The Invitation
Penelope clutched the wedding invitation, the gold lettering gleaming against the creamy cardstock. It announced the marriage of her father, Victor Whitmore, to a woman named Isabelle Hartley. The date was just a week away.
“A week,” she muttered, flipping the card over. “Couldn’t even give proper notice.”
Her phone buzzed, interrupting her thoughts. Her younger sister, Gemma’s name flashed on the screen.
“Pen, did you get… this thing?” Gemma’s voice was unsteady.
“Just opened it. Did you know?”
“Nothing! Absolutely nothing! I thought Dad was just seeing someone casually. And now—this!”
Penelope walked to the kitchen, filling the kettle. Outside, a thin drizzle painted the streets grey, matching the weight in her chest.
“Gem, have you ever even seen her? This Isabelle?”
“Once, by chance. They were leaving a café, and I drove past. Young, maybe mid-thirties at most. Bleach-blonde, dripping in gold and faux fur.”
Penelope winced. Her father was sixty-eight. The gap was staggering.
“Think it’s about money?” Gemma guessed. “Remember when Dad sold the cottage? And that two-bedroom flat in Kensington?”
“Don’t know,” Penelope sighed. “We need to talk to him.”
“Let’s go together. I’ll leave work early.”
The next day, they met outside their father’s building. Victor had moved there after selling the family home where they’d grown up—claimed he wanted to be closer to the city. Now, Penelope suspected other motives.
“My girls!” Victor greeted them with open arms. “So glad you’re here! I’ll introduce you to Isabelle.”
He looked younger somehow—fresh haircut, smart shirt, even his stride was brisker.
“Dad, we need to talk,” Penelope said firmly.
“Of course! Isabelle’s just making supper. She’s brilliant in the kitchen, you’ll see.”
From the kitchen came the clatter of dishes and a woman humming. Victor led them to the sitting room, gesturing to the sofa.
“Darlings, I’m thrilled you’ll meet Isabelle. She’s wonderful—kind, caring. Never thought I’d fall in love again at my age.”
Penelope and Gemma exchanged glances. The word “love” in their sixty-eight-year-old father’s mouth felt unnatural.
“Dad,” Gemma started, “how long have you known her?”
“Four months. Met at the GP’s, queue for the cardiologist. Her mum was in hospital; she was distraught. I comforted her, walked her home…”
“Four months, and already a wedding?” Penelope blurted. “Isn’t that too fast?”
“At our age, why wait?” Victor frowned slightly. “We know what we want.”
Just then, a woman entered, and Penelope knew Gemma was right. Isabelle looked no older than thirty-five—if that. Tall, slim, honey-blonde hair and a face powdered to perfection. Her fitted dress shimmered under layers of jewelry.
“Girls, meet Isabelle!” Victor beamed. “My Isabelle. And these are my daughters, Penelope and Gemma.”
“Lovely to meet you,” Isabelle cooed, extending a manicured hand. “Victor’s told me *so* much.”
Her voice was saccharine. Penelope’s skin prickled.
Dinner was lavish—crystal glasses, candles, flowers. Beautiful, yet somehow staged.
“Isabelle, tell them about yourself,” Victor urged, pouring wine.
“Oh, what’s to tell?” She laughed. “Just a simple girl. I’m a nail technician at a salon. Single, no kids. Was married, but he was… difficult.”
“Difficult how?” Gemma pressed.
“Drank. Hit me. Had to leave. Been wary of men since. Then I met your dad…”
She gazed at Victor with such adoration that Penelope suppressed a shiver.
“And your parents?” Gemma continued.
“Mum’s alive. Dad’s long gone. Mum’s poorly—I care for her. Victor’s been so generous, even helping with her medicines. Such a *good* man.”
Victor glowed under the praise.
Later, alone in the hall, Penelope confronted him. “Dad, she’s lying. She doesn’t care for anyone. Her mother’s been dead for years.”
Victor sighed. “Does it matter? I’m sixty-eight. Your mum’s been gone eight years. I’ve been like a rotten stump. Now, a young, beautiful woman smiles at me, cooks, asks about my day. So what if it’s pretence? I’m happy.”
The wedding was small—registry office, then a meal at a posh restaurant. Isabelle glittered in white. Victor smiled, but his eyes were hollow.
Within months, he aged. Isabelle’s visits to his hospital bed grew scarce. “Busy,” she’d say, flashing new handbags.
One night, Victor called Penelope. “You were right. Pretend love is worse than loneliness.”
He died weeks later. Isabelle vanished after the funeral, leaving only a note:
*”Thanks for the lovely time, Victor. Take care.”*
Penelope stood in the empty flat, stripped of everything—even her mother’s photos.
Isabelle got what she came for. Victor never learned: real love isn’t bought. Not with money, not with comfort.
