Home Wrecker

Colliding with Mrs Thompson

Wednesday dawned clear and bright, matching Emma’s mood. She arrived back at the Thompson estate precisely at 11:00 AM, pulling up behind a discreet, unmarked white van carrying her sound technician. She was dressed in an impeccably tailored cream suit,professional armor,and was here ostensibly to finalize the measurements for the specialized sound dampening equipment.

As Emma entered the ballroom accompanied by her sound specialist, she found Sophia waiting. Sophia was standing stiffly by a crystal vase overflowing with expensive white peonies and deep velvet garden roses. The flowy yellow sundress was gone, replaced by an expensive cashmere skirt and silk top ,a slight, almost defensive upgrade, but still lacking Emma’s razor-sharp edge.

"Good morning, Sophia," Emma said, injecting a warm professionalism into her tone. "My technician, Mark, is just going to take some acoustic readings for the ballroom setup. We need to measure the reverberation precisely to protect the room's integrity, as we discussed with Mr Thompson."

Sophia barely glanced at Mark, her attention fixed solely on Emma. Her voice, usually bubbling with false brightness, was tight and thin. "I had a rather confusing morning, Emma."

Emma set her binder on a nearby table, turning to face Sophia with serene neutrality. "Oh? With which vendor?"

"The candle supplier," Sophia replied, her hand fluttering near her chest. "They called about the cancellation. Apparently, the timing was too late, and I've lost the deposit. They also inquired about a large order for a miniature art deco pen. And then the catering company called about an unexpected substitution,removing the late-night macaroons for some specialty dessert bar. I thought we had finalized all these elements together."

Emma adopted a look of serious concern, though her mind was running through the checklist of her approved bypasses. "I apologize for the confusion, Sophia. I should have perhaps looped you in earlier, but these were all time-sensitive logistics. The Art Deco favors and the dessert bar upgrade required immediate financial sign-off to secure the vendors and align with the final budget parameters. I only needed ten minutes with Mr Thompson to align them with the strategic priorities."

"Strategic priorities?" Sophia echoed, stepping closer. "The candles were perfectly within the budget! And they were meant to be personal. Ryan simply told me they had to be canceled, that they were about 'legacy.' Now I’ve lost money on the deposit."

Emma maintained direct eye contact, allowing zero visible crack in her composure. "That's exactly right, Sophia. The lost deposit is regrettable, but negligible in the overall budget. As Mr Thompson mentioned, the keepsakes are a strategic decision. Given the prestige of your guest list, a generic candle, however lovely, doesn't maximize the social statement we need the anniversary to convey. He wanted the favors to reflect the high intellectual standard of the Thompson name."

She delivered the word intellectual like a subtle, calculated slap.

"And Julianne Vance?" Sophia’s voice rose, showing the true depth of her distress. "The jazz quartet was perfect. Why are we bringing in a European cellist for a late-night set? It’s an enormous cost, Emma, and it wasn't my decision."

Emma allowed a sympathetic sigh to escape. "That was my fault, Sophia. The opportunity to book Vance was fleeting,she's only in the country for 48 hours. Your husband authorized the expense immediately during our strategic consultation yesterday morning. As a businessman, he understood the value of securing a cultural coup, it ensures the Thompsons are always setting the trend, not following it."

Sophia gripped the edge of the vase, her gaze intense. "So you've been having 'strategic consultations' with my husband. Private calls."

"Only logistical calls," Emma corrected smoothly, though the confirmation was clear. "Mr Thompson is the signatory on the budget, Sophia. My job is to execute the most strategically advantageous event possible within the parameters he authorizes. He simply asked me to deal with him directly on the high-level investments."

Emma let the truth hang heavy in the air: Ryan asked me to bypass you.

"But this is our anniversary, Emma," Sophia whispered, her eyes filling with a genuine hurt that Emma found both pathetic and oddly satisfying. "This is supposed to be personal, about us, not just a... a 'strategic statement.'"

