Wife Reclaims Her Life

The carriage arrived at noon, and I watched from the upstairs window as servants unloaded trunk after trunk. Milana had brought enough luggage for a queen. Or rather, for a woman who intended to become one.

I smoothed my skirts and descended the main staircase with measured steps. Joelle followed two paces behind, her presence a silent reassurance. The ledger we'd reviewed that morning sat locked in my study now, every asset documented, every ward family holding accounted for. Knowledge was armor, and I had just finished putting mine on.

Milana stood in the entrance hall, surrounded by her belongings like a merchant displaying wares. She wore pale blue silk that clung to her curves in ways my own dresses never did, cut low enough to be suggestive without crossing into vulgarity. Her hair fell in artful waves down her back, and she'd applied just enough rouge to make her cheeks glow with what might pass for natural color if you didn't look too closely.

When she saw me, her expression shifted into something practiced—eyes widening, lips trembling, one hand rising to her throat as if I'd startled her. The performance was impressive. I wondered how many men had fallen for it.

"Lady River," she said, her voice carrying that breathy quality some women cultivated to sound fragile. "I hope my arrival isn't an inconvenience. His Lordship was most insistent that I—"

"The master suite is on the third floor," I said, cutting through her rehearsed speech. I remained at the top of the stairs, looking down at her. The physical positioning wasn't accidental. "However, there are protocols that must be observed."

Her eyes flickered with something sharp beneath the innocent veneer. "Protocols?"

"The Obeisance," I said clearly, ensuring the guards stationed at the door could hear. "No one enters the private chambers of this household without performing the traditional greeting. Surely you understand the importance of maintaining proper decorum."

It was a lie, of course. Or rather, it was a custom so archaic that no one had observed it in decades. But it was documented in the Queen Mother's own book on household etiquette, buried in a chapter about historical practices. I'd spent my morning finding it.

Milana's composure cracked slightly. "I... I'm not familiar with—"

"It's quite simple," I said, keeping my tone pleasant, educational even. "You kneel, place your forehead to the floor, and request permission to enter. The mistress of the house then grants or denies access as she sees fit."

Color flooded Milana's cheeks, and for a moment, the mask slipped entirely. I saw calculation in her eyes, fury barely restrained. She turned toward the door, clearly expecting Philip to materialize and rescue her from this humiliation.

But Philip had left for the military barracks an hour ago. I'd made certain to time Milana's arrival for when he'd be unavailable.

"Surely this isn't necessary," Milana tried again, her voice losing some of its breathy quality. "His Lordship invited me personally. He wouldn't want—"

"His Lordship doesn't manage household protocols," I said. "That authority belongs to the lady of the house. Which would be me." I paused, letting that sink in. "Of course, if you find the custom too demanding, the guest quarters in the east wing are perfectly comfortable. They're typically reserved for visiting merchants and tradespeople, but I'm sure we can make an exception."

The servants had gone very still. Milana stood frozen, her carefully constructed image of pitiful fragility warring with her obvious rage. Kneel before River Ward—the wife she'd come to replace—or accept quarters meant for people so far beneath her aspirations that it would be tantamount to admitting her true origins.

I waited. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the ticking of the hall clock.

"I need to speak with His Lordship," Milana finally said, her voice tight.

"Of course." I smiled. "I believe he'll return by evening. In the meantime, I'll have the guest quarters prepared. Joelle, please show Miss Bradley to the east wing. Make sure she has fresh linens."

"My lady," Joelle said, moving past me down the stairs.

Milana's hands clenched at her sides, crushing the delicate fabric of her dress. For a moment, I thought she might actually do it—might actually kneel just to prove she could endure anything to claim her prize. But pride won over strategy.

"The east wing will be fine," she said through gritted teeth.

I inclined my head graciously. "Excellent. Dinner is served at seven. I look forward to becoming better acquainted."

As Joelle led Milana away, I remained at the top of the stairs, watching her retreating form. In my past life, I would have been weeping by now, screaming at Philip, making myself into the villain he needed me to be. But tears were a luxury I could no longer afford.

This was war. And I'd just won the first battle.