Don't Call Me Mrs. Hawthorne

Audrey sat frozen in her chair, her earlier sense of detached amusement evaporating in a heartbeat. The booming question from the man behind her replaced her smirk with a visceral dread. That deep-seated panic was rooted in a humiliating memory she had spent years trying to bury.

Five years ago, at the fragile age of sixteen, she had gathered every ounce of her teenage courage to confess her hidden feelings to Adrian. The adults of the Hawthorne family were away on a business trip, leaving the sprawling manor quiet. She had spent a full month practicing the speech in her head. Nervous and trembling, she walked up the grand staircase and approached what she thought was Adrian's bedroom. She stared at her shoes, breathing heavily, and knocked on the thick oak wood. When the door clicked open, she kept her eyes glued to the floorboards, too terrified to look the boy in the eye. Her face burned hot as she blurted out her confession, baring her heart and soul to the person standing in the threshold.

Then, a mature, amused voice floated down from above, casually informing her that Adrian’s bedroom was actually downstairs. Audrey snapped her head up in pure horror. She had knocked on the wrong door. Standing in the doorway was not Adrian, but Vance. He wore nothing but a low-slung white towel around his waist, water droplets trailing down his sculpted chest. He smelled faintly of fresh body wash. His dark eyes held a playful curve, mixed with a hint of confusion at the trembling teenager before him. The sheer embarrassment hit Audrey like a physical blow. She mumbled a frantic apology, spun on her heel, and sprinted down the hallway without a second glance. The shame had forced her to avoid Hawthorne Manor for months.

“Hey, wake up.”

Adrian nudged her arm sharply, dragging her back to the suffocating present.

Audrey immediately lowered her head, fixing her gaze on the porcelain dinner plate. “Hi, Uncle Vance.” She mumbled the greeting, keeping her voice barely audible.

Vance stepped past her chair, his imposing presence casting a long shadow over the table. He took his designated seat beside Alistair, shrugging off his tailored suit jacket and tossing it over the back of the chair. He began casually rolling up the sleeves of his black shirt, exposing his strong forearms.

Adrian leaned forward, offering a forced, over-eager smile. “Uncle Vance, we were just talking about you. It has been forever since you came back. We have all missed you.”

Vance waved a large hand in a dismissive, casual gesture. “Oh, really? Funny, I remember you were the one laughing the hardest when I left, Adrian.”

Adrian swallowed hard, his face flushing with awkwardness. “That was forever ago, Uncle Vance. Let us not bring it up now.”

Alistair watched the exchange with affection warming his weathered features. “No worries, Vance. You just got off a grueling international flight. No drinking for you tonight.”

Vance offered a sharp, noncommittal smile. He did not say a word in response. Instead, he reached for a crystal glass of amber liquor on the table and downed it in one smooth, unbroken motion. The ice clinked softly against the rim. He set the empty glass down, his calm, predatory gaze sweeping across the extravagant spread before settling squarely on the young man sitting across from him.

“Adrian, have you two gotten your marriage license yet? I came back specifically for your wedding.”

A jarring crash of breaking glass shattered the heavy tension in the dining room.

Giselle let out a startled gasp. Her delicate goblet had slipped from her trembling fingers, sending water and jagged crystal shards scattering across the polished marble floor. She dropped to her knees, her face pale as she reached out in a frantic rush to clean up the mess. A sharp hiss escaped her lips as the edge of a broken shard sliced deep into her index finger. Crimson blood welled up instantly, dripping onto the pristine white floor.

Adrian practically knocked his heavy wooden chair over in a blind panic. He darted around the table, dropping to his knees beside her. He grabbed her wrist, carefully cradling her bleeding hand against his chest.

“Why do you always get yourself hurt like this?” Adrian scolded her, his voice dripping with profound, sickening gentleness.

He stood up, pulling Giselle flush against his side. He wrapped his arm securely around her trembling shoulders, ignoring the darkening, disapproving expressions of the elders around the table.

“Grandpa, I am taking Giselle to get her hand bandaged,” Adrian declared boldly.

Without waiting for a response, he led the fragile-looking woman away from the banquet hall, leaving a stunned silence in their wake.

Audrey rolled her eyes inwardly at the pathetic theatrical display. A minor paper cut, and Adrian was acting like she needed emergency surgery. The deep awkwardness in the room was palpable. Edward frowned deeply, while Alistair’s jaw tightened in silent fury at the blatant disrespect.

Victoria scrambled to smooth over the profound embarrassment her son had just caused. She reached out and patted Audrey’s hand with a strained, gentle smile. “Drey, Giselle has always been frail since she was little. Adrian naturally looks out for her.”

Audrey did not respond. Her attention was drawn across the table. Vance slowly turned a rotating porcelain plate toward her. A delicate portion of steamed fish stopped right in front of her.

“Try the fish, Audrey. I remember you loved it when you were little.” Vance wore an unreadable, enigmatic smile, his low voice cutting through the lingering tension.

