CHAPTER 9: The Seat at the Head of the Table

Isabella walked to the head of the table.
No one told her to stop.
Even the relatives who had laughed too loudly at Preston’s jokes lowered their eyes as she passed, suddenly fascinated by the reflections in their plates.
The empty chair waited under the chandelier, exactly where her father had left it. For weeks, she had been afraid to touch it because grief made ordinary objects sacred and cruel.
Now she placed one hand on the back of the chair and felt the room understand before she sat down.
Celeste stood on the other side of the table, pale beneath her pearls.
“You are making a mistake,” she said.
Isabella looked at the red folder, still unopened beside her abandoned plate.
“No,” she said quietly. “I am correcting one.”
Whitaker remained near the doors, waiting for her instruction.
That was the final change. Not the inheritance. Not the shares. Not the house.
The final change was that everyone waited for Isabella to speak.
She lifted her chin, cheek still marked, voice steady enough to carry to the farthest seat.
“Clear the table,” she said. “Then bring me every document my mother signed after my father died.”
The servants moved first.
Then the family did.
By midnight, the chair was no longer empty.