Chapter 3 - The Desperate Counterattack
The next morning, Tabitha didn't pack her bags and leave.
Instead, she launched a full-scale public relations war.
At eight in the morning, two delivery trucks pulled up the long driveway of Oakridge Estate, unloading hundreds of white roses—my late husband’s favorite flower. Following them was a famous high-society therapist from Manhattan, whom Tabitha had hired on an emergency retainer.
When I entered the morning room, Tabitha was already there, wearing an understated grey cashmere sweater, no makeup, and her hair pulled back into a humble, messy bun.
She looked small, fragile, and utterly contrite.
"Mrs. Harrington," she said, rising from her seat instantly. "Please... don't send me away. I haven't slept a wink."
The therapist stepped forward, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses. "Mrs. Harrington, I am Dr. Julian Thorne. Tabitha called me in a state of severe emotional collapse last night. She suffers from deep-seated childhood trauma related to domestic instability..."
I raised a single hand, stopping the doctor mid-sentence.
"Dr. Thorne," I said calmly. "Your hourly rate is twelve hundred dollars, which I assume Tabitha billed to my son’s supplementary credit card twenty minutes ago."
Dr. Thorne blinked, his professional composure faltering slightly.
"You may leave," I told him. "This is a private family matter, not an audition for a daytime drama."
"Mrs. Harrington, please!" Tabitha cried out, dropping to her knees on the Persian rug—a performance so dramatic it almost deserved an award. "I was terrified! When I saw a stranger in the house, my childhood trauma from my father’s arrest triggered a severe panic attack! I wasn't in my right mind! I swear to you on my mother's memory, I am not a cruel person!"
I walked over to the tea cart, poured myself a cup of Earl Grey, and took a measured sip before looking down at her.
"Your father’s arrest was six years ago, Tabitha," I said casually. "And according to federal prison logs, you haven't visited him once since he was sentenced."
Tabitha froze on the floor, her tear-streaked face instantly hardening.
"You investigated me?" she spat, the fragile facade dropping for a brief second.
"Of course I did," I replied. "You are trying to marry into my family. Did you really think I wouldn't check the credentials of the woman claiming to be a victim of circumstance?"
Robin entered the room through the French doors, holding a fresh stack of paper. His face was emotionless.
"Tabitha," Robin said quietly. "Get up."
She stood up slowly, smoothing down her cashmere sweater, her eyes darting between Robin and me like a trapped animal calculating its exit route.
"Robin, darling—"
"Here is a list of all the accounts you opened using my secondary business address," Robin said, handing her the papers. "Here is the cancellation notice for the wedding venue. And here is a formal notice of eviction from this property, effective at noon today."
Tabitha looked at the papers, then let out a low, bitter laugh.
"Eviction?" she sneered, stepping closer to Robin, her tears completely gone. "You think you can just throw me out after six months? We were engaged, Robin. I gave up my career in design for you. I gave you my time!"
"You didn't have a career in design, Tabitha," I reminded her. "You were an unpaid intern at an event firm who was fired for verbal abuse against the catering staff."
May you like
Tabitha’s eyes flashed with pure malice as she glared at me. "You old witch. You think you’ve won, don't you? You think you can just pull his strings forever."
She turned back to Robin, her voice dropping into a dangerous whisper. "If you break this engagement now, Robin, I will go to every tabloid in the state. I will tell them your mother uses her charitable foundation as a tax shelter. I will tell them you abused me behind closed doors. Let's see what happens to the Harrington Group’s stock price when the headlines hit tomorrow morning."
