He Brought His Mistress to Thanksgiving Dinner—Until the Lawyer Arrived the Next Morning and Left Them Homeless!

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Dawn broke over Westchester County not with light, but with a cold, iron-grey mist that rose from the hemlock woods and clung to the stone walls of Hollis Manor.

Margaret was dressed by five-thirty. She wore a tailored black wool dress that hid the bulk of her pregnancy beneath clean, vertical lines, paired with flat Italian leather boots she had retrieved from her closet. Her hair was pulled back into a severe, elegant chignon, secured with tortoise-shell pins.

In the kitchen, the aroma of dark-roast Columbian coffee filled the air. The counters were spotless. Sometime between two and four in the morning, while Daniel slept in their king-sized bed and Jade occupied the nursery across the hall, Margaret had cleared the dining room table, washed every piece of silver by hand, and returned Harold’s heavy damask cloth to its cedar box.

At 6:42 AM, the crunch of heavy tires over the crushed bluestone driveway broke the silence of the morning.

Margaret walked to the front door, turned the brass deadbolt, and pulled it wide.

Standing on the limestone porch was a tall, angular man in his early seventies. He wore a heavy wool trench coat over a dark bespoke suit, leather gloves, and carried a thick, battered legal briefcase of oxblood leather. Arthur Vance looked less like an attorney and more like an old-world magistrate—silver hair cropped close, steel-rimmed spectacles, and eyes that had cataloged fifty years of Hudson Valley family indiscretions.

"Good morning, Margaret," Vance said, removing his fedora. His breath plumed white in the frosty air. "You're looking well. How is the little one?"

"Kicking hard, Arthur," Margaret replied, stepping aside to let him enter. "She has her grandfather’s timing."

"God help us all if she inherits Harold’s stubbornness," Vance said with the faintest trace of a dry smile. He wiped his polished shoes thoroughly on the coir mat. "Is Daniel awake?"

"He was still sleeping when I came down," Margaret said, taking his coat and hanging it on the antique hall tree. "He usually doesn't stir before eight after a bottle of Burgundy."

"He will stir today," Vance noted calmly, glancing around the high-ceilinged foyer. His gaze lingered on Jade Prescott’s emerald wrap coat, which was still slung carelessly over the antique mahogany console. "I see we have guests."

"An interior designer," Margaret said, her voice completely flat. "She spent the night in the nursery."

Vance’s jaw tightened. The faint warmth in his pale eyes vanished, replaced by the clinical, lethal coldness that had made him the most terrifying estate litigator between Manhattan and Albany.

"Harold predicted many things before he died," Vance said softly, gripping the brass handle of his briefcase. "He rarely missed the mark regarding his son. Let’s go into the library."

Margaret led him into the wood-paneled room off the main hall. The library was the heart of the original 1920s house—floor-to-ceiling shelves of calfskin-bound legal texts, classic literature, and architectural folios, anchored by a massive fieldstone fireplace. Margaret had already laid a fire of seasoned birch, and small, steady flames were crackling through the kindling.

Vance sat in the leather wingback chair opposite Harold’s partner desk. He unlatched the brass fittings of his briefcase with two sharp, metallic clicks.

Upstairs, a door opened.

Footsteps echoed along the oak gallery. They were heavy, hurried footsteps. Daniel had clearly heard the heavy front door or the murmur of voices.

A moment later, Daniel appeared in the library doorway.

He wore a grey cashmere robe over flannel pajama bottoms, his hair ruffled, his face puffy with sleep and residual alcohol. He held a ceramic mug in one hand, looking around the room with an expression of irritated bewilderment.

"Maggie?" Daniel started, then froze when he saw the old man sitting beside the fire. "Arthur? What in God’s name are you doing here? It’s the day after Thanksgiving. It’s not even seven in the morning."

Arthur Vance did not stand. He didn't even adjust his posture. He slowly extracted a thick manila folder tied with red cloth tape from his case and laid it flat on the leather desk blotter.

"Good morning, Daniel," Vance said evenly. "I apologize for the early hour, but matters of estate administration do not observe retail holidays."

Daniel let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, running a hand through his messy hair. "Estate administration? My father died three years ago, Arthur. The probate closed eighteen months ago. We settled the liquid accounts, the trusts are disbursing on schedule, and the commercial holdings in Yonkers were rolled over into my LLC. If this is about the annual tax distribution check, you could have mailed it to my office in White Plains."

"It is not about the tax distribution, Daniel," Vance replied.

A soft rustle of silk sounded in the hallway.

Jade Prescott appeared in the doorway behind Daniel. She had thrown Daniel’s spare navy silk dressing gown over her clothes, the belt cinched tight around her slim waist. Her hair was pulled into a casual knot, and she held a small cup of espresso.

"Daniel?" she asked in a low, intimate voice. "Is everything all right? I heard voices."

She glanced into the room, her eyes flickering over Vance’s tailored suit, the heavy briefcase, and finally Margaret, who stood quietly near the hearth, arms folded over her pregnant belly.

Daniel’s face flushed pink. For a fraction of a second, he looked embarrassed, but the arrogance that had sustained him his entire adult life quickly rushed back to the surface. He straightened his robe, stepping back to lightly touch Jade’s shoulder.

"Arthur, this is Jade Prescott," Daniel said, his voice tightening with defiance. "Jade is my principal design consultant on the White Plains project. She stayed over due to the holiday traffic."

Vance looked at Jade over the rims of his spectacles. His expression did not change by a fraction of a millimeter. He did not offer his hand.

"Good morning, Miss Prescott," Vance said, his tone as chilly as the frost on the windowpanes. "You may wish to return to your quarters. The matters we are about to discuss are strictly confidential family business."

Jade bristled, her chin tilting up. "Daniel and I don't have secrets regarding his projects, Mr. Vance. If this concerns the estate or Hollis Manor, Daniel has already engaged my firm to handle the renovation. I have an active interest in the property's disposition."

Vance paused. He looked down at the red-taped folder on the desk, then back up at Jade.

"An active interest," Vance repeated softly. "How remarkably presumptuous of you."

"Hey!" Daniel stepped forward, his voice rising, slamming his coffee mug onto an antique side table with enough force to slosh dark liquid onto the mahogany veneer. "Watch your mouth, Arthur. You worked for my father, not me. Harold might have let you run his life, but I run this household now. If Jade wants to stay, she stays. Now tell me what the hell this is about, or get out of my house."

Arthur Vance leaned back in the wingback chair. He slowly removed his spectacles, set them on the desk blotter, and looked Daniel dead in the eye.

"That, Daniel," Vance said quietly, "is precisely why I am here. To clarify whose house this actually is."

Daniel stared at him, his brow furrowing. "What are you talking about? Hollis Manor has been in my family for four generations. It passed to me under the residuary clause of Harold’s will."