His offhand, elder-like tone made her squirm further in her velvet seat. The last thing she wanted was Vance reminiscing about her childhood. She kept her eyes glued to the table. “Thanks, Uncle Vance.”

The rest of the agonizing dinner dragged on. Adrian and Giselle failed to return after a significant amount of time, abandoning the family gathering altogether. Audrey placed her linen napkin on the table and stood up, seizing the opportunity to escape.

“Grandpa, it is getting late. I have an early court case tomorrow, so I will excuse myself now.” Audrey nodded respectfully to the head of the table.

Alistair sighed, his disappointment in Adrian evident. “Alright, work comes first. Wait, you did not drive today. My driver is off. Have Vance take you home in his car.”

Audrey waved her hands in frantic, polite protests. “No thanks, Grandpa. Uncle Vance has been drinking.”

Vance let out a low chuckle, standing up from his chair. “It is fine. I have a high-stakes international video meeting tonight, so I am leaving anyway. The driver can drop you off on the way.”

Audrey had no room left to argue. She walked out into the cool night air, making a beeline for the passenger side of the sleek black Maybach parked in the driveway. She pulled the handle, but it did not budge. The driver peered at her through the window and unapologetically locked her out of the front passenger seat. With a stiff, defeated posture, she opened the rear door and was forced into the intimate confines of the back seat, directly alongside Vance.

The heavy door slammed shut, sealing them inside. The faint, intoxicating scent of premium alcohol mixed with a crisp cedar cologne rolled off the man sitting inches away from her.

“Where to? The place you and Adrian share?” Vance asked. His voice was low, vibrating in the quiet luxury car.

Audrey paused. The wider family was still oblivious to their breakup. She gave a stiff nod and whispered, “Summit Garden.”

Vance’s expression instantly turned ice-cold. He shifted his gaze forward and ordered the driver, “Summit Garden. Go.”

The Maybach glided smoothly onto the desolate road. The tension inside the cabin became suffocating. The air felt too thin, too heavy to breathe. Audrey aggressively angled her body toward the tinted window, pressing her shoulder against the leather door panel to avoid catching even a glimpse of his face. She watched the blurry streetlights streak by in the darkness.

A low, resonant chuckle broke the heavy silence.

“Would you rather stare out the window than look at me just because you are scared?” Vance mocked her, the amusement evident in his tone.

Audrey flinched. She kept her face turned toward the glass. “No, it is not that.”

She whispered the defensive reply, refusing to engage further. She eventually leaned her heavy head against the cool glass. The exhausting emotional toll of the evening caught up with her, and she drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep against the window.

Much later, the car rolled to a gentle stop. Audrey blinked her eyes open, feeling disoriented. A heavy, warm cashmere blanket was draped securely over her shoulders. She rubbed her eyes and turned her head. Vance sat beside her, illuminated by the glowing screen of his laptop. He wore a wireless headset, his sharp features locked in intense concentration. He was in the middle of his high-stakes international video meeting, listening to someone speak rapidly in a foreign language.

Realizing she was home, Audrey quietly unbuckled her seatbelt. She folded the blanket softly, placing it on the empty space between them. She caught his eye, mouthed a silent, exaggerated thank you, and slipped out of the luxury vehicle into the cool night air.

Inside the car, a confused executive on the video feed paused. “Mr. Hawthorne, did you just hear a noise on your end?”

Vance typed a quick note on his keyboard, casually dismissing the rustling sound. “Yes, that was my nephew's wife. Let us get back to the quarterly projections.”

Audrey walked up the quiet, familiar pathway and unlocked the front door of the Summit Garden house. The lights were off. The massive space was dark and empty. She tossed her keys on the console table and sank into the plush living room couch. She stared up at the high ceiling. After five years away, Vance felt more like a dangerous mystery than ever. She could not read him, and she hated the profound lack of control he made her feel.

She let out a long breath and glanced at the wall clock. It was past nine. A sudden realization hit her like cold water. Her crucial case files and professional court clothes were still sitting at her own small, private apartment across town. She could not possibly show up to court tomorrow wearing the formal dress she had on now.

With a heavy sigh, she pushed herself off the couch, grabbed her leather purse, and headed straight back to the front door.

Martha, the live-in maid, stepped out of the kitchen hallway just as Audrey grabbed the door handle. The older woman paused, her eyes widening in visible surprise.

“Mrs. Hawthorne, are you heading out now?” Martha asked, wiping her hands on her apron.

Audrey paused in the doorway. She looked back at the empty, lifeless house that was supposed to be a marital home. A sense of quiet, profound liberation washed over her chest. She offered the housekeeper a faint, resolved smile.

“Don't call me Mrs. Hawthorne.”

She stepped out into the night and pulled the heavy door shut behind her. Soon enough, Adrian would be exorcised from her life for good.