Page 4 of Her Submission (Monica & Henry #2)

Strange Ambitions

Monica soldiered through the weekend, taking care of her in-laws’ needs before they anticipated them. That included what Isabella would find unsavory at the Saturday night restaurant or how bored Gerald might be at the country club Sunday afternoon. Although they weren’t a “church”

family, Isabella liked to put on airs now that Abigail was old enough to understand Sunday school. So when the two of them returned from the Presbyterian church where Isabella had married Gerald, Abigail was excited to show her mother the activity page she had colored in about Joseph’s Coat of Many Colors.

“I don’t remember that!”

Henry hissed to his wife over lunch at the country club. Monica had folded the Crayon-laden paper in her purse to show him once they were settled.

“I thought Joseph was Jesus’s father?”

“Different Joseph,”

Monica reminded him.

“There’s more than one?”

“Guess how many Johns there are.”

He looked like he couldn’t tell if she was joking or not.

“John is a gospel, isn’t it?”

Monica left him at that. Later, she would have a chat with Abigail about religion, reiterating that her parents were not religious but it was up to Abigail to decide how she felt about it on her own. I suppose it’s all right to help her develop an open mind. Religiosity was more prevalent than ever in their social circles. Abigail should at least understand how it worked and what people generally believed.

Her main concern was Isabella having control over it. Or anything, for that matter.

After dinner, which was held in the main house, Eva took Monica aside while the others attended a screening of a new Disney movie.

“You should know,”

Eva said as they stood on the frosty balcony near the family home theater.

“that my mother won’t stop asking questions about Abby’s marriage prospects.”

Monica attempted to keep her cool, but the cold night air was not helping. Every time she considered what she heard, she realized that she was this close to overheating out of distrust for Isabella.

“What do you mean her marriage prospects? She’s seven!”

“You know how my mother is. She had ten potential husbands picked out for me by the time I was Abby’s age.”

Eva leaned against the railing overlooking the front driveway to Warren Manor.

“This is more of the same bullshit. She’s a purist in every gross sense.”

“Yes, I know what you mean, having been on the end of that more than once.”

“Oh, don’t I know it. Henry was the golden boy until you came along.”

“Not quite. He refused to marry your mother’s prospects, such as Victoria Nicholson.”

“Please, I don’t want to hear about him and Vic when she tried to marry me off to Damon Monroe.”

The full-body shudder that gave Eva was not from the freeze settling in on them.

“Even you can appreciate how awful that would have been for both of us.”

“Damon likes his women docile but willful. So, yes, you would have been miserable.”

“Now imagine who she’s picking out for Abby. She was asking me of all people what I think of the Monroes’ standing right now. He just had a son, you know.”

“An infant!”

“Doesn’t matter. Mom is thinking about uniting families like this is medieval Europe. Actually, you know what’s really interesting?”

Eva slid her arms across the railing, bringing her head and torso closer to Monica, who buttoned up the front of her sweater and crossed her arms against the cold.

“Speaking of Europe, she wanted to know what I thought about the Beaumonts of Nice.”

That certainly piqued Monica’s interest.

“The Beaumonts? Whatever for? They washed their hands of American pursuits before I came onto the scene. Outside of Jean-Pierre…”

She referred to the first-born son and first in line to inherit the grand French fortune.

“He’s come to the Chateau quite a few times. Has a taste for ‘exotic’ women, his words.”

Eva rolled her eyes.

“Explains why he spends so much time sex-pesting in Thailand from what I hear. Anyway, he has a son. Two sons, actually. Including a ten-year-old named Louis. You ask me, my mother is already writing the wedding invitations in her head.”

“This is absurd…”

But it did align with an off-handed comment earlier. Isabella said something about Abigail taking French instead of Spanish. Winchester Academy offered three foreign language courses for their elementary students, and Abigail was drawn to Spanish because she heard it the most. Monica encouraged it because it would come in handy later in life. French, though? Very on point for the wealthy. But the Warrens had no ties to France. They occasionally visited, but it was purely for retreats and to attend weddings.

