After our Christmas dinner winds down, I slip quietly beneath the guest bed, carefully clutching a navy velvet box and fighting the urge to laugh. The guest room of the Rose familys Surrey home is heavy with the scent of lavender sachets and aged furniture polish. Its Christmas Eve, and outside, great flakes of snow tumble past the streetlamps. Inside, warmth radiates from roasted turkey, Yorkshire pudding, and the echoes of distant merriment.
Charlotte Prescott, daughter of London shipping magnate Patrick Prescott, lies flat on her stomach beneath a mahogany four-poster, her crimson silk dress uncomfortably bunched and her face pressed to dusty floorboards. It feels absurd shes twenty-four, richer than Croesus, and yet hiding under a bed in someones spare room. But thats what love does.
She fingers the velvet box in her hand. Inside a rare 1952 Rolex shes spent months tracking down. Its her Christmas present for James, her fiancé. James adores all things vintage. They have history, hes always saying, not like all this soulless, shiny luxury.
Hell love this, Charlotte thinks, unable to hide a giddy smile.
Shed claimed to be popping to the loo, but instead slipped away to the guest room. Her plan: wait for James to pop in to change shirts, leap out, shout Surprise! and wait for that lopsided grin she adores.
But the footsteps coming down the hallway are heavier than James’s light tread.
The door handle turns with a click.
Charlotte holds her breath ready to pounce.
But rather than Jamess brogues, she sees a pair of battered cream heels step into the room, followed by the solid brown loafers of a man.
The door clicks shut and locks.
At last, hisses a voice. Its Mrs Rose, Jamess mother her usual honeyed kindness replaced by something acidic. Her tone drops, pure venom. Thought that little drip would never quit the parlour. My jaw aches from all this smiling.
Charlotte freezes. The box digs into her palm.
Calm down, Mum, says a voice she recognises, but its not the James she knows. The tone is cold, bored. Ten minutes, thats all weve got till she comes looking for me. Did you speak to Dr Aris?
I did, Mrs Rose snaps, stepping about the room, her heels inches from Charlottes nose. Hes on board. But are you sure? Shes so clingy. Looking at me like Im the Queen. Makes my stomach turn, the way she floats around in those expensive dresses.
Just bear it, James tells her, the sound of a zip signalling a change of shirt. Two months wedding, done.
Charlottes heart battens against her ribs. What are they plotting?
I just cant stand her, Mrs Rose seethes. Did you see her sneer at my tablecloth like its fit for a dog? Spoilt, pampered madam. I wanted to slap that Rolex smile from her face.
Mum, sighs James, undressing. Its business. Shes not a person shes a cash machine. A very, very wealthy one.
Charlotte bites her wrist to muffle a scream. The taste of blood floods her mouth.
So, its all happening on honeymoon? Mrs Rose asks.
Yes, says James. Maldives. Private island. Ill feign a breakdown paranoia, delusions. Ive already dropped hints to her friends about her being fragile and forgetful. Dr Aris will sign her into that place in Switzerland. Once shes inside, I get power of attorney, sell off her assets, and she spends her days behind locked doors.
Never makes it out?
Not once Aris gives her what hes planning. No sunlight ever again.
The bed above groans as James sits to tie his shoes. Charlottes hair is caught; she cannot move. Tears sting her face and soak silently into the floor.
Lets go, James says. Off to kiss my cash machine goodnight. She probably got me a watch. I hope its pricey might help with the Bentley deposit.
They leave, the door shutting behind them.
Charlotte lies in the darkness, the box like a stone in her icy hand.
***
Charlotte doesnt leap out or confront them. Instead, she shakes silently beneath the bed for half an hour.
Sheltered by her fathers fortune, shes never believed people could be this cruel, but shes not stupid. If she confronts them here, surrounded by their friends, far outside London, she might never reach Switzerland. She might just have a fatal fall instead.
She wipes her face, crawls from under the bed, and studies her reflection in the mirror: red-eyed, dress dusted with grit. She looks like a casualty.
No more, she thinks.
Opening her purse, Charlotte finds her phone and records a voice memo: My name is Charlotte Prescott. If I die, James Rose and his mother are responsible. Heres what I heard
She uploads the recording to a hidden cloud, sending it to her fathers chief of security with a delayed delivery.
She powders her face, plasters on a dazzling smile, and heads for the stairs.
There you are! James calls from the drawing room, an eggnog in his hand. We wondered if youd escaped!
He sweeps her up, the arms that had planned her capture tight around her. Her skin crawls, but she hugs him back.
Just a little makeup fix, Charlotte chirps, her tone light. Wanted to look special for you.
Always do, James murmurs, kissing her brow.
Oh! Charlotte draws away and hands him the velvet box.
James opens it, his eyes as greedy as a magpies. A Rolex? Charlotte! This is splendid!
Do you like it? she asks, watching the gold catch the firelight.
I love it, he says.
Id do anything for you, James.
Even if it means destroying you, she thinks.
In the weeks before the wedding, Charlotte plays her part as doting bride, but in private shes hard at work. She hires a private investigator. Tracks Dr Aris, whose gambling debts James had quietly paid. Uncovers emails to the Swiss clinic. Compiles a thick dossier.
But prison isnt enough. If they want a public spectacle, shell deliver.
