I opened it to find a woman in her 40s with perfectly styled blonde hair and the kind of aggressive confidence that comes from being born into money and privilege.
“Mrs. Patterson. I’m Catherine Ashworth, Vivien’s mother.”
Of course she was.
The family resemblance was unmistakable, from the calculating blue eyes to the way she held herself like someone accustomed to getting her way through sheer force of personality.
“Mrs. Ashworth,” I said politely, not inviting her in.
“This is unexpected.”
“May I come in?”
“I think we need to have a conversation.”
The phrasing wasn’t quite a question, more of an assumption that I would naturally comply with her wishes.
It was the same tone Viven used when she wanted something, that particular blend of entitlement and barely concealed threat that wealthy people seemed to learn in the cradle.
“Of course,” I said, stepping aside.
After all, I was curious to see what the matriarch of the Ashworth family wanted badly enough to show up unannounced at my modest suburban home.
She swept into my living room like she was conducting an inspection.
Her gaze cataloging everything from my furniture to my decorations with the kind of professional assessment that real estate agents perfected.
I could practically see her calculating the value of everything in sight and finding it disappointingly low.
“Coffee?”
I offered more from politeness than genuine hospitality.
“No thank you.”
“This shouldn’t take long.”
She settled into my best chair like she was doing me a favor by gracing it with her presence.
“I’ll get straight to the point, Mrs. Patterson.”
“Your relationship with Theodore Blackwood is causing problems for my family.”
“Is it?”
I settled across from her, genuinely curious about where this conversation was heading.
“How interesting.”
“Don’t play koi with me,” Catherine snapped, her mask of politeness slipping.
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