Chapter Four: One year later

Time did not heal anything.

It organized it.

A year into the marriage, I learned that survival was not about endurance alone. It was about precision. Knowing when to speak. When to disappear. When to let silence do the work for you.

I learned the rhythm of the house the way one learns tides, slowly, by watching what returned and what never did.

My husband was predictable. He rose early, ate alone, spoke little. He expected access without discussion and compliance without gratitude. He did not beat me. He did not insult me. He used me the way one uses an object that belongs to them—without malice, without thought.

That, I discovered, was its own kind of violence.

The other wives existed like carefully placed ornaments. We crossed paths occasionally, always polite, never familiar. None of us spoke about why we were here. That kind of honesty would have been dangerous.

We were women attached to the same man, but there was no sisterhood in it. Only awareness.

I stayed quiet.

Quiet women were allowed more freedom than emotional ones.

I learned the estate. Which hallways were monitored. Which servants talked too much. Which guards looked bored instead of loyal. Information collected slowly was safer than information demanded.

At night, when the house slept, I thought of my sister.

I counted years again. Measured time like currency. I imagined her growing taller, her voice changing, her understanding sharpening. I imagined my mother aging under the weight of fear, watching the calendar with the same dread I carried.

I needed to see them.

Not openly. Not recklessly.

Quietly.

It took months to arrange.

Favors repaid without being named. Messages passed through servants who owed something to someone else. A visit framed as obligation, not affection. I learned that power respected necessity more than sentiment.

The first time I returned home, I did not go inside.

I stood across the street and watched.

My sister was thinner. Taller. Still alive. Still untouched.

That was enough to keep me breathing for weeks.

I left money without explanation. I sent instructions disguised as advice. I told my mother nothing that could be traced back to me. Protection required distance. Love required restraint.

The house never noticed my absence.

That told me everything I needed to know about my value there.

My husband’s name carried weight beyond the estate. Men visited often. Discussions took place behind closed doors. I listened from doorways and learned how influence moved—how loyalty was bought, how debts were collected, how favors were never truly free.

This was the world my sister would one day be swallowed by if I failed.

I was not allowed opinions. But I was allowed presence.

And presence, I learned, was powerful.

The staff whispered more often as the year passed. Preparations began quietly. Rooms cleaned that had been left untouched for years. Schedules adjusted. Tension crept into conversations like a held breath.

I asked no questions.

I already knew what it meant.

The heir was coming home.

I had heard his name before, spoken with reverence and irritation in equal measure. The son raised alone. The legacy shaped carefully. The man my husband trusted no one else to become.

I wondered what kind of person was created by a father like mine had been.

I wondered what kind of man returned to a house full of wives that were not his mother.

On the morning he arrived, the estate felt different. Alert. Expectant.

I stayed out of the way.

I had no reason to be seen.

At least, that was what I believed then.