“Mother’s friends with Lily Beaumont, Jean-Pierre’s mother.”

Eva passed over her phone, which included a photo she had found of Isabella with a snotty-looking French matriarch who would have rather been anywhere else than posing with an American.

“Don’t let that expression fool you. They’re close. I think they’re conspiring about something.”

“How is that possible? Abigail’s a child. They’re on another continent. Any ‘deal’ Isabella makes will be quashed by Henry and me before Abby even knows about it.”

“You know that. I know that. But does my mother?”

Eva took back her phone.

“She’s cooked in the delulu.”

“Be that as it may, I am aware of how people like her think. I see it all the time at work.”

“Bet you do.”

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention. Sounds like I should investigate the Beaumonts.”

“Don’t get too ahead of yourself. You’ve got enough going on.”

Monica didn’t need a reminder. Renovations on the Salon expansion began the next day, and her phone was already blowing up with calendar pings and texts from her contractors. She had a folder dedicated to the interior designer helping her shape the private space that would be reimagined as a haven for those looking for lessons, host parties, and one-on-one time with some of the hostesses who doubled as escorts.

Monica prayed that the Beaumonts – or anyone else, really – never knew about that.

“I’m really rethinking the Mellow Mauve.”

Monica walked through the half-demolished condo with a hard hat on her head and gloves on her hands. She directed her designer’s attention to the wall in one of the bedrooms.

“Isn’t it a bit too bright? Or is it the light that’s playing with my perception?”

Her designer, a Swiss woman named Analise, stood back and considered the blue painter’s tape on the formerly eggshell white wall. Currently, it was splattered with different shades of dark pink and light purple. Th.

“Mellow Mauve”

was supposedly Monica’s pick after studying many swatches and conducting online research into current color psychology theories. This room was meant for guests to decompress or practice what they had learned in class in private. It must be calming, whatever color we pick. She had considered a deep, royal blue but feared it was too dark. Too moody. It should also still be romantic and inspire sexual stirrings. But was mauve too close to her design of the Salon? This really should stand out on its own.

“I recommend we take another look when the sun goes down,”

Analise suggested.

“After all, that is when a vast majority of guests will experience it.”

“You’re right. I’m not thinking correctly.”

Monica bit the end of her pen before jotting down a note in a flipbook.

“I just don’t want to get stuck in endless refurbishments. I’ve learned that’s a bigger money sink, as much as I love supporting the local contractors.”

Analise laughed as they went back into the living room. Currently, the kitchen was cordoned off. One of the biggest expenses of this remodel was closing off the kitchen and destroying th.

“open floor plan”

the condo came with.

A kitchen was distracting for a place that was more commercial than residential.

Until construction was ready for that, though, they focused on the living room and main bathroom.

Right now, the foreman needed a decision on what was happening with the sink they replaced that day.

By the time Analise left and the contractors were set in their ways for the rest of the afternoon, Monica was exhausted.

Four days.

Goodness.

Four nonstop days of demolishing, reconstructing, painting, and endless questions as one thing after another came up.

While that was how these things always went, despite how careful the planning was, Monica was getting too old for these huge projects.

Hopefully, this would be the last one.

She didn’t think she could run more spaces.

She hopped into the Salon next door, freshening up in the staff bathroom that was attached to her office.

The only person there was Madison, the weekday manager (and Victoria Nicholson’s girlfriend, Monica could never forget) who went over that night’s reservations.

“How’s it looking?”

Monica asked when she emerged from the bathroom.

“I’ll only be here about an hour after opening if you think that’s fine.”

Madison looked up from the Salon’s tablet.

“Blair is the only one with a couple of openings tonight. I keep telling her that Thursday is a terrible night for her talents, but…”

“But we’re grateful that Mira can lend her to us on nights they don’t have other things going on,”

Monica reminded her.

