The Invitation
Emily held the wedding invitation in her hands, struggling to believe her eyes. The gold-embossed letters on cream cardstock announced the marriage of her father, William Harrison, to a woman named Charlotte Bennett. The date was set for the following Saturday.
“One week’s notice,” she muttered, flipping the card over. “Couldn’t even bother to tell us properly.”
Her phone buzzed, interrupting her thoughts. Her younger sister, Sophie, was calling.
“Em, did you get… the invitation?” Sophie’s voice was shaky.
“I did. Did you know anything about this?”
“Nothing! Absolutely nothing! I thought Dad was just casually seeing someone. And now this—a wedding!”
Emily walked into the kitchen and put the kettle on. A light drizzle tapped against the window, matching the heaviness in her chest.
“Soph, have you ever met this Charlotte?”
“Once, by accident. They were leaving a café, and I happened to pass by. She’s young—mid-thirties, at most. Bleached blonde, dripping in gold and designer labels.”
Emily winced. Her father was sixty-eight. A thirty-year age gap.
“Do you think it’s about money?” Sophie ventured. “Remember, Dad mentioned selling the cottage? Plus, he’s got that two-bedroom flat in Kensington.”
“I don’t know,” Emily sighed. “We need to talk to him.”
“Let’s go together. I’ll leave work early tomorrow.”
The next day, the sisters met outside their father’s building. William had recently moved there after selling their childhood home, claiming he wanted to be closer to central London. Now, Emily suspected other motives.
“Girls!” Their father greeted them with open arms. “How lovely to see you! Let me introduce you to Charlotte.”
He looked years younger—new haircut, stylish shirt, even his stride was livelier.
“Dad, we need to talk,” Emily said firmly.
“Of course, of course! Charlotte’s just preparing dinner. You’ll see—she’s a fantastic cook.”
From the kitchen came the clatter of dishes and a woman humming. William led them to the sofa.
“My darlings, I’m overjoyed you’ll finally meet Charlotte. She’s wonderful—kind, caring. I never thought I’d fall in love again at my age.”
Emily and Sophie exchanged glances. The word “love” sounded unnatural coming from their sixty-eight-year-old father.
“How long have you known each other?” Sophie asked.
“Four months. We met at the hospital—both waiting to see the cardiologist. Charlotte’s mother was ill, and she was distraught. I comforted her, walked her home…”
“Four months, and already a wedding?” Emily blurted. “Isn’t that too fast?”
“At my age, there’s no time to waste,” William frowned slightly. “We know what we want.”
Just then, a woman glided in, and Emily instantly understood Sophie’s description. Charlotte couldn’t be older than thirty-five. Tall, slim, with honey-blonde waves and flawless makeup. Her fitted dress and glittering jewellery screamed expensive taste.
“Girls, this is Charlotte!” William beamed. “Charlotte, my daughters—Emily and Sophie.”
“So lovely to meet you,” Charlotte purred, extending a manicured hand. “Will’s told me so much about you!”
Her voice was sweet, but Emily disliked it immediately—too saccharine.
“Dinner’s ready,” Charlotte announced.
The table was set impeccably—fine china, candles, fresh flowers. Beautiful, yet somehow staged.
“Charlotte, tell the girls about yourself,” William urged, pouring wine.
“Oh, there’s not much to tell,” she laughed. “I work at a beauty salon—nail technician. Single, no children. I was married, but my ex was… difficult.”
“How so?” Sophie pressed.
“He drank. Got violent. I had to leave. After that, I avoided relationships—until your father.”
She gazed at William with such admiration that Emily shuddered.
“What about your parents?” Sophie continued.
“Mum’s alive. Dad passed years ago. Mum’s unwell—I care for her. Will’s been so generous, even helping with her medicine. Such a kind man!”
William glowed with pride.
“Dad—a word?” Emily stood abruptly.
They stepped into the hall as Charlotte cleared dishes.
“What is it?” William grew guarded.
“Dad, she’s young enough to be your daughter.”
“And? Am I forcing her? She’s marrying me willingly.”
“Have you considered why?” Sophie cut in. “Dad, be honest. A young, beautiful woman marrying a man old enough to be her father?”
