Loving my Father’s Wife

The mansion was a tomb made of white marble.

It stood on a hill overlooking the city, enormous and sterile, its windows tall and narrow like watchful eyes. People admired it from a distance. They called it elegant, timeless, powerful. Inside, it was silent in the way hospitals were silent, not peaceful, but watchful, as if the walls themselves were listening for mistakes.

For Mary, every day was a lesson in how to disappear while still breathing.

At twenty-two, she had mastered the art of moving without being noticed. She walked with her weight carefully distributed so the floorboards would not creak. She learned which doors needed to be closed slowly and which handles stuck if you turned them too fast. She knew how to sit straight for hours without shifting, how to keep her hands folded in her lap so no one could accuse her of fidgeting. She had learned to cry without sound, without tears, without evidence. Crying openly in this house had consequences.

In the house of Silas Vance, emotions were a weakness. And Mary had been born weak.

She stood in front of the tall mirror in her bedroom, staring at a girl she did not recognize. The room was large, too large for one person, and decorated in pale colors that made it feel colder than it was. Everything in it had been chosen by someone else. The curtains, the furniture, the clothes in her wardrobe. Even the mirror had been selected to reflect proper posture.

The girl staring back at her looked fragile. Her hair fell loosely down her back, too pale against her skin, and her eyes were dull, the color of a bruised sky just before rain. She looked breakable, like something ornamental, something that existed to be displayed and then put away.

She adjusted the neckline of her dress automatically, smoothing imaginary wrinkles. Her fingers hesitated at her collarbone, where faint yellowing bruises still lingered from her father’s grip weeks ago. He had not meant to hurt her, he had said. She had startled him. She always startled him. By existing.

“Mary.”

The voice cut through the silence like a blade.

Elena.

Mary flinched before she could stop herself. The woman had not knocked. She never did. Elena believed knocking implied respect, and Mary did not qualify for that.

“Yes?” Mary answered quietly.

“Your father is waiting in the dining hall,” Elena said from the doorway. Her tone was flat, precise. “You are three minutes late.”

“I’m coming,” Mary whispered.

Her voice sounded wrong to her ears, thin and unused, like something rusted shut. She reached for her shawl, though the room was not cold. It was a reflex. Cover yourself. Make yourself smaller. Be less.

As she stepped into the hallway, Elena watched her with clinical disinterest, eyes scanning for imperfections. A wrinkle. A loose strand of hair. Something to criticize later. Then the woman turned and walked away, heels clicking sharply against the marble floor.

Mary followed at a distance.

The grand staircase loomed ahead of her, wide and dramatic, designed to impress guests. Her hand wrapped around the gold railing as she descended, her grip tightening as a tremor ran through her fingers. She forced herself to slow her breathing. In. Out. Quietly.

The house was filled with art, expensive paintings, sculptures imported from Europe, vases older than entire countries. Landscapes of oceans, mountains, wild horses running free. Freedom hung on every wall, framed and untouchable.

There were no photographs of her.

No photographs of her mother.

Visitors sometimes asked about that. Silas would smile thinly and say he valued privacy. Mary knew the truth. The women of the Vance family were meant to be erased the moment they stopped serving a purpose.

The dining hall was freezing.

The table stretched across the room, polished so perfectly it reflected the chandelier above it. Forty chairs lined its sides, all empty except for one at the far end.

Silas Vance sat there alone.

He was reading documents, glasses perched low on his nose, his presence dominating the room without effort. The smell of tobacco and cologne hung heavy in the air. Old money. Old power. The kind that did not need to raise its voice to destroy someone.

Mary took her seat at the opposite end, as instructed. The distance between them felt intentional. It always did.

“Eat,” Silas said without looking up.

Mary’s eyes dropped to the plate in front of her. Steamed vegetables arranged neatly beside a small piece of fish. No seasoning. No excess. Even food in this house was controlled.

She picked up her fork carefully. The silver clicked faintly against the china.

Her shoulders tensed immediately.

Silas did not comment, but she felt the invisible weight of his judgment anyway. She chewed slowly, forcing the food down even as her stomach tightened. She had learned long ago that leaving food untouched led to accusations of ingratitude.

“The gala last night,” Silas said after a moment.

Mary’s heart stuttered.

“The Henderson boy attempted to speak with you,” he continued. “You stared at the floor like a frightened animal.”

“I didn’t know what to say,” Mary said, her voice barely audible.

“You don’t need to say anything,” Silas replied coolly. “You need to look like you belong beside a man of my stature.”

He finally looked up at her then.

His eyes were sharp, assessing, devoid of warmth.

“But you don’t,” he said. “You look like a ghost haunting my halls.”

Mary’s fingers tightened around her fork.

“I have spent millions on your education. Your clothes. Your housing. Your very breath.” He leaned back in his chair. “And you provide zero return on my investment.”

The word hit her like a slap.

Investment.

She swallowed hard.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered automatically.

“I don’t want your apologies.” Silas stood, the scrape of his chair loud in the silent room. “I want your compliance.”

He walked toward her, stopping just close enough to make her chest tighten.

“There is a shift coming, Mary. A change,” he said. His voice was calm, almost casual. “You have lived in this house for twenty-two years as a guest who pays no rent. That ends now.”

Her pulse roared in her ears.

“You will start earning your keep.”

Before she could ask what he meant, he turned and walked out.

The doors closed behind him with a final, echoing thud.

Mary sat frozen, the half-eaten fish sitting heavy in her stomach. The silence pressed down on her until it felt suffocating. Slowly, her eyes drifted to the empty chair across from her.

Her mother used to sit there.

She remembered her mother’s hands, soft, always trembling slightly. The way she smiled at Mary like she was afraid the smile might be taken away. She had died when Mary was ten, fading away quietly from what the doctors called a broken heart.

Mary knew better now.

Her mother had not died of heartbreak.

She had been drained. Slowly. Methodically. By the man who had just left the room.

Mary pushed her plate away and stood on unsteady legs. She returned to her room without being stopped, without being spoken to, without being acknowledged. She curled up on the window seat, pulling her knees to her chest as rain streaked down the glass.

The sky outside was gray and heavy, the rain blurring the world into something distant and unreachable.

She felt like the rain.

Something that fell, hit the ground, and was stepped on without a thought.

She did not turn on the lights. She sat there in the dark, breathing shallowly, wondering how much more of herself would be taken before there was nothing left to give.