shoulder more firmly than necessary.
“I merely offered the young lady a courtesy,” Margaret said mildly. “Consideration for delicate nerves.”
“Lydia is moving out,” Ryan pressed on. “I’ve already told her.”
“Allow me to remind you,” Margaret said, her voice hardening like tempered steel, “that the apartment in which Lydia currently resides with my granddaughter legally belongs to me. As does the one I occupy.”
“That’s just paperwork! A technicality!” Ryan snapped. “I transferred everything into your name because—”
“Because you preferred creative tax strategies,” Margaret cut in smoothly, tracing imaginary quotation marks in the air. “And that preference is precisely the root of your present difficulties. You purchased Lydia’s apartment, registered it under my name, and later reclaimed it when convenient. What you neglected to remember was the gift tax attached to that maneuver. A remarkably selective lapse of memory.”
“Stay out of my finances,” Ryan said sharply. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“It concerns me entirely,” she replied softly. “On paper, I am the sole founder of your two companies. That inconvenient paper you dismiss so easily when it stops serving you.”
Ryan blinked, genuine confusion flickering across his face. “Mom, that’s symbolic. Just a formality.”
“I reviewed the documentation,” Margaret continued. “Thoroughly. I compared declared income with actual turnover. The discrepancy, Ryan, is no less than twentyfold. Twenty times. That is not an accounting oversight. That is a scheme.”
“You went through the books?” His complexion turned ashen.
“As founder, I have unrestricted access. I can see where the money flows. The scale doesn’t shock me as much as the audacity—particularly your clumsy attempts to imitate my signature on payment authorizations.”
“That founder business is fic—”
Her palm struck the table, porcelain rattling sharply.
“Enough!” Her voice cracked like a whip. “Say ‘fiction’ one more time, and I will dismiss you from your position effective immediately. Do you understand? There is nothing imaginary about it.”
“What?” Ryan’s face flushed deep red, veins standing out along his neck. Beside him, Sophie recoiled, looking ready to disappear.
“My companies sustain your lifestyle,” Margaret went on coldly. “I know your real income. I also know the modest sum you allocate for Ellie’s support. My proposal is extremely simple.” She enunciated each word with surgical clarity. “You will immediately transfer full ownership of the apartment to Lydia through a proper gift agreement. Beginning next month, you will quadruple the child support payment—an amount consistent with your true earnings.”
“And if I refuse?” Ryan demanded through clenched teeth.
Margaret held his gaze without blinking. “If you refuse, then I will be forced to choose one of two very straightforward options.”