GRANDMOTHER’S FIFTEEN-YEAR GIFT

A week later, my father summoned a family dinner at the Ashworth estate in Kensington, something that rarely happened outside of holidays.

The dining room glittered under a crystal chandelier, the butler poured red wine into each glass, and Julian sat across from me, tapping away at his phone, occasionally smirking to himself.

“Your father has made a decision,” Richard Ashworth began, setting down his knife and fork with the decisive motion of a man used to giving orders.

“Cordelia, you’ll be joining the group’s internal accounting department, starting next month.”

I looked up, a flicker of hope passing through me.

“I’d be glad to contribute,” I said.

“What’s the position? What’s the starting salary?”

My father’s brow creased slightly, as though my question were faintly ridiculous.

“Salary?” He gave a thin laugh.

“You’re the daughter of the chairman, Cordelia. This isn’t employment. It’s an apprenticeship, a family member’s duty, so that later you’ll understand the work your brother carries.”

“No salary,” I repeated, forcing myself to stay calm.

“While Julian is paid a Vice President’s salary despite never having filed a single quarterly financial report on time.”

Julian’s head snapped up from his phone, his face flushing, but he said nothing, only glanced at my father, waiting for him to speak on his behalf.

“That’s a different matter,” my father said sharply.

“Julian is the heir. You only need to learn, to know your place, and in time your father will sort things out.”

I set my napkin down, my hand trembling slightly, but my voice held steady.

“I have an interview next week, at an auditing firm in Canary Wharf. I want to build my own career, Father. I can’t keep working for nothing forever.”

The table fell silent.

My mother gripped my hand tightly beneath the table, her eyes pleading with me to say no more, but it was already too late.

My father laid both hands on the table, leaning forward slightly, his voice dropping to something colder than a shout.

“You’re refusing me.”

“I’m not refusing this family,” I answered.

“I’m only refusing to work for free.”

“You will regret saying this, Cordelia.” He stood, folding his napkin with the precision of a man ending a board meeting.

“Do you think anyone out there will welcome someone who doesn’t know gratitude toward her own family?”

He left the dining room without another word, leaving me sitting there, my heart pounding, not yet understanding the full weight behind his last sentence.

I would understand, only three weeks later.