The words echoed through the gilded halls of the Worthington estate, bringing the room to a stunned silence. Sir James Worthington, billionaire and business magnatefamed in every financial column as the man who never lost a dealstood frozen, utterly flummoxed. He could negotiate with foreign ministers, charm shareholders, and sign billion-pound contracts before tea, but none of that had prepared him for this. His six-year-old daughter, Beatrice, stood in the middle of the marble foyer in her sky-blue dress, clutching her stuffed rabbit. Her tiny finger pointed directly at Mrs. Higginsthe housekeeper.
Around them, the carefully curated group of supermodelstall, elegant, dripping in diamonds and swathed in silkfidgeted awkwardly. James had invited them with one purpose: to let Beatrice choose a woman shed accept as her new mother. His wife, Eleanor, had passed three years prior, leaving a void no amount of wealth or ambition could fill. Hed assumed glamour and poise would impress Beatrice. That beauty and grace would soothe her grief. Instead, Beatrice had ignored the polished parade entirely and chosen Mrs. Higgins, the housekeeper in her simple black dress and white apron.
Mrs. Higgins pressed a hand to her chest. Me? Beatrice, love, Im only
Youre kind to me, Beatrice said softly, her voice carrying the unshakable certainty of a child. You read me stories when Papas too busy. I want you to be my mummy.
A murmur rippled through the room. A few models exchanged sharp glances; others raised perfectly sculpted eyebrows. One even stifled a nervous giggle. All eyes turned to James. His jaw tightened. The man who never faltered had just been outmaneuvered by his own daughter. He searched Mrs. Higgins face for ambition, for calculationbut she looked as bewildered as he felt. For the first time in years, Sir James Worthington was lost for words.
The scene spread through Worthington Manor like wildfire. By evening, whispers travelled from the kitchens to the chauffeurs. Humiliated, the models made swift exitstheir stilettos clicking against the marble like retreating gunfire. James, meanwhile, locked himself in his study with a glass of whisky, replaying Beatrices words on loop: Papa, I pick her. Her.
This wasnt the plan. Hed wanted to present Beatrice with a woman who could glide through charity galas, smile for Tatler, and host diplomatic dinners with effortless elegance. Someone who mirrored his public image. Certainly not Mrs. Higginsthe woman he paid to polish silver, fold laundry, and remind Beatrice to brush her teeth.
Yet Beatrice stood firm. The next morning at breakfast, she clutched her orange juice and declared, If you dont let her stay, I shant speak to you ever again.
James dropped his spoon. Beatrice
Mrs. Higgins intervened gently, Sir James, please. Shes just a child. She doesnt understand
She knows nothing of the world I live in, he cut in. Nothing of duty. Nothing of appearances. And neither do you.
Mrs. Higgins lowered her eyes, nodding. But Beatrice crossed her arms, stubborn as her father in a boardroom.
In the days that followed, James tried bargainingtrips to Paris, new dolls, even a puppy. Each time, Beatrice shook her head: I want Mrs. Higgins.
Reluctantly, James began watching Mrs. Higgins more closely. He noticed the details: how she patiently braided Beatrices hair even when she squirmed, how she knelt to listen as if every childish word mattered, how Beatrices laughter rang brighter when she was near. Mrs. Higgins wasnt sophisticated, but she was kind. She didnt wear perfume, but she smelled of clean linen and warm biscuits. She didnt speak the language of billionaires, but she knew how to love a lonely child.
And for the first time in years, James wondered: Was he choosing a wife for his image or a mother for his daughter?
The turning point came at a charity gala two weeks later. James, ever mindful of appearances, brought Beatrice in a princess gownbut her smile was strained. Mid-conversation with investors, she vanished. Panic set in until he spotted her by the dessert table, tearful.
What happened? he demanded.
She wanted ice cream, a waiter murmured. But the other children teased her. Said she had no mummy.
James chest tightened. Before he could react, Mrs. Higgins appeared, there discreetly to watch Beatrice. She knelt, wiping her tears. Sweetheart, you dont need ice cream to be special, she whispered. Youre already the brightest star here.
Beatrice sniffled, burrowing into her. But they said I dont have a mummy.
Mrs. Higgins hesitated, glancing at James. Then, with quiet courage, she said, You do have a mummy. Shes watching from heaven. And until you see her again, Ill be right here. Always.
A hush fell. The crowd had heard. James felt their gazesnot judging, but waiting. And for the first time, he understood: It wasnt image that raised a child. It was love.
From then on, James softened. He stopped snapping at Mrs. Higgins, though he kept his distance. He watched Beatrice flourishher scraped knees bandaged, her nightmares soothed, her stories met with laughter. He saw Mrs. Higgins quiet dignity, never asking for more than her place. Yet when Beatrice needed her, she became more than staff: a refuge.
Gradually, James found himself lingering in doorways, listening to the gentle lull of bedtime stories. For years, his home had been silent, formal. Now, it hummed with warmth.
One evening, Beatrice tugged his sleeve. Papa, promise me something.
Whats that? he asked, amused.
Stop looking at those other ladies. I already picked Mrs. Higgins.
James chuckled. Beatrice, life isnt that simple.
Why not? she pressed, eyes wide. Cant you see? She makes us happy. Mummy in heaven would want that.
Her words struck deeper than any boardroom argument. James fell silent. Weeks turned to months. His resistance crumbled under the truth: His daughters joy mattered more than his pride.
One autumn afternoon, he invited Mrs. Higgins to the garden. She smoothed her apron nervously.
Mrs. Higgins, he said, gentler than usual, I owe you an apology. I misjudged you.
No need, Sir James. I know my place
Your place, he interrupted, is wherever Beatrice needs you. And it seems thats with us.
Mrs. Higgins blinked. Sir, do you mean?
James exhaled, as if shedding years of armor. Beatrice chose you long before I saw it. And she was right. Would you join this family?
Tears welled in Mrs. Higgins eyes. From the balcony, a triumphant little voice crowed, I told you, Papa! I told you it was her!
Beatrice clapped, giggling.
The wedding was simpleno society photographers, no fireworks. Just family, close friends, and a little girl who clung to Mrs. Higgins hand down the aisle. At the altar, James finally understood. Hed built an empire on control and appearances. But the foundation of his futurethe real legacy he wantedwas love.
Beatrice tugged Mrs. Higgins sleeve. See, Mummy? I told Papa it was you.
Mrs. Higgins kissed her head. Yes, darling. You were right.
And for the first time in too long, Sir James Worthington knew he hadnt just gained a wife. Hed gained a family no fortune could buy.
