Chapter 6 - The Whispers of Newport
By Tuesday morning, the story of the Rosewood Estate wedding had completely upended the social hierarchy of Rhode Island.
It wasn't just in the local papers; it was front-page news across New England. Headlines like BRIDAL BLUNDER: REAL ESTATE HEIR JILTS BRIDE AFTER EIGHT-YEAR-OLD EXPOSES CHEATING SCANDAL dominated digital feeds and morning talk shows.
Emma and I were sitting at our small kitchen table eating oatmeal when my phone began vibrating incessantly against the laminate countertop. Text messages from former colleagues, distant relatives I hadn't spoken to in a decade, and local reporters flooded my screen.
“Hannah, is it true Daniel Hayes offered you a VP position?” “Oh my god, your daughter is a local legend! Can she come to my daughter’s birthday party?” “Eleanor Morgan has locked herself in her mansion and refuses to answer the door.”
I muted the phone and tossed it onto the couch.
"Mom," Emma said, swinging her legs from her chair, her silver ballet flats clicking softly against the floor. "Are we rich now?"
"We're not rich, sweetheart," I said with a smile, walking over to brush a stray lock of brown hair behind her ear. "We're just... secure. Your college fund is officially covered, and we don't have to eat cereal for dinner on the twentieth of the month anymore."
"And Aunt Rachel?" Emma asked, her small brow furrowing slightly. "Will she be mad forever?"
"Aunt Rachel," I said carefully, looking out the apartment window toward the distant sparkle of the Newport harbor, "is going to have to learn how the real world works without a trust fund or a wealthy fiancé. And that's going to take her a very long time."
Later that morning, I walked into the gleaming, glass-and-steel monolith of the Sterling Building in downtown Providence.
Gone was the discount emerald wrap dress. Instead, I wore a tailored navy blazer, crisp white trousers, and sensible heels—the uniform of a woman who didn't need to fake her station in life.
When I stepped out of the private elevator onto the forty-fifth floor, Arthur Sterling Senior was waiting by the reception desk. The older man looked up, sized me up in two seconds flat, and gave a slow, approving nod.
"Morning, Ms. Morgan," the patriarch said, his voice echoing off the marble floors. "Daniel is in his office reviewing the municipal grant proposals. He tells me you start today."
May you like
"I do," I replied, meeting his gaze with a steady smile. "Provided the coffee machine in the breakroom is up to standard."
Arthur let out a booming laugh that shook the glass partitions. "It's imported Italian espresso, young lady. We don't settle for cheap approximations in this firm."
