My jaw tightens.
"You may call me Lady Hamilton.”
27
Harper
Her words are gracious.
The tone is not.
It's the verbal equivalent of allowing the help to use the front entrance. It’s the kind of tone British royalty and titled folk invented and had centuries to perfect. It’s technically polite, fundamentally condescending, absolutely eviscerating.
Invented to put someone like me who doesn’t come from the upper class in their place.
Also, it’s not Mrs. Hamilton. Not Grandmother. Or Margot. It’s Lady Hamilton.
The message is clear: I haven’t earned familiarity yet. I’m here on probation. Like her grandson put me on trial until I proved myself in the kitchen.
I aced that. I’m going to ace this meeting too. I’m not going to be intimidated.
I draw myself up straight and shake her hand. “It's a pleasure to meet you, LadyHamilton.”
Maybe, it's the pink Chanel suit. Or the severe bob that probably costs more to maintain than my monthly rent. Or perhaps, it’s the unmistakably expensive scent of a high-end perfume in the air, but Margot looks like she stepped out of Vogue—the editor's office, not the pages.
Her bone structure is striking, with her high cheekbones, strong jawline, and that aristocratic nose.
This must be where James gets his self-assurance. Age has only sharpened her beauty into something more formidable.
I straighten my spine.
I'm not going to feel small because my dress is High Street instead of haute couture, or because I bought it three years ago and it's definitely not this season's cut.
I'm a chef. I spend twelve hours a day in whites covered in sauce and sweat, creating food that makes people weep with joy. I'm good at what I do. World-class, if James' decision to marry me is any indication.
I don't have time to chase fashion trends or drop thousands on designer labels. My knives cost more than this dress, and I chose it that way.
So, if Lady Margot Hamilton finds me wanting because I'm not dripping in this season's fashion? That's her problem, not mine.
I meet her gaze steadily, lifting my chin slightly.
I earned my place in James' kitchen through skill and dedication. I earned the title of sous chef at a three-Michelin-starred restaurant before even turning thirty. I have nothing to apologize for.
But I really, really hope she doesn’t hate me for any reason.
Despite my defiance, despite knowing my worth, there's a tiny voice in my head that whispers: What if she sees right through this arrangement? What if she knows this marriage is fake?
What if she thinks I'm not good enough for her grandson?
James said this was just a courtesy visit, but he wouldn’t have brought me here if his grandmother’s approval didn’t mean something to him.
She also has final say over his inheritance. While he hasn’t mentioned it, I have no doubt that the money would go a long way in lowering his reliance on investors and being more independent in how he decides to expand his business.
It’s why I’m grateful when her features soften, just a minusculeamount. Just enough to tell me she doesn’t find me completely abhorrent. I snort inwardly.
She’s a tough cookie. But then, given she’s the head of the Hamilton Group and has played a role in bringing up James and his brothers, I assumed she’d have to grow balls of steel to hold her own against the testosterone she comes up against every day.
"Let’s sit down." She waves a hand at the couch I occupied, and seats herself in the armchair next to it.
