“You forget your place in this house, Emily,” she said.

“You have nothing. Without my charity, you and those girls would be on the street.”

“I am their mother,” I said. “Give me the key.”

Margaret’s hand moved faster than I could track.

The slap echoed loudly in the narrow, stone corridor.

My head snapped to the side, and the sharp sting of her palm burned across my left cheek.

I stumbled back against the rough concrete wall, my hand flying to my face.

“You will speak when you are spoken to,” Margaret whispered, her face inches from mine.

“That is quite enough,” a deep voice rumbled from the top of the stairs.

I looked up, my eyes watering from the pain of the blow.

A tall man stood in the doorway, his silhouette blocking out the bright light from the dining room.

He wore a dark, tailored suit that fit his broad shoulders perfectly.

His face was shadowed, but his posture was rigid and commanding.

It was Richard Bennett.

He was the billionaire philanthropist who had recently funded the new wing at the local children’s hospital.

I had seen his face in the newspapers, but I never expected to see him in the basement of the Whitmore estate.

He walked down the steps slowly, his leather shoes clicking against the stone.

His dark eyes were fixed entirely on Margaret.

“Mr. Bennett,” Margaret said, her voice instantly shifting to a polite, pleasant tone. “This is a private family matter. We were just discussing household duties.”

“I saw what you did, Margaret,” Richard said, his voice quiet but incredibly heavy.

He stopped a few feet away from us, looking down at Margaret, then turned his gaze to me.

He looked at my red, swelling cheek, and then at the tears escaping my eyes.

“Are you alright?” he asked me.