A week before the wedding, Charlotte sits with the countrys most exclusive wedding planner. The bill: £400,000.
Its too much, James feigns concern. Lets rein it in?
Nonsense! laughs Charlotte. Daddy insists I have the best. But, theres one snag.
Whats that? Mrs Rose asks, sharply.
My father hes terribly old-fashioned, Charlotte sighs. Says the grooms family must contribute. Hes worried people will well, say youre gold-digging.
James stiffens.
Ignore him, darling. But for appearances, could you just sign the contracts as host? On paper, that’s all.
Weve not got four hundred grand, Charlotte, Mrs Rose retorts.
No, thats the thing. Just sign. Then the morning of the wedding, Ill wire the whole lot plus a £40,000 thank-you for you, Mrs Rose. You pay, you look generous, my fathers happy. Everyone wins!
They exchange glances; greed glimmers.
Youll send it by 8am? James asks.
Promise, Charlotte beams.
He signs catering, venue, flowers, band. He is legally on the hook for every penny.
Perfect, says Charlotte.
***
The big day dawns bright over The Savoy.
In the bridal suite, Charlotte awaits in a custom Jenny Packham, her phone pinging.
James: Money hasnt arrived. Venue managers asking questions.
Charlotte: Banks processing! International wires are a pain at weekends. Promise its coming!
She sets the phone down. The money isnt coming. She moved her assets to a trust that morning.
Charlotte picks up a slim black USB. She invites the DJ in.
She hands over a folded £500 note. Please play this for James its a message from his late grandmother just when the vicar asks if anyone objects. Inside joke.
The DJ shrugs Your day, miss.
Charlotte walks down the aisle. The grand ballroom is full: judges, investors, Jamess family, the lot. James stands at the front, sweating. The venue manager hovers behind, invoice in hand.
The ceremony begins. The vicar recites tales of love and trust. Mrs Rose dabs dry eyes, every inch the doting mother.
And now, the vicar intones, if anyone knows a lawful reason why these two should not be joined in matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace.
Silence.
Charlotte turns, hand brushing her necklace.
From the massive speakers, a womans voice snaps: I just cant stand her. Spoilt, condescending thing
Gasps ripple through the congregation.
Then Jamess voice: Shes not a person shes a cash machine, Mum. A proper rich one.
A storm of whispers. Charlottes father bolts upright.
James lunges for the mic. Cut the sound! Now!
The DJ, panicked, fumbles. The recording continues: Well stage her breakdown on honeymoon shell never see daylight again
A room chilled to silence.
Charlotte takes the vicars microphone, voice clear.
No, its not fake. Its from Christmas Eve when I was under the bed, waiting to surprise you. Planning to make me insane, lock me away?
She turns to the crowd: I may be pampered, but Im not the one heading for a cell.
James yanks her arm. You played me you little
Let her go! thundered Charlottes father. The security team Charlottes, not the hotels pins James.
Mrs Rose tries to slip away, blocked by bridesmaids.
Charlotte stares down at James, sprawled on the floor. I didnt say I do, she says into the mic. I said, I know.
She drops the microphone, gathers her skirts, and strides from the room.
***
At the foyer, the events manager and florist confront her.
Miss Prescott! We need payment £400,000 now!
Charlotte smiles. She gestures back at the altar, where James and Mrs Rose argue with the caterers. Im not the host. Didnt sign a thing.
The manager blinks. What? But
Charlotte points to the contract: James Rose. Mrs Rose as guarantor. Check the details.
But he promised youd wire it!
Hes a habitual liar. Check his wallet youll find he planned for a Bentley.
She walks out as shouting erupts behind her.
So, Rose! Who pays for this lot?
My flowers are ruined! Someone owes me!
Im calling collections!
Mrs Rose sobs: We dont have it! Its her account!
Charlotte pauses, texts James: I didnt steal your money, James. I donated the £400,000 to Mind in your name. Youre a philanthropist at last. Congratulations.
Police sirens are wailing now.
Outside, her father holds the car door. You knew for two months?
Needed evidence, Charlotte says. And I wanted their only legacy to be their bankruptcy.
A look of awe and terror crosses his face. Remind me never to cross you, darling.
Wise move, Charlotte replies.
Officers storm the hotel as she climbs inside. Heathrow, please.
***
Three hours later.
Aboard her familys jet at cruising altitude, the cabin is calm, wood-polished and carried by the quiet hum of engines. Charlotte, swaddled in cashmere, stretches her legs. Not a bride. No in-laws. Just peace.
Her destination the very private Maldivian island where her nervous episode was meant to unfold. Instead, she plans a week in the sun.
She slips the Rolex onto her own wrist. A touch too big but it feels right.
You were correct, Mrs Rose, Charlotte murmurs to the empty seat. I am spoilt.
She clasps the watch. And lucky for me, spoilt daughters can afford the best solicitors in England. Enjoy your cell, but it wont have a lake view.
She sips English sparkling wine, opens her contacts, then erases James and his mother from her address book. With them go the photos engagement, smiles, all a fiction.
Screen black. The clouds roll beneath her window.
Charlotte rests back, eyes closed, listening to the engines roar. Its more than white noise its her new beginning.
She isnt a victim. Shes not just Daddys girl. Shes a queen, and this is checkmate.
