Chapter 30
The door creaked open, and before Dawson could even step inside, Amabel sprang to her feet from the bed, her arms crossed over her chest. She strode forward, her eyes fixed intently on him. “You didn't come home last night? Where did you sleep? Where are you coming from?” The questions tumbled out in rapid succession.
She’d been waiting, coiled with tension, since the sound of his car had echoed through the driveway. As soon as he'd stepped in, she was ready to confront him.
Dawson brushed past her concerns, walking straight to the bed. He sank onto the edge, his movements weary, and began to remove his wristwatch. As he set it down on the nightstand, Amabel closed in, her anger palpable.
“I'm talking to you,” she said, her voice even, careful not to let her tone get shrill. “You didn't come home, and you didn't even bother to call. I called you over and over, but you didn't pick up until your phone died, or maybe you switched it off.”
Dawson’s response was direct, his words unapologetic. “You're right. I turned off my phone because your calls were incessant, and I needed to focus on why I wasn't home in the first place,”
He was unbothered by her annoyance, but as she didn’t back down, he continued. “To answer your question, I spent the night at the office. I didn’t plan it, but after the meeting yesterday and knowing what I’d be walking into here, I decided to stay away. I need some peace, and coming home yesterday wouldn’t have given me that.”
Amabel’s arms unfolded, her hands relaxing at her sides. “But—” she began, her tone measured and cool. She’d had a speech prepared, but his words had thrown her off balance. Yet, he didn’t allow her to continue.
“I’m tired,” he said, his voice weary. “Is breakfast ready?”
Before she could respond, he added, “tell them to set the table early. I’ve only come home to eat and get dressed; I’m leaving soon.”
Amabel let out a soft sigh and took a step forward, her movements calm and deliberate. She sat down beside him on the bed, her voice taking on a gentle tone. “Dear, do you—” Her hand reached out, stretching toward his, but Dawson was quick to stand up, evading her touch.
“It’s futile if you’re trying to convince me not to appoint Cressida as the new director,” he declared firmly. “My decision is made. The rest depends on her success or failure.”
Amabel rose to her feet, her voice calm and measured. “But, dear, don’t you think you should reconsider?”
Dawson shot her a sidelong glance. “Why?” He asked curtly, and before she could respond, he pressed on. “Is this so Felix can get the share?”
Amabel hastily shook her head, her hands waving in denial. “No, no… that’s not it at all,” her voice was insistent. “I’m just sharing my thoughts, offering advice as your wife. Nothing more,”
“I want the organization to thrive, and I’m concerned Cressida might not be the best fit,” she said, her voice coolly calculated to convey concern for the organization’s interests. However, Dawson wasn’t fooled.
“Thanks for your concern,” he cut in, his tone dismissive. He knew her underlying motive and didn’t want to allow her to sway him. Dealing with her opposition was preferable to facing another attack from Tamsin.
“You don’t need to worry about anything,” he continued. “Tamsin and Fraser have signed a guarantee, taking full responsibility if anything goes awry under Cressida’s leadership. The organization will be protected, regardless of the outcome,”
Amabel attempted to interject, but Dawson wouldn’t permit it. His gaze locked onto hers, his eyes stern. “Let’s consider this the final discussion on the matter of succession,” he warned.
With that, he turned toward the restroom, his movements decisive. “The organization and its shares are mine to manage, and I’ve had enough of your counsel. I don’t want more of it.”
Amabel’s lips compressed into a tight line, her unspoken words simmering beneath the surface. She knew better than to provoke Dawson, especially when her plans for Felix hung in the balance.
As Dawson reached the restroom door, he turned back, his expression furrowed in confusion. “Wait, isn’t Cressida your daughter?” He asked, his eyes narrowing. “You’ve always wanted her to get along with me. Why are you opposed now that she’s finally on good terms?”
His questions caught Amabel off guard, and she found herself unable to respond. Dawson’s words stung, leaving her feeling exposed and embarrassed. She dropped her gaze, unable to meet his scrutiny.
“Did things fall apart between you two?” Dawson pressed on, his tone piercing. “Is she no longer dancing to your tune? Has she—”
Before Dawson could finish speaking, a sudden coughing fit overtook him. He covered his mouth with his right hand and clutched his stomach with his left, doubling over in discomfort.
