Three days had passed since the board meeting. Three days of suffocating silence in the massive Burnett estate.
Frances sat in her private suite, the screen of her laptop glowing in the dim light. A woman's face stared back at her-a therapist hired by the family to deal with her 'trauma'.
"And how have the anxiety symptoms been manifesting, Frances?" the therapist asked, her voice soft and clinical.
Frances kept her face blank. "I still have trouble sleeping," she said. "I feel on edge."
It was a lie. She wasn't on edge. She was focused. The therapy sessions were a shield, a way to explain away her strange behavior while she plotted her next move under the guise of recovery.
A soft knock on the door interrupted her. Phoebe peeked her head in. "Ma'am," she whispered. "The Mr. has returned."
Frances's stomach clenched. She turned back to the screen. "We'll have to continue this next week," she told the therapist, ending the call abruptly.
She walked to the window. Down below, a black SUV was pulling up to the front entrance. Baron stepped out, his face set in a hard line. He didn't look up at her window.
That night, the dining room was a freezer. Baron sat at the head of the long table, Frances at the other end. The distance between them felt like a canyon. He didn't speak to her. He didn't even look at her.
Instead, he chatted amiably with Estela, pointedly ignoring Frances. They discussed the weather, a recent business deal, anything and everything that didn't involve the woman sitting ten feet away.
Frances ate her meal in silence. She tasted nothing. The roasted chicken might as well have been cardboard. But she didn't complain. She didn't cry. She simply ate, her posture rigid, her face a mask of indifference.
After dinner, Baron moved to the grand parlor. Estela sat by the fire. Herta stood silently by the fireplace, her eyes missing nothing, and a few other staff members were cleaning up.
Baron spoke, his voice carrying perfectly across the room, designed to be overheard. "Frances's condition is quite worrying," he said to Estela. "Her behavior at the meeting... it was clearly a hysterical episode brought on by the trauma."
Frances was walking past the doorway. She stopped for a fraction of a second.
"She needs more patience," Baron continued, his tone dripping with false concern. "The doctor says this kind of mental instability can last for a long time."
He was labeling her. Crazy. Unstable. Hysterical. He was laying the groundwork to have her committed, to make anything she said or did the ramblings of a madwoman.
A young maid, Coral Baines, looked up from her dusting. She shot Frances a look of pure sympathy. But a sharp glare from Herta sent the girl's eyes right back to the floor.
Frances didn't stop. She didn't confront him. She simply walked up the grand staircase, her back straight, her steps measured. She would not give him the satisfaction of a breakdown.
Later that night, Frances sat in the small study adjacent to her bedroom, reviewing financial statements. The door clicked open.
Baron leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. He watched her with a predator's gaze, looking for a crack in her armor.
"What do you want, Frances?" he asked, his voice low and condescending. "More money? Or are you just acting out to get my attention?"
He was trying to fit her into the old box. The needy wife. The jealous woman. It was the only way he knew how to control her.
Frances closed the laptop slowly. She stood up, smoothing her robe. "I don't want anything, Baron," she said, her voice flat. "Especially not your attention."
She moved to walk past him, out of the study. But as she passed, his hand shot out. His fingers clamped around her wrist like a vise, the pressure sharp and immediate.
"Don't play games with me," he snarled, his face inches from hers. "You are still my wife."
Frances looked down at his hand, then back up at his face. There was no fear in her eyes. No love. No hate. Just a vast, empty coldness that seemed to unnerve him.
"Contractual wife," she corrected, her voice barely a whisper. "Remember? You said it yourself. We are just a business arrangement."
She twisted her arm, breaking his grip with a sudden, sharp movement. She didn't look back as she walked out of the room.
Baron stood there, staring at his empty hand. His jaw clenched. The familiar script had been torn up. He didn't know what to do with a wife who didn't want him.
Upstairs, Phoebe was waiting in Frances's bedroom. She poured a glass of warm milk and set it on the nightstand. "Ma'am," she said hesitantly. "You shouldn't have to endure this. Mr. Burnett, he's..."
Frances held up a hand, silencing her. "Phoebe, sympathy is a weapon for the weak. I don't need it."
Phoebe's mouth snapped shut. She looked at Frances, really looked at her. The woman standing before her was not the same fragile girl who had married into this family. She was someone else entirely. Someone dangerous.
Frances walked to the vanity mirror. She stared at her own reflection-the pale skin, the dark circles under her eyes. The war was just beginning. If she didn't find a way to fight back, they would bury her alive.
She picked up her phone. A new email had arrived, the sender hidden behind a string of encrypted numbers. The subject line read: Initial Report on Gia Hobbs.
Frances opened it. Her eyes scanned the text, her mind racing. If Baron wanted to play dirty, she was more than ready to get her hands muddy.
