Chapter 3
Emmett had spent two afternoons making the cobbler.
Not alone.
The kitchen staff helped with the oven, knives, and hot dishes, but Celina insisted he stir the filling, press the dough, and carry the plate himself.
She told everyone it was “important.”
I found the pastry chef, Helen, behind the service tent.
She looked furious.
“I thought it was sweet.”
“So did he.”
Her eyes filled.
“He kept asking if Ms. Lucille would smile.”
My jaw tightened.
“How many people knew she planned to reject it?”
Helen shook her head.
“I didn’t.”
“Who did?”
She looked toward the terrace.
“Celina came in this morning and told us not to remake anything if the plate fell.”
Fell.
Interesting word.
“What exactly did she say?”
Helen swallowed.
“She said the first offering might not survive.”
I looked back at Celina.
Premeditated.
Again.
Emmett had not even been allowed a replacement dish because failure needed to look final.
I returned to the terrace.
Lucille was seated again.
That annoyed me.
Not because chairs mattered.
Because she still believed the banquet belonged to her.
I stopped in front of her.
“Why Emmett?”
She looked almost amused.
“He’s your son.”
“That is biology.”
“That is succession.”
“No.”
I leaned forward.
“It’s a child carrying cobbler.”
Lucille frowned.
“You refuse to understand what people see when they look at him.”
I knew exactly what older Montaros saw.
Future.
Leverage.
Continuity.
Something to shape before he could resist.
“What did you want him to learn?”
“That Montaro respect is earned.”
“At three?”
“It starts early.”
Always.
People who love control love starting early.
I looked at Celina.
“And you?”
She folded her arms.
“He’s spoiled.”
Emmett heard that.
I saw his face change.
I turned immediately.
“Thomas.”
One of my guards knelt beside him.
“Take him to the fountain garden. Stay with him.”
Emmett grabbed my hand.
“Daddy, did I make it bad?”
That question stopped every thought in my head.
I crouched.
“No.”
“Then why she kick?”
Because adults were cruel.
Because family systems love symbols.
Because my cousin used his hope to stage humiliation.
None of that belonged in his head yet.
“Because Lucille made a bad choice.”
He thought.
“Not cobbler?”
“Not cobbler.”
He finally released my hand.
When he was gone, I stood.
Lucille stared at me.
“You’re shielding him from consequences again.”
“No.”
May you like
I looked around the terrace.
“I’m shielding him from adults who keep creating fake consequences so they can call themselves teachers.”
