I stood frozen as my father stared at us in shock, his eyes fixed on the elderly woman beside me. The recognition in his voice when he'd said "Mrs. Margaret Ricardo" confirmed what I'd been suspecting—the sweet old lady I'd been caring for wasn't just any grandmother. She was Old Mrs. Margaret Ricardo, one of the most powerful women in Oceanion.
"Juliana," my father's voice cut through the tension like a knife. "What do you think you're doing?"
Before I could answer, he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Making a scene in public again? Haven't you embarrassed this family enough?"
Imogen smirked beside him, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction at my impending humiliation.
"I'm simply shopping with—" I started to explain, but my father cut me off with a dismissive wave.
"I don't care what excuse you've concocted. How dare you parade around in clothes you can't afford?" His gaze swept over the blue dress I was wearing, his lip curling in disgust.
Mrs. Ricardo—or rather, Mrs. Margaret Ricardo—looked confused, her eyes darting between us. The haze of Alzheimer's seemed to cloud her expression again. I gently touched her arm, offering reassurance.
Imogen stepped forward, her attention suddenly fixed on the emerald dress Mrs. Ricardo had been trying on. "That's the limited edition Vivienne dress I've been searching for." Her voice dripped with entitlement. "I need it for my dinner with the Ricardos next week."
My stomach twisted as I realized what was coming. Sure enough, my father's expression shifted from anger to calculation.
"Of course," he said smoothly, turning to me with a thin smile that never reached his eyes. "Juliana, be reasonable. Your sister needs that dress to make a proper impression on Old Mrs. Ricardo's family. Surely you understand how important this is?"
"We were here first," I said quietly but firmly. "Mrs.—my friend has already decided on it."
My father's smile vanished. "This isn't a negotiation. Give the dress to your sister."
"No," I replied, surprised by my own boldness. "I won't."
His eyes narrowed dangerously. "You forget your place, Juliana. Always have."
The sales associate hovered nervously nearby, clearly uncomfortable with the confrontation unfolding in her expensive boutique.
My father reached into his jacket and pulled out his checkbook. "Thirty thousand dollars," he announced, scribbling on a check. "Consider it your dowry, since we both know no respectable man would take you without incentive."
The casual cruelty of his words stung, as they always did. Twenty-four years of this treatment, and it still hurt every time. I'd spent my childhood desperately seeking his approval, only to be met with contempt and dismissal.
"I don't want your money," I said, my voice surprisingly steady despite the storm of emotions inside me.
"You think I'm giving you a choice?" he sneered. "Remember who put food on your table all these years. Who paid for that subpar education you love to flaunt."
Memories flashed through my mind—nights spent studying under my blanket with a flashlight because Ivy wouldn't let me use electricity for "wasteful" activities like reading. The scholarship I'd earned on my own, only to have my father take credit for my achievements when it suited him.
"I'll pay for it myself," I said, reaching for my purse.
"You?" Imogen laughed. "With what money? Your pathetic salary from that failing company you work for?"
Before I could respond, Mrs. Ricardo suddenly spoke up. "I don't like this dress anymore," she announced, her voice clear and loud. "Too bright. Hurts my eyes."
Everyone turned to look at her. She blinked innocently, but something in her eyes—a flash of clarity—told me she was more present than she appeared.
"See?" Imogen pounced immediately. "She doesn't even want it. I'll take it."
My father nodded approvingly at Imogen. "Problem solved." He turned back to me, holding out the check. "Here. Take it. Consider it charity."
I stared at the check in his hand. Thirty thousand dollars. More money than I'd ever seen at once. And yet, accepting it would mean surrendering something far more valuable—my dignity.
Mrs. Ricardo watched me closely, her eyes suddenly sharp and observant.
"Keep your money," I said, pushing his hand away. "I don't need your charity."
My father's face darkened. "You ungrateful—"
"Mr. Johnson," the sales associate interrupted nervously. "Perhaps we should—"
"Stay out of this," he snapped at her.
He turned back to me, lowering his voice. "Listen carefully, Juliana. Know your place. You're nothing but the daughter of a servant. Don't think for one second that you can rise above that. And don't even think about trying to seduce Owen Ricardo with your pathetic little games."
I flinched at the mention of Owen Ricardo—Nathaniel's cousin who I'd never even met. The accusation was as baseless as it was insulting.
"I've never met Owen Ricardo in my life," I said.
"Good. Keep it that way," my father warned. "The Ricardos are Imogen's territory. She's the one who belongs in their world, not some illegitimate mistake like you."
Each word hit like a physical blow, but I refused to show it. I'd learned long ago that showing pain only invited more cruelty from him.
"Come on," I said to Mrs. Ricardo, gently guiding her toward the fitting rooms. "Let's change and go somewhere else."
Imogen grabbed the emerald dress triumphantly, shooting me a victorious smile. "I'll take this one," she told the associate. "Wrap it up nicely. It's a gift for Mrs. Margaret Ricardo."
Mrs. Ricardo stiffened beside me. I could feel her hand trembling slightly on my arm.
After changing back into our regular clothes, we left the boutique. I could feel my father's disapproving glare following us, but I kept my head high. Once we were safely away, I guided Mrs. Ricardo to a quiet bench in a secluded corner of the mall.
"Are you okay?" I asked her gently. "I'm so sorry about that scene."
She didn't respond immediately, seeming lost in thought. Then her phone rang, startling us both. She fumbled with it before answering.
"Hello? Yes, this is Margaret," she said, her voice suddenly stronger and more authoritative than I'd ever heard it.
I watched in amazement as her posture straightened, her confused expression clearing like clouds parting after a storm.
"No, that won't be necessary," she continued. "I'm perfectly fine. But tell Nathaniel..." she paused, looking directly at me, "tell him I remember now. Everything."
She ended the call and turned to me, her eyes completely lucid. The transformation was astonishing.
"You're..." I began hesitantly.
"Margaret Ricardo," she confirmed, patting my hand. "And you, my dear, have been taking excellent care of me."
My mind raced, trying to process this new development. "Your Alzheimer's—"
"Comes and goes," she explained. "Some days are clearer than others. Today is... very clear." Her expression hardened. "Especially after that disgraceful display."
She pulled out her phone again, her fingers moving with surprising dexterity as she opened a voice message.
"Nathaniel," she spoke clearly into the phone, her voice carrying the undeniable authority of someone used to being obeyed. "I've just been mistreated! You must come home tonight and stand up for me!"
She sent the message and turned back to me with a determined expression that reminded me startlingly of her grandson.
"Now, Juliana," she said, "I believe we have much to discuss."