“Having a winner of the Summit on our roster brings in money.”

“Which makes it weirder that she’s the only one with a walk-in opportunity tonight.”

“May I see?”

Monica took the tablet from Madison.

“Looks like she had a cancellation this week. Well, I’ll head to the computer and send a discreet message to those on the mailing list that tonight’s their night to reserve a Salon date with Summit champion Blair.”

“Use the picture of her in that lacy one-piece and black kimono,”

Madison said.

“People go feral for that one.”

“Because you can see her nipples in that lace.”

“I’m just saying, if it works on my girlfriend, it’ll work on anyone who likes women.”

“Which Blair is well-acquainted with.”

Monica handed Madison the tablet back.

“I’ll get on that. You do the final checks. We open in an hour.”

Thursday nights were the least busy in Le Salon and were the days they closed the earliest, but the regulars who often showed up tipped enough and bought bottles that went for thousands.

I’ve run the numbers a hundred times.

Besides, many of her hostesses preferred to work on Thursday or Sunday nights because they were often busy with their other hustles on Friday and Saturday.

Especially Blair, one of their star attractions, who gave her allegiance to her Domme’s sex work business.

She had made it clear that this gig at Le Salon was to make extra cash.

Blair was the first to arrive that night, her hair freshly done at the hottest salon in the town and a bag hanging from her arm.

She went straight to the employee bathroom without a word and reemerged, changed from her T-shirt and jeans, and dressed in a negligee and one of her signature silk kimonos.

Most of the hostesses preferred to do their makeup in front of the living room mirror, and Blair did that while Madison went over her lack of appointments that night.

“Someone will show up,”

Blair said while applying her eyeshadow.

“They always do.”

Monica turned away when Blair readjusted her breasts in her negligee.

“You still have no reservations!”

she called over her shoulder while helping the bartender take stock of the bottles on the shelves.

“So take a selfie and post it to the newsletter channel!”

“We’re low on the Sauvignon Blanc,”

the bartender noted.

“I’ll have to order more, but it won’t be here until next weekend. We might run out by Saturday night.”

“I have some at home I can bring to tie us over.”

Monica sighed. This was how every night at the Salon went. Somehow, it was more nerve-wracking than the Chateau, which was a well-oiled machine with extra staff and employees who always knew where to be and how to act. Le Salon was still small enough that they had to hustle for appointments in the city.

The inoffensive jazz music started playing on the speakers ten minutes before opening. Already, the first appointments lined up in the hall, chatting with the bouncer while patiently waiting for the fun to begin. Monica returned to her office and checked the camera on the front door. She recognized a husband-and-wife couple who had some of the best wine on reserve while the wife often preferred plain Earl Grey tea for her chats. She called in Madison and asked her to start on that pot. If the client doesn’t want it, I’ll drink it. Either way, the high-grade tea would be hot and ready by the time the couple sat for the next two or three hours.

Such was Monica’s rolling schedule whenever she oversaw the Salon for the weekend. The Chateau was often more chaotic and the employees were capable of directing their events. Le Salon was small and intimate enough that it required more micromanaging on her behalf.

Soon, though. Soon, everyone would know the ins and outs and she could spend more time at home.

Blair was the only one without a client by the time the first hour was up. She sat at the bar, where anyone technically on the clock was instructed to wait. Her seltzer water with lime bubbled in a highball glass as she chatted with the bartender and occasionally snuck peeks at her phone. Technically, the phones were supposed to be in lockers in Monica’s office, but she wasn’t going to say anything. Not as long as Blair remained surreptitious.

Monica stole back into her office. In another twenty minutes, Madison stopped by between appointments and commented that someone was finally paying for Blair’s time.

“Good. Anyone from the mailing list?”

Monica wanted to know how effective that marketing was.

“I don’t believe so. She said she’s a first-time visitor. In fact, she asked if she could speak with you later.”

