VIRTUES UNDER A VEIL

Stripped of His Title: Secrets and Whispers in the Hawthorne Mansion

Mrs. Johnson's Ride

Mrs. Johnson settled into the plush back seat of the car, a faint frown creasing her brow.  Reaching into her gold purse beside her, she retrieved her age-defying cream and compact mirror. With practiced ease, she applied her signature red lipstick, pressing her lips together in satisfaction. A deep breath filled her lungs as she tucked everything back into her purse. Relaxing against the seat, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the rearview mirror.

Her driver, Mr. Jake, noticed her applying her makeup.  A flicker of disapproval crossed his face.  "Why bother with all that at your age?" he thought to himself.

As if sensing his scrutiny, Mrs. Johnson met his gaze in the mirror.  Her voice was ice-cold, devoid of remorse.  "Am I so beautiful you can't look away, young man?  Have some respect!"

Mr. Jake averted his eyes, disgust coloring his expression.  "Apologies, ma'am," he mumbled.

She scoffed, clearly unconvinced.  Rolling her eyes, she closed them, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts.

The Hawthorne Mansion

The Hawthorne mansion perched on a hill offered a breathtaking vista.  Though not truly on a mountain, it had witnessed countless joys and sorrows – tearful goodbyes, shared laughter, children playing tag, and the arrival of new generations.

The residence had stood for centuries, defying attempts to accurately capture its age in writing.  A fresh coat of white and gold paint gleamed in the afternoon sun, the contrasting colors vibrant and eye-catching.

Two stories tall, the mansion boasted a long, sweeping staircase.  However, recognizing the potential strain on his aging residents, the wise Noah Hawthorne, the family patriarch, had  installed an elevator for their comfort.

The sprawling grounds were meticulously maintained, bursting with colorful flowers.  A fragrant rose garden nestled behind the house, adding to the tranquil atmosphere.

Inside the mansion, staff members clad in their customary white uniforms bustled about, ensuring spotless cleanliness as per Mr. Hawthorne's exacting standards.

In his well-furnished study, Mr. Noah Hawthorne sat comfortably in his high-backed, black leather executive chair.  The sleek design boasted plush cushions and a supportive headrest.  White curtains with contrasting brown drapes framed the windows.

Before him rested a mahogany desk, its smooth surface adorned with a black lamp exuding an air of classic taste.  His tablet lay at his right hand, while a large black rug with subtle white flecks covered the hardwood floor.

A bookshelf crammed with books, documents, and files lined the right wall behind a floor-to-ceiling curtain in a rich chocolate brown adorned with cream-colored brickwork.  A glass-doored cabinet opposite the bookshelf held even more treasures, accessible only to those with the proper key.

Mr. Hawthorne, lost in thought, turned slightly in his chair.  A resolute expression hardened his features as he lifted the phone and dialed his favorite grandchild's number.  After three rings, a warm but slightly strained voice filled the room.

"Good afternoon, Grandpa!" Olivia greeted him.

"How is your husband's health, Olivia?" Mr. Hawthorne inquired, his tone cool.

Olivia sighed.  "Still no change, Grandpa.  The doctor says I need to be strong for him to wake up."

"Don't let this challenge break you, dear," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle.  "Life is a battlefield itself.  Keep fighting until you overcome!"

Olivia closed her eyes, his words a soothing balm.  "Thank you, Grandpa.  That means a lot."

A low chuckle escaped his lips.  "Glad my words ease your worries.  How are things with your in-laws? I trust they're not causing you any trouble with Ben's accident?"

Olivia chuckled softly at his concern.  Taking a deep breath, she said, not wanting to burden him with the Johnsons' drama, "Grandpa, you worry too much!  Who dares to disturb a Hawthorne granddaughter?  They all fear you, Grandpa.  Everything is fine here, don't worry about me."

A hint of a smile played on Mr. Hawthorne's lips.  "Very well then.  I must be going."

With that, he ended the call. Relieved to hear Olivia was safe, Mr. Hawthorne was startled by a knock on his mahogany door. He dropped his phone and barked, "Who is it?"

"It's me, honey," replied Mrs. Charlotte, his first wife, her voice laced with barely concealed anger.

Mr. Hawthorne recognized the tone immediately. A frown creased his face as he knew she must have heard about him stripping their eldest son, Williams, of his position in the company.

"Come in," he said curtly, his eyes fixed on the closed door.

Mrs. Charlotte entered, her anger barely concealed. "Why did you take away Williams's right to handle important company matters?" she demanded, expecting a straightforward answer. "What did he do this time?"

Mr. Hawthorne swiveled in his chair to face the window, the thin white curtains diffusing the afternoon sun. "He got what he deserved," he replied coldly. "If you came here to fight for him, I suggest you tell him to mend his ways. Only then will I consider letting him back in the company. Otherwise, I'll choose another son who proves worthy."

Mrs. Charlotte's fists clenched. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she refused to break down in front of her husband. "How many chances will it take before you trust him again?" she choked out. "Fine, if you want him to prove himself, so be it. But keep his position vacant until then!"

With trembling hands, she stormed out of the study. In the hallway, she unexpectedly found Williams, his face etched with worry.

She steeled herself, knowing she couldn't show weakness in front of the others. Wiping away a stray tear, she grasped his hand and whispered, "Your father won't accept your half-hearted apology about the failed project. You need to win back his trust. But don't let any of your stepbrothers know we're strategizing. It will give them an unfair advantage."

Williams nodded grimly as they rounded the corner, only to find themselves face-to-face with Manson. His stepbrother, the second son of the family, stood before them, a sly grin stretching across his face that sent shivers down their spines.

"What are you and your mom up to?" Manson taunted, his voice dripping with amusement. "Planning a little campaign to get your precious title back, brother?"

Williams felt his anger rising, but his mother squeezed his hand, a silent warning.

Mrs. Charlotte glared at Manson. "If you're eavesdropping to gain some advantage," she hissed, "you're wasting your time. Williams will reclaim what's rightfully his."

With that, she pulled Williams away, leaving Manson scowling. He clenched his fists. "Let's see who wins this game, stepbrother," he muttered under his breath.