Chapter 4: Five Years Of Silence

The big iron gates of the Jones mansion swung open as our car got close. My chest tightened as we drove up the long, winding driveway with those huge old oak trees on both sides. God, I'd forgotten how massive the house was—three floors of bright white stone with those tall columns and wings that seemed to go on forever.

“Still takes your breath away, doesn't it, Miss Jones?” James said quietly, looking at me in the mirror.

I just nodded. I couldn't speak. The last time I saw this place, I was running away as fast as I could. Back then, it felt like a fancy prison full of rules and expectations. Now, coming back with nothing but one suitcase and a shattered heart, it looked like the only safe place left in the world.

As we pulled up front, I saw her through the big windows. Margaret Jones stood in the doorway with her silver hair perfect as always, even this early in the morning. She wore a cream suit that probably cost more than most people make in months. Even at seventy-two, she looked like she could run the world—back straight, chin up, every inch the tough businesswoman who'd built everything from nothing.

My mother.

James came around and opened my door. I stepped out on the familiar stone driveway. The morning air smelled like roses from the garden and a hint of ocean from way beyond the property. Everything looked exactly the same, as time had just stopped while I was gone.

“Emelda.”

My mother's voice cut across the courtyard, sharp and clear. She walked down the steps slowly, her heels clicking on the stone like a countdown. As she got closer, I could see the new lines around her eyes that hadn't been there five years ago. Time had left its mark on her face.

“Mother,” I whispered, suddenly feeling like a scared little kid again.

She looked surprised. When I had called her earlier to tell her I was coming home, all she said was, I will send James to pick you up. She probably didn't expect to see me in this state.

She stopped just a few feet away, her steel-gray eyes taking in everything about me. The plain jeans and wrinkled shirt I'd thrown on that morning. The tear stains I hadn't bothered to hide. The suitcase that held what was left of the life I thought I was building.

“Five years,” she said finally. Her voice was steady, but there was something deeper underneath—hurt, maybe, or disappointment. “Five years of silence. Five years of watching from far away while you threw away everything that was yours for a man who never deserved you.”

Her words hit me like slaps. I opened my mouth to defend myself, to explain, but nothing came out. What could I say? That she'd been right all along? That I'd been an idiot to leave everything for Allen?

“Look at you,” she continued, walking around me slowly like she was checking damaged goods. “My daughter, the one who should inherit the Jones empire, standing in rags on her own front steps because some gold-digging nobody decided she wasn't good enough for his new crowd.”

“Mother, please—”

“Please what?” Her voice got louder, the first crack in her calm mask. "Please pretend I didn't warn you this would happen? Please act like I didn't warn you not to abandon your life for a worthless man. 

I remember five years ago, we had the worst fight of our lives, screaming at each other right here in this courtyard. I accused her of being cold and heartless, of not understanding what real love looked like. She accused me of being naive and reckless, of risking everything our family had built for a man who would dump me the second it suited him.

“You were right,” I whispered now, the words ripping out of my throat like broken glass. “You were right about everything.”

Something changed in her face. The stern mask slipped away, and for a moment, I saw the mother who'd held me during nightmares, who'd taught me to ride horses and make deals and never settle for less than I deserved.

“Oh, my sweet girl,” she said softly, closing the space between us. “My brilliant, stubborn, foolish daughter.”

She pulled me into her arms, and I completely fell apart. All the strength I'd been holding on to just gave way. The sobs came harder than they had even last night—big, gasping cries that shook my whole body. She held me while I cried, one hand stroking my hair like she did when I was little.

“I loved him,” I choked out between sobs. “I really loved him, Mother.”

“I know you did,” she whispered. “That's what made it so hard to watch.”

“He threw me away like trash. In front of everyone. Like I never mattered at all.”

“Listen to me.” She pulled back to look at my face, her hands on my cheeks. “You are Emelda Jones. You are worth more than that pathetic little man could ever dream of being. What he lost is so huge he doesn't even understand it yet.”

She led me up the steps and into the house. The entrance hall was exactly like I remembered—marble floors so shiny you could see yourself, a crystal chandelier throwing rainbow light everywhere, a grand staircase that curved up like something from a fairy tale. The portraits of old Jones family members lined the walls, their painted eyes seeming to watch us walk by.

“Mrs. Howell?” my mother called, and our housekeeper appeared from the kitchen, her face lighting up when she saw me.

“Miss Emelda! You're home!” She hurried over with her arms wide. “Look how skinny you've gotten. We need to get some real food for you right now.”

