Chapter 94
Richard's POV
"Listen to me carefully. I need you to make a choice."
My heart sank. I already knew what was coming next.
"If you had to choose between your mother and Laura, would you really pick her?" Margaret's eyes searched my face desperately. "Tell me you won't abandon the woman who gave birth to you, raised you, loved you unconditionally for 28 years."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Damn it. How had things gotten to this point? How had I let the situation spiral so far out of control?
"Mom, please don't make me—"
"She hates me, Richard. Laura hates me so much she wants me dead." Margaret's voice trembled with emotion. "She's turning your grandmother against me, making me look like the villain in my own home. Is this what you want? To let your mother die of a broken heart?"
"I've been working late every night just to avoid coming home," I admitted, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "The tension in this house... it's suffocating."
Margaret's eyes brightened with hope. "Then you feel it too. This marriage is destroying our family."
I walked to the window, staring out at the city lights below. When had everything become so complicated? There was a time when coming home to Laura felt like sanctuary. Now it felt like walking into a war zone.
"She can't even discipline Emma properly," Margaret continued pressing. "She's not the ideal wife you thought she was. She's a ruthless woman who will betray you sooner or later!"
I closed my eyes, feeling the weight of her words pressing down on me. Grace's image flashed in my mind—Grace, who would have found a way to make everyone happy.
Why did I let her go?
---
Back at the Harrison estate, I walked through the front door feeling like I was carrying the weight of the world.
I went upstairs to check on Emma, hoping to find some sense of normalcy, something to remind me why I was working so hard to keep this family together.
I found her in her room, playing with that damn toy gun again. Before I could speak, she turned and pulled the trigger. The plastic bullet hit me square in the forehead.
"Emma!" I snapped, rubbing the spot where it hit. "How many times have I told you not to point that thing at people!"
She giggled, completely unrepentant. "It's just a toy, Daddy. It doesn't hurt."
Grace's voice echoed in my memory: "Children need strict discipline, Richard. Sometimes being firm is the only way they learn respect."
I looked at my daughter—really looked at her—and saw my own reflection. The same stubbornness, the same refusal to follow rules. Worse, I also saw Laura's influence: the casual disregard for authority, the assumption that charm could get her out of any trouble.
"Give me the gun, Emma."
"No!" She clutched it to her chest. "It's mine!"
"I said give it to me. Now."
Something in my tone must have gotten through to her because her defiant smile wavered. Slowly, reluctantly, she handed over the toy.
"You need to learn some discipline," I said firmly, taking her small hand in mine. "This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you."
The first slap across her palm made her gasp. The second made her cry. By the third, she was sobbing.
"Mommy!" Emma screamed. "Mommy, help me!"
The door burst open and Laura rushed in, her face white with shock. She took one look at Emma's tear-streaked face and my raised hand, then threw herself between us.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" she demanded, pulling Emma against her chest. "You're hitting her?"
"She needs discipline," I said coldly. "She's become a spoiled brat because you refuse to set any boundaries."
"She's six years old, Richard! She was playing with a toy!"
"The kind who doesn't want her daughter growing up thinking she can do whatever she wants without consequences," I shot back.
Emma was still sobbing against Laura's shoulder, her little body shaking. Seeing her tears should have made me feel guilty, but instead it only made me angrier.
"Look what you've done," Laura said softly, stroking Emma's hair. "Look how you've terrified her."
I turned to leave, unable to stand the accusation in her eyes. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. None of this was how it was supposed to be.
---
"We need to talk," Laura said later, blocking my path as I tried to leave the house.
"I don't have time for this right now."
"Make time." She grabbed my arm, forcing me to face her. "What happened today? You've never laid a hand on Emma before."
I looked at her—really looked at her—and for a moment I saw the woman I'd fallen in love with all those years ago. Beautiful, passionate, fierce in protecting our daughter. But I also saw everything that was wrong with our situation: the secrecy, the lies, the impossible balancing act I'd been trying to maintain.
"Emma is out of control because you've spoiled her," I said finally. "My mother fell ill because you defied her orders. Everything in this house is falling apart, and it's all because of you."
Laura's face went pale. "How can you say that? How can you stand there and blame everything on me when you're the one who—"
"Who what? Who tried to give our daughter a stable family? Who tried to make this all work?"
"Who lied to everyone! Who made me live like a dirty secret while you played house with another woman!"
The words hung between us like a slap.
"That's over," I said quietly.
"Is it?" Laura's eyes searched my face. "Because sometimes I look at you and I see a stranger. A man who resents my existence, who wishes I would disappear so you could go back to your perfect fake marriage."
She was right. The thought hit me like a punch to the gut. Part of me did resent her—for being complicated, for making demands, for not being as manageable as Grace had been.
I turned to leave.
"If you walk out that door tonight," Laura said, her voice shaking, "I'm taking Emma and leaving. I'll go to your father."
The threat hung in the air between us. I could see she meant it—the determination in her eyes, the set of her jaw. If she went to my father, everything would collapse.
"Fine," I said finally. "I'll stay."
But even as I said it, I knew something between us had broken. Something that might never be repaired.
I ended up sleeping on the couch that night, staring at the ceiling and listening to the sounds of the house around me. My head was pounding—the same migraine that had been plaguing me for weeks, getting worse every day.
Grace used to massage my temples when I had headaches, I thought, before I realized what I was thinking.
"Grace," I whispered into the darkness, the name feeling like a prayer.