“Who?”

“I didn’t catch her name. Isobel?”

The heat drained from Monica’s face.

“Isabella?”

“Perhaps. Anyway, I need to use the bathroom before my next appointment. Have a gander if you want. It’s busy enough out there.”

Monica was out of her seat before Madison entered the employee bathroom. This better be a joke. Someone with a similar name. That was it. There was no way that it was…

She halted at the opening of the main room when she spotted her mother-in-law in a large armchair, her attention vaguely lingering on Blair, who looked more uncomfortable than a student caught without her notes on test day.

“Isabella.”

She injected herself into the lukewarm conversation before thinking.

“What are you doing here?”

Her mother-in-law sniffed as if she had been asked How dare you be here? She wrapped her hands around her crossed knee, her fur stole falling off her shoulders and revealing a cocktail dress beneath.

“You own this place, do you not? As part of your… hospitality empire.”

Monica held back a gasp. She direly hoped that her first inclination was not true.

“Yes. This is one of my properties. Has something happened?”

Bushy yet trimmed eyebrows arched on that wrinkled forehead.

“Not at all. I’m out for a tepid night on the town while my husband and son talk shop in some stuffy gentleman’s cigar lounge. All for Gerald’s show, I assure you.”

She sipped the cocktail sitting on the small coffee table between her and Blair.

“I thought… why not surprise my favorite daughter-in-law with a visit? I assure you this isn’t an inspection.”

She glanced at Blair.

“I daresay I don’t know enough about that.”

“No. I suppose you don’t.”

Monica jerked her head to Blair.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll relieve you of duty tonight, Ms. Thorne.”

Blair was more than happy to get away from the ice-cold gaze coming from by the windows. As Monica took over on the loveseat, she was aware that her mother-in-law was about to say something strange.

“That girl has more body than brains.”

She laughed at her own insult.

“Suppose that’s part of the appeal. I admit, I thought there’d be more men in here. Wouldn’t that be your bread and butter?”

What does she want here? Although Isabella had long been aware of her daughter-in-law’s ventures, she only had disparaging things to say about them. She would never be caught dead in a place like the Chateau, for example. Yet here? In a more lowkey lounge where guests paid for drinks and a pleasant conversation with a beautiful woman who was skilled in charm and seduction? Perhaps. But only if she had no idea what she was getting into.

It seemed that Isabella did, though.

“I’m assuming that this particular business is completely above board.”

Isabella leaned against the fat arm of the chair, her manicured nails touching her cheek.

“No funny business in the back bedroom?”

She laughed before Monica formulated a response.

“I’m not an idiot, Monica. I know what you do, who you are, and exactly what my son has always seen in you. As for the rest of my family… well, like many of the young women here, you’re charming. You know all the right things to say so you never offend anyone. Your submissive nature has not been lost on me. For all of our issues over the years, I’ve at least appreciated that about you. I simply wish you had… better breeding.”

“I’m well aware, Isabella.”

“Of course. No need to rehash the same arguments from before. Now, here I sit, on the cusp of becoming a grandmother again…”

“Excuse me? Have I missed something?”

She couldn’t possibly think that Monica was pregnant again. She’d be direly disappointed.

“Suppose they haven’t told you yet, but Eva’s informed me that she and Nadia will finally be enacting the final part of their contract to stay in the will. I suppose that sometime in the next one to three years I’ll have another grandchild, assuming things go as usual with our dear Irish princess.”

Monica was too practiced shuddering at that verbiage. Those two have always discussed having kids. Monica had been privy to some of those conversations, but it wasn’t lost on her that they had signed some shoddy contract with Isabella to keep Eva in the line of secession. Only if Nadia carries a Warren baby. By blood, of course. Or Eva, but that was never happening.

“It has me all introspective, Monica. One day, you’ll understand. You’re a mother.”

Something dark lurked in those words. Did she know something that Monica didn’t?

