GRANDMOTHER’S FIFTEEN-YEAR GIFT
A small bell rang out, signalling the start of the evening’s formal introduction.
Sinclair stepped up to the podium, his voice carrying across the now-silent hall.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this year, Lande Holdings is honoured to introduce a special new member to our senior leadership team. Not only is she the most outstanding financial analyst we have hired in three years, she is also one of the company’s founding shareholders, who has quietly stood alongside us for fifteen years, in accordance with the final wishes of her late grandmother.”
He turned, extending a hand to invite me forward.
“Please welcome, Miss Cordelia Ashworth.”
A murmur rippled through the entire hall.
I stepped forward, standing beside Sinclair, feeling hundreds of eyes turn toward me, including my father’s, wide with shock from across the room.
He gave a strained laugh, turning to the people beside him.
“Must be the same surname, that’s all,” he said, his tone forced.
“Ashworth is a fairly common name.”
But when a nearby guest, a banker who knew both families, turned and asked outright, “Richard, isn’t that your daughter?”, my father could no longer avoid it.
He came over, pulling me by the sleeve to a secluded corner, his voice low but sharp.
“What game are you playing, Cordelia? Do you think you can just walk in here and pretend nothing happened?”
“I’m not pretending anything,” I answered, keeping my voice steady despite my racing heart.
“I’m only standing where I belong.”
“You think they’ll believe someone once accused of theft?” He lowered his voice, but just loud enough for a few people nearby to hear, trying to plant the old seed of doubt once more.
“I was only protecting your reputation, Cordelia, don’t you understand that?”
At that moment, lawyer Whitfield, also present at the gala as an honoured guest of Lande Holdings, stepped forward, his voice clear and composed.
“Mr. Ashworth, I would advise you to be careful with your words. I am the solicitor overseeing Mrs. Beatrice Ashworth Whitmore’s trust, and I have complete documentation proving that the ‘theft’ accusation you have been spreading for nearly a year is entirely fabricated. There is no legal record, no police record, no internal record that has ever documented such an accusation.”
My father’s voice began to shake, and for the first time, I saw the familiar composure on his face begin to crack.
“This is a family matter, it has nothing to do with you,” he tried to salvage the moment, but the hand holding his wine glass was trembling visibly.
“A family matter,” Sinclair spoke up, his voice cold and certain, “becomes a public matter when you use it to sabotage the career of an innocent citizen, causing dozens of financial firms across London to reject an outstanding candidate over your slander.”
The banker standing nearby, his expression darkening, turned to murmur to a colleague, just loud enough for those around him to hear: “If he’s willing to do this to his own daughter, I’m not sure I still want to do business with Ashworth Maritime.”
My father stood frozen in the middle of the hall, his eyes darting around searching for an ally, but the familiar faces around him now held only wariness and contempt.
“That girl,” he blurted, his voice breaking in a moment of panic, “has never deserved the name Ashworth—”
He stopped mid-sentence, realizing he had spoken louder than intended, and the entire hall had heard it.
Julian stood not far off, his face pale, his hand gripping his champagne glass so tightly his knuckles had gone white.
He didn’t step forward to defend our father, nor did he step forward to stand beside me.
He only quietly retreated toward the door, his eyes scanning the room as though calculating who among the guests hadn’t yet witnessed this scene, who might still be a business ally of his own after tonight.
One of the young partners he often did business with, who had clapped him warmly on the shoulder only moments earlier, now turned away, pretending to be absorbed in his drink as Julian approached.
I realized, in that very moment, that Julian’s greatest fear wasn’t losing our father, it was losing the mask of “talented heir” he had never actually built for himself, a mask now dissolving along with our father’s reputation.
As for my father, his panic hadn’t finished unraveling.
He tried to regain his composure, straightening his tie, turning to the banker who had just spoken, forcing a smile.
“You misunderstand, sir, Cordelia and I only have a small family disagreement, it has nothing to do with Ashworth Maritime’s business capabilities.”
But his voice shook on the last word, and the hand holding his wine glass trembled so badly that a few drops of red wine spilled onto the white carpet beneath his feet.
Sinclair stepped closer, his voice retaining the same cold, calm quality of a man who had witnessed too many business deals collapse to feel the need to raise his voice.
“Mr. Ashworth, Lande Holdings has no intention of turning tonight into a trial,” he said, loud enough for those standing nearby to hear clearly.
“But I think everyone here deserves to know the truth, before they decide to sign any further contracts with you.”
The crowd around them had stopped their private conversations entirely, every eye now fixed on my father.
No one stepped forward to comfort him.
Not a single one of the dozens of business partners he had wined, shaken hands with, laughed alongside for years, came to stand beside him now.
My father stood there, alone in the middle of the crowded room, and for the first time in my life, I saw him look genuinely small.
No one in the hall spoke up to defend my father anymore.