"Grandma," I whispered again, holding the phone close.
"My dear," her voice came warm and steady, like a blanket wrapped around my shivering heart. "How are you doing this morning? I thought I should call and check on you."
"I'm fine," I said quickly, too quickly.
There was a pause. My grandmother had always been sharp, always able to sense more than I wanted her to. "You don't sound fine, Rose. Your voice… it sounds heavy. Tell me, what's wrong?"
I bit my lip, staring out at the garden. "Nothing, really. Just tired, I guess."
She sighed softly, not pushing me, but not fooled either. "Well, tired or not, I would be very happy to see you. Why don't you come over and spend the weekend with me? It has been too long since we sat together."
Something in me cracked at those words. Her invitation was exactly what I needed. "I'd love that, Grandma. I'll come today."
Her voice lifted, joyful. "Ah, wonderful! You always know how to make me smile."
After we hung up, I stood for a long moment with the phone in my hand. For the first time since last night, I felt like I had something to look forward to.
I went back inside and headed straight to the kitchen.
The chef was already there, moving quietly around the counters. He looked up when he saw me. "Good morning, Madam Rose. What would you like for breakfast?"
"I'm good," I said with a small smile. "Actually, I wanted to bake some brownies for my grandmother. But I might need a little help finding things."
His brows lifted slightly, though he kept his face neutral. "Of course, Madam. I will bring out what you need."
As he gathered the ingredients, I thought about Maxwell. He had banned me from the kitchen years ago, saying I had no business there and insisting the chefs would handle everything. Truthfully, I had never been much of a cook. Still, being told I could not even try had stung.
When the chef set everything out, I thanked him and insisted I could take it from there. I wanted to do this for Grandma myself. Soon, the smell of cocoa and sugar filled the kitchen, and for a short while, I let myself feel useful, like I was creating something with my own hands.
But my focus slipped. My thoughts wandered. By the time I opened the oven, smoke was curling out. Half the brownies were charred at the edges, the tops blackened. My shoulders slumped. Maxwell had been right, cooking was not my strength.
Still, I managed to rescue a few softer pieces from the middle. I packed them carefully into a tin, determined not to waste my effort entirely.
Before heading to the garage, I went upstairs to our bedroom. The space was too large and too empty, but I pulled out a weekend bag and began folding in a few clothes, toiletries, and a sweater Grandma always said looked nice on me. Packing felt almost like an escape, like I was preparing to breathe again.
When I came back downstairs with my bag in one hand and the brownies in the other, I headed toward the garage.
Mr. Ben, our long-time butler, stood there as steady as ever. His eyes moved from my bag to the tin in my hand. "Madam Rose, shall I call a driver for you?"
"Yes, please," I said. "I'll be spending the weekend with my grandmother."
"As you should," he said with a nod. "She will be very glad to have you."
We shared a short rundown of the day's affairs while waiting, his humor softening the air as it always did. When the driver finally arrived, I felt lighter.
The drive was long. I leaned back in the seat, staring out at the blur of trees and roads, and my thoughts slipped into the past.
Grandma was not my biological grandmother. She was my stepfather's mother. The only light in a very dark home.
My stepfather had been a drunk, forever hung up on the memory of his late wife. He had remarried my mother, but his love never followed. He had daughters from his first marriage, and they were his treasures. I was never treated the same. My mother… she stayed. She endured. Sometimes she bore his blows, sometimes I did. I begged her to leave, but she never did.
When I was sixteen, my stepsisters stole his wristwatch and accused me of it. He had believed them instantly. That night, his rage nearly killed me. I fled through the night to Grandma's small trailer, shaking and bleeding.
She took me in without a second thought. She saw my bruises, held me, and told me I was safe. From then on, she became my true family.
My stepfather was furious that she had chosen me over him. Out of spite, he stopped sending her money. Even though he was a banker with plenty, he left his own mother struggling. She found work cleaning a library to survive.
I used to help her there, pushing brooms between the shelves. And somewhere in those aisles, I discovered books. They became my hiding place, my escape, my secret strength.
I blinked back tears when the driver's voice pulled me out of my memories. "Madam, we have arrived."
The elderly home stood quiet and modest, nothing fancy but filled with care.
As I stepped inside the reception, the first thing my eyes caught was Maxwell's face smiling down from a banner on the wall. His name printed boldly under it. Donor of the Year.
My stomach twisted, not with anger but with a strange ache. He had made large donations to this home, all because of Grandma. Everyone here loved him for it. And because of that, they loved seeing me too.
"Madam Rose," one of the nurses greeted warmly, hurrying over. "We are always so happy when you visit. Your husband has done so much for us."
I forced a smile. "Yes… he has."
And he had. Whatever else could be said about Maxwell, money had a way of opening doors, of smoothing rough places, of making life easier. He had always told me that money mattered, that it could buy stability, comfort, even respect. And looking at the banner, at the smiles of gratitude around me, I had to admit—he was right about that.
Still, what good was all the money in the world if it could not keep love alive?
I pushed the thought aside and focused on the present. "How is my grandmother today?" I asked.
"She is well," the nurse said with a smile. "She has been asking about you."
Relief washed through me. I thanked them and walked quickly down the hall.
When I opened the door to her room, Grandma sat in her chair, her face lighting up the moment she saw me.
"Grandma," I said softly, rushing into her arms.
She hugged me tight, her hands warm and steady, and for the first time in days, I let myself breathe fully again.