There’s just something special about vintage pearls, don’t you think, Abigail?
I glanced up from the gleaming glass display case to find Madison studying me with unusual intensity. In the eight weeks she’d been dating my son, Christopher, this was the first time she’d suggested we spend time together—just the two of us—a girl’s day out to Morrison & Sons, the most exclusive jewelry store in the city, the kind with a uniformed doorman and a valet line curling past the curb.
They’re timeless, I agreed, my fingers hovering above an elegant pearl bracelet that reminded me of one my grandmother wore to Sunday service back in Indiana, though I’m surprised you’re interested in vintage pieces.
Madison’s laugh was practiced, melodic.
“I appreciate beauty in all forms.”
And then, as if she were placing a chess piece, she added, “Christopher mentioned, ‘You have quite the eye for jewelry.’”
The mention of my son’s name didn’t feel accidental. Nothing about Madison ever did.
At twenty-nine, she was beautiful, ambitious, and laser-focused on securing her future—specifically a future with my thirty-two-year-old son, who still occupied the guest suite in my home while he figured out his next career move after his startup imploded last year.
“Mr.
Morrison,” Madison suddenly called, waving over the silver-haired proprietor who had been discreetly observing us from behind the main counter. “We’d love to see your engagement collection when you have a moment.”
And there it was. The real purpose of our outing.
This wasn’t about bonding with her boyfriend’s mother.
This was strategy—using me as an unwitting accomplice in her campaign to rush Christopher to the altar.
“Of course, miss,” the proprietor replied, approaching with professional courtesy.
“Madison Parker,” she said, extending her hand with the confidence of someone accustomed to being recognized and accommodated. “And this is Christopher’s mother, Abigail.”
Something shifted in Morrison’s expression as he turned toward me. Recognition, followed by a warm smile that transformed his professional demeanor into genuine pleasure.
“Mrs.
Cooper? Abigail Cooper?”
I nodded, surprised.
“Yes… though I’m not sure we’ve met.”
“We haven’t had the pleasure, but your reputation precedes you. Your charitable work with the Children’s Symphony Fund is legendary.” He clasped my hand between both of his.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