Emma moved closer, softening her stance but not her resolve. She put a hand gently on Sophia's arm, a fleeting gesture of false intimacy.

"It is personal, Sophia. But he views his life, his marriage, and his anniversary as the ultimate public investment," Emma murmured. "My job is to ensure that investment yields the highest return. And that means sometimes, practicality and prestige must win over simple elegance. Trust me. He knows exactly what he is doing."

Emma lifted her chin, the cream suit perfectly tailored, the message perfectly delivered. She was the one who understood Ryan, and Sophia was merely a decorative element of his portfolio.

...Sophia pulled her arm away, her grit desolving. The fight drained out of her, replaced by a desperate need for external validation. "I... I need to go talk to him. He needs to understand that I wanted this to be about us."

"He will be home soon, Sophia. I believe he mentioned six o'clock?" Emma asked, maintaining her calm, professional facade.

Sophia shook her head, clutching her hands together. "No, he texted Maria earlier. His meeting finished early. He's on his way now. I need to be ready to intercept him." She hurried out of the great hall, her cashmere skirt swishing, heading toward the main entry foyer to wait for his arrival.

Emma watched her go. Run to him, she thought, and watch him dismiss your feelings.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Emma turned back to Mark, who was setting up a microphone and large sound meter. "Mark, can you take the initial readings in the north corner, please? We need to check for reflections off the glass."

As Mark moved, Emma drifted toward the immense floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the front circular driveway and the landscaped grounds. She picked up a stray sheet of the acoustic data on her clipboard, pretending to review it, but her gaze was fixed outside.

A moment later, a sleek, dark black SUV, larger and more imposing than Emma's own sedan, swept up the driveway and came to a halt. Ryan Thompson emerged. He was dressed in a powerful, custom-tailored suit, looking less like a man coming home and more like a CEO stepping off a private jet.

Sophia, who must have been waiting in the foyer, immediately rushed to meet him near the car's passenger door.

Emma watched the silent scene unfold through the glass. Sophia reached for his arm, her posture conveying desperation and vulnerability. Ryan turned and gave his wife a quick, practiced peck on the cheek and a brief, one-armed hug—a gesture of ownership more than affection. The moment the embrace broke, he immediately pulled out his phone, already back on a call.

Sophia talked quickly, gesturing toward the house,clearly venting about the canceled orders and the strategic shifts. Ryan pressed the phone against his shoulder, listening with the distant, weary patience of a man tolerating a child's complaint. He patted her hand once, briefly, and then moved slightly away, resuming his conversation with his business caller, his body language signalling a swift end to the discussion. Sophia was left standing alone, her shoulders slumped, her entire body language radiating neglect.

He views her as background noise, Emma realized, a chilling confirmation of her theory.

Just as Ryan ended his call abruptly, his eyes drifted toward the house, perhaps noticing Mark setting up equipment in the great hall. His gaze swept across the glass, past the technician, and landed squarely on Emma.

For the first time, Ryan Thompson saw Emma Taylor outside the context of a phone call or an email subject line. He saw the woman in the impeccable cream suit, standing confidently in his wife’s discarded territory, holding the schematics of the chaos he had just approved.

A flicker of something, recognition, perhaps intrigue crossed his face. He tucked his phone into his trousers and started walking toward the house, his stride long and purposeful. Sophia trailed behind him, looking defeated.

Emma felt a slow, scorching heat rise in her chest. She had a five-second warning. She quickly dropped the clipboard and turned to Mark, her voice tight with urgent instruction.

"Mark, stop. Get everything packed. We need to reset the mic array in the south corner immediately. Now."

She was moving toward the door just as Ryan Thompson, followed by a quiet Sophia, entered the great hall.

"Ms. Taylor," he said, his voice echoing slightly in the vast space. It wasn't a question, it was a command for her attention.

Emma turned, her professional mask instantly flawless. She offered him a cool, composed smile. "Mr Thompson. I wasn't expecting you back so soon. We are just wrapping up the acoustic analysis."

This was it. Their first, unscheduled, and intimate face-to-face meeting.