“Enough!” William snapped. “You’re just jealous I’ve found love while your own relationships fail!”
Emily flushed—her recent divorce was a sore spot.
“Jealous? We’re worried!”
“Save it. I know what I’m doing.”
He stormed back to the table. The sisters exchanged glances and reluctantly followed.
The rest of the evening was strained. Charlotte gushed about wedding plans, showed off her dress photos. William nodded along, smitten.
“Where will you live after the wedding?” Emily asked.
“Here,” Charlotte said. “Will’s already cleared wardrobe space for me. So thoughtful!”
“Your mother—you said she’s ill. Who’ll care for her?”
Charlotte hesitated.
“Mum… has a carer. I visit, but I can’t be there daily.”
On the way home, the sisters were silent. Finally, Sophie spoke:
“She’s lying.”
“About what?”
“I’m not sure. But something’s off. First, she’s her mother’s sole carer, now suddenly there’s a nurse?”
“The whole thing stinks,” Emily agreed. “Four months and rushing to marry?”
“What do we do?”
“Dig deeper. Doesn’t your friend work at that salon?”
The next day, Sophie called her mate Jess, a beautician nearby.
“Charlotte Bennett? Yeah, I know her. Works at the Mayfair salon. Why—trouble?”
“Maybe. What’s she like?”
“Good at her job, clients love her. But the girls say she chases wealthy men. Last year, she dated some entrepreneur twenty years older. Suddenly she’s head-to-toe designer, driving a new Mercedes. Then they split, and she’s back on the Tube.”
“Was she married?”
“Claims she had an abusive ex, but who knows? She spins stories.”
“Her mum—is she really sick?”
Jess paused.
“Her mum… Honestly, I vaguely recall her saying her mum died years ago. Or was that someone else?”
Sophie thanked her and called Emily.
“Listen, this gets fishier…”
Emily clenched her fists as Sophie relayed the details.
“Lying about her mum. Probably the husband too.”
“Looks that way. What now?”
“We confront Dad. Properly.”
But when they arrived that evening, William wasn’t home. His neighbour, Mrs. Wilkins, said he’d gone shopping with Charlotte for wedding things.
“Young wife?” Emily repeated.
“Oh yes,” Mrs. Wilkins nodded. “He introduced her as his wife yesterday. Said they’re making it official Sunday but consider themselves married already.”
Using their emergency key, the sisters let themselves in.
The flat felt different—perfume bottles on the vanity, designer handbags strewn about. The kitchen sink held expensive cookware.
“She’s moved in,” Sophie noted.
“And taken over.”
In the bedroom, William’s clothes were shoved aside for Charlotte’s overflowing wardrobe. Framed photos of their late mother were gone from the dresser.
“Where are Mum’s pictures?” Sophie whispered.
Emily yanked open a drawer—they’d been tossed inside.
“She hid them,” Emily hissed. “Can’t even tolerate memories of Mum.”
Keys jingled at the door. Laughter floated in.
“Girls!” William looked startled, arms laden with shopping bags. “We weren’t expecting you!”
Charlotte followed, draped in a new fur coat, carrying more bags.
“We bought my wedding outfit,” she chirped. “Will’s so generous—he let me pick anything!”
“Dad. Private talk. Now,” Emily demanded.
Charlotte sensed the tension.
“Darling, I’ll pop round Mum’s,” she said breezily, grabbing her purse.
“But you live here now—”
“Just a quick visit!” She vanished.
William turned, irritated. “Well?”
“We checked on Charlotte,” Emily said. “She’s lying.”
“About what?”
“Her mum’s dead. Long gone.”
“Maybe she didn’t want to upset me,” William defended.
“And the abusive ex? Also a lie.”
Sophie recounted Jess’s words. William sighed.
“So? People have pasts. Maybe she’s private.”
“Dad, wake up!” Emily grabbed his hands. “She’s using you! For your money, this flat!”
“You think a young woman can’t love an older man sincerely?”
“Not like this! Look how she spendsHer father’s funeral was a quiet affair, and as Emily watched the last of the autumn leaves fall, she realized that love could never be bought—only earned, and sometimes, too late to matter.