“I heard about the incident up the mountains last week. Really, what are you thinking, taking poor Abigail up to that place?”

Isabella pulled a tin of cherry and cranberry mints out of her purse and daintily placed one beneath her tongue.

“Do you think it’s appropriate for your daughter, let alone my granddaughter to grow up around these kinds of women? No offense to such hard work, of course. Everyone has their place in the world.”

Monica sucked in her cheeks as she recalibrated her breathing.

“I’m sorry, who told you about that?”

“That soft nanny, Matilda.”

Come on, Matilda… As much as Abigail liked her, Matilda was weak around Isabella. She once spilled all of our birthday party plans for Abigail, and Isabella planned her own for the same time. Every guest had to be rerouted at the last minute. Considering Abigail had been in preschool, it was a mess!

“And now I hear you might be having some financial issues with the IRS? Sweetheart, some of we Warrens have been down that road before, and nothing good comes from it.”

“There’s no way Matilda told you that.”

Or Henry, for that matter.

“I have my contacts in the agency. I had to, after what Gerald put me through.”

Monica interjected before her mother-in-law ran away with the conversation again.

“I have everything under control in that regard. It’s just been a misunderstanding. As for my daughter, I’m not worried about what she is or isn’t exposed to. Henry and I have a plan for her development, assuming God sees it through.”

“Forgive me, but my son is still so besotted with you that you could convince him to let my granddaughter become one of these fallen women.”

Madison looked over from her conversation with another client when Isabella said that. Monica had yet another runaway train on her hands.

“You must think about Abigail’s future. Her proper future. She is the main heiress of this family now, and there will be many who attempt to stray her from her path. Even in that once-fond institution, Winchester Academy, there are gangbangers, immigrants, and other such criminals being allowed in.”

“In elementary school?”

Monica couldn’t even touch the other things yet.

“Who she associates with now will forever form who she becomes as a young lady. Do you want her tarnishing her reputation? You have to be careful with these things! The only reason Evangeline didn’t bring us completely into ruin with her troublemaking was because I ruled with an iron fist. Willful girls run in this family’s blood.”

Eva isn’t exactly a prime example of a well-adjusted daughter. She hated her mother enough that Nadia claimed there were nights when Eva could hardly sleep from the memories of her childhood. Isabella’s maternal abuse was rarely physical, but she knew how to strike a girl in the soul. Words, actions, and string-pulling. Wherever a Warren girl turned, there was Isabella, either in the way or dropping the curtain on independence.

Very much what Monica didn’t want for her daughter.

“We should seriously discuss what kind of social circle Abigail will have as she grows older. Beyond the friends who will be in her wedding one day, allow me to put forth some families with age-appropriate sons who…”

“I’m sorry.”

Monica lowered her voice.

“Did you come to my place of work to talk about matchmaking my daughter?”

Isabella pursed her lips.

“Must you put it in such a gauche way? I assure you, I only think of Abigail’s future. She’s still young and impressionable enough that the women in her life can redirect her the right way. With Evangeline… well, she’s become a lost cause. But surely you must understand what’s important for Abigail. She must not be led astray. Society may be quite confused these days as to what we want from our darling youth, but I am not. A Warren daughter must exemplify poise, grace, and beauty. Evangeline’s eventual children will be warlocks for all I know. Abigail, though…”

Isabella got up from her chair.

“If we ever came together under one cause, Monica, it would be for the sustained future of this family. Henry has done well steering the finances back on the right path. Will you help me maintain our social status through Abigail?”

She interrupted Monica before her mouth was parted.

“Or will I have to take matters into my own hands?”

Isabella marched toward the door, where the bouncer let her through. Monica was left in the middle of the room, surrounded by her employees having inane, tipsy conversations with paying customers. Madison laughed so loudly at a tasteless joke that it was all Monica heard for a few seconds.

That sounded like a threat. Every hackle she had raised a little more in Isabella’s presence – and now in her wake.