“Hello, Mrs. Howell,” I managed, letting her hug me. She smelled like vanilla and cinnamon, exactly the same as always.

“I'll have lunch ready in an hour,” she said, already heading back to the kitchen. “Your favorite chicken soup and fresh bread. You need comfort food after…" She stopped, looking uncertainly at my mother.

“After her terrible experience,” Mother finished smoothly. “Thank you, Mrs. Howell.”

My mother led me up the familiar staircase, past the family portraits and tall windows that looked out over the gardens. We walked down the hallway toward my old room, passing closed doors full of childhood memories—the library where I'd learned to read financial reports at ten years old, the music room where I'd practiced piano, the sitting room where my mother had taught me how to negotiate.

She pushed open my bedroom door, and I gasped. Everything was exactly like I'd left it five years ago. My pale blue bedspread with silver stars. My desk where I'd done homework and dreamed about the future. The window seat where I'd spent hours reading and watching the ocean in the distance.

But there was something new.

On the bulletin board above my desk, next to old photos and school awards, were newspaper clippings. Dozens of them, all neatly cut out and pinned up in order by date. “Local Startup Shows Promise.” “Tech Company Gets Major Investment.” “Young CEO Named Rising Star.” And finally, from just last week: “Cater Enterprises Goes Public in Record-Breaking IPO.”

Allen's face smiled out from every article, his success laid out like a trophy collection.

“You were watching,” I said quietly, touching the edge of one of the clippings.

“I never stopped watching,” my mother admitted, sitting on my bed. “I had to know you were safe, even if you wouldn't talk to me. I had to know he was treating you right.”

“But these articles… they make it sound like he did everything himself. Like he was some kind of genius businessman.”

Mother's laugh was bitter. “Men like him are good at taking credit for other people's work. I've seen it a thousand times in business. They charm their way to the top, then rewrite the story to make themselves the hero.”

I sank into my desk chair, feeling overwhelmed. “I built that company with him. I worked day and night, gave up everything. And now the whole world thinks he did it alone.”

“The world thinks what he wants them to think. But the people who matter—investors, industry leaders, the ones who actually pay attention—they know better. A man doesn't go from nothing to forty-seven million dollars without serious help.”

“Then why didn't anyone stop him? Why didn't anyone speak up for me?”

My mother was quiet for a long moment, looking at her perfectly manicured hands. When she looked up, her face was serious.

“Because you weren't there to speak up for yourself. You let him be the face of the company while you worked behind the scenes. You made yourself invisible, Emelda, and invisible people are easy to erase.”

The truth hit me like a punch to the gut. She was right. I'd been so focused on being supportive, on being the perfect girlfriend, that I'd never demanded proper credit for what I did. I'd let Allen take center stage while I stayed in the shadows, and now those shadows had swallowed me completely.

“I was so stupid,” I whispered.

“You were in love,” my mother corrected. “Love makes us do dumb things sometimes. But you're home now, and we're going to fix this.”

“Fix it how?”

Mother stood and walked to the window, looking out over the estate. “The Jones family has been building power and influence for four generations. We own controlling shares in seventeen major companies. We have connections in every industry, every major city, every level of government. Allen Cater thinks he's reached the top, but he's barely scratched the surface of what real power looks like.”

She turned back to me, and I saw something dangerous glittering in her eyes.

“He wanted to play in the big leagues? Fine. Let's show him what the big leagues actually look like.”

A chill ran down my spine at the tone in her voice. This was Margaret Jones, the CEO, the woman who'd crushed competitors and built an empire. The woman I'd run away from because I was scared of becoming too much like her.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“I'm saying you should stop being the victim in this story and start being the winner. You have resources he could never dream of. You know things about his business that could be very valuable to the right people. Most importantly, you have a name that still means something in this world.”

"I don't want revenge, Mother. I just want to move on."

"Moving on and getting even aren't opposites, sweetheart." She sat back down beside me, her voice getting gentler. "You don't have to destroy him. But you also don't have to let him destroy you. There's a difference between revenge and justice."

I looked back at the newspaper clippings, at Allen's smiling face staring out from every article. In each photo, he looked confident, successful, happy. Like a man who'd gotten everything he'd ever wanted and felt no guilt about how he'd gotten it.

Maybe my mother was right. Maybe it was time to stop being invisible.

"What did you have in mind?" I asked quietly.

Mother smiled, and for the first time since I'd come home, it was a smile I recognized—sharp, calculating, and absolutely ruthless.

"First, we remind the world that Emelda Jones exists. Then we show them exactly what she can do.”