“Are you okay?” Amabel asked, her voice laced with genuine concern as she hurried toward him. But before she could reach him, Dawson swiftly opened the restroom door and stumbled inside, shutting it behind him.
Amabel lunged for the door handle, trying to turn it, her worry intensifying as his coughs grew louder and more labored.
“Are you okay?!” She called out, pounding on the door with her right fist while simultaneously trying to open it with her left hand. “What’s wrong? Is everything all right?”
Dawson’s silence was unnerving, punctuated only by the sound of his worsening coughs, which seemed to get more desperate by the second.
“Open the door!” Amabel’s voice rose as she continued to bang and try to turn the handle.
The coughing fit subsided, and she paused, expecting him to speak. When he didn’t, she tried again. “Sweetheart, should I call for—”
“I'm fine.” Dawson cut in, his voice firm but strained.
Amabel’s face contorted in concern and confusion. She stood frozen for a moment, her eyes fixed on the door. Then, a thought occurred to her, and she leaned in, pressing her ear against the door. She strained to listen, but all she could hear was the sound of running water gushing from the faucet.
“From now on, you're not allowed in the kitchen,” Amabel snapped at Cressida as she entered the room. “I’ve assigned the maid to prepare our meals.”
Cressida’s eyes landed on Amabel, and a sly smile spread across her face. “Why? Afraid I’ll poison your food?” She taunted.
“You-” Amabel tried to respond, but Cressida cut her off with a scoff.
“Or maybe you want to take care of me and Alaric? You’ve realized we’re no longer useful to you, so you’re planning to get rid of us. Poison, perhaps?”
Amabel’s eyes widened in surprise, taken aback by Cressida’s bold accusation.
“I—” She tried to defend herself, but Cressida talked over her.
Cressida had anticipated Amabel’s confrontation and had deliberately sent the maids on an errand, ensuring she could face Amabel alone and unafraid.
“I think you should calm down, ma’am,” Cressida said with a hint of amusement. “We’re both married into this family, so we’re on the same footing. You may have been here longer, but neither of us is a biological member of this family—marriage brought us here,”
She chuckled, her tone taking on a slightly mocking edge. “Your role in this family is defined by your marriage to the patriarch, while my marriage to his son defines mine. And let’s be real, you didn’t give birth to my husband, and he’s never acknowledged you as his mother. That makes you not my mother-in-law,”
Cressida’s gaze was steady, her words dripping with confidence. “So, unless I choose to acknowledge your authority, you’re not superior to me. I’m a wife in this household, just like you, and you have no right to dictate where I can or can’t go—except, of course, for your bedroom, which I’ll respectfully avoid,”
With her back still turned, Cressida grabbed a spoon and stirred the stew simmering on the stovetop. “None of us brought a kitchen with us when we married into this family,” she said, her voice steady and calm. “So, you don’t have any more claim to this kitchen than I do,”
She stopped stirring, covered the stew, and gently placed the spoon on a plate, all without glancing back at Amabel. Yet, she knew Amabel was still there, frozen in place, since she hadn’t heard her footsteps or the door.
“I’ve prepared what my husband wants to eat this morning,” Cressida continued. “There’s enough for everyone, but if you don’t want it, you’re free to make something else.”
Amabel finally spoke up, her voice icy. “I won't eat what you’ve prepared. Never.”
Cressida shrugged, turning to face Amabel with a nonchalant expression. “Your problem, not mine,” she said. “And just so we’re clear, I’ve sent the maids on an errand, so they won’t be around to cook for you. If you want to eat, you’ll have to start from scratch—set the fire, fetch the pot, and cook it yourself,”
Her gaze locked onto Amabel’s, a hint of challenge in her voice. “And even if you want to do that, it won’t be now. I’m in charge now, and you’re not welcome until I’m done. Got it?”
Amabel’s fists clenched, her teeth grinding together in frustration. Cressida’s constant jabs had gotten under her skin, but she bit back her anger, aware that Dawson’s presence meant she had to keep her cool.
She locked eyes with Cressida for a tense moment, then spun around and stormed out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind her. At the entrance, she stood still, her chest heaving as she struggled to calm her racing breath.
Her eyes blazed with fury, her jaw clenched in rage. In a silent scream, she seethed, ‘I’ve had enough! I need to teach her a lesson!”