CHAPTER 61

I BELONG HERE. WITH YOU..

The morning light slipped through the tall windows of the Vandell mansion, spilling golden streaks across the polished marble floor. Abigail stirred slowly, her eyes blinking against the brightness. It had been a restless night; thoughts of Carmen’s cold smile, Obetta’s scheming eyes, and the whispers of the women in the club clung to her mind like a heavy veil. She turned on her side and found the space beside her empty. Luke had already risen, as always. His discipline never faltered, no matter the hour they slept.

For a while, Abigail lay there, staring at the ceiling. She was no longer the same timid girl who had walked into the Vandell household under a contract. The memories of those first days came back to her her shaking hands, her silence in front of Luke, and the way his gaze had made her feel insignificant and powerful all at once. But the journey had changed her. She had endured whispers, attacks, and schemes from people who wanted her gone. And through it all, she remained.

She stretched, slid out of bed, and padded into the bathroom. The shower water cascaded over her skin, warm and steady, washing away the tension that had hardened her shoulders. She pressed her forehead to the cool tiles and whispered softly to herself, “You can’t let them win, Abigail. Not Carmen. Not Obetta. Not anyone.”

By the time she stepped out, she had chosen a cream silk blouse and fitted navy trousers. She dressed carefully, brushed her hair until it gleamed, and when she caught her reflection in the mirror, she almost smiled. She didn’t look like a poor girl trying to belong. She looked like Luke’s wife.

The scent of fresh bread and coffee guided her downstairs. In the dining hall, Luke was already seated, his back straight, one hand resting lazily on the table while the other held a newspaper. His dark suit was immaculate, his tie perfectly knotted. The air around him radiated command, the kind that made everyone else fall silent in his presence.

Abigail hesitated for a moment at the door, still struck by him, before quietly moving toward her seat. A servant immediately poured her tea and placed a plate before her.

Luke lowered the newspaper and studied her with those sharp, assessing eyes. “You didn’t sleep much,” he said, his tone more statement than question.

She picked up her cup and tried to hide her surprise. “You noticed.”

“I notice everything about you.” His voice was low, almost dangerous, but not unkind. “Your mind was heavy last night. Speak.”

Abigail shifted, her fingers tightening around the delicate porcelain. This was Luke direct, never allowing her to bury her emotions under silence. Slowly, she set down the cup. “Carmen.” She breathed the name as though it carried weight. “She thinks she can control me. She acts like my place here depends on her permission.”

A faint curve tugged at his lips, not quite a smile. “Carmen has always thought too highly of herself. You gave her more than she deserves if you let her disturb your sleep.”

“She doesn’t disturb me,” Abigail said quickly, though her voice wavered. “But I can’t ignore how she looks at me like I’m temporary, like I don’t belong.”

Luke leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing. “Do you belong here, Abigail?”

The question struck her hard. Her breath caught. She remembered the contract, the fragile beginnings of their marriage, and the nights she had wondered if she was just a shadow in his life. But things had changed. They had endured too much together. Slowly, she raised her chin. “Yes. I belong here. With you.”

Luke’s expression softened only a fraction, but that was enough to make her chest swell with warmth. He folded the newspaper and set it aside. “Then hold that truth. Because they will try to rip it from you. Carmen. Obetta. Even others we haven’t seen yet. They feed on doubt.”

Abigail nodded, but inside, she was trembling. Not from fear this time, but from the growing resolve that she would not bend.

Later that afternoon, Luke left for the company, and Abigail wandered into the garden. The sprawling estate stretched endlessly, with fountains and trimmed hedges that seemed to whisper stories of wealth and power. Yet despite the beauty, her mind wandered back to the previous day’s club meeting.

The voices replayed in her memory: women laughing behind manicured hands, Obetta’s smug tone slicing through the air. And her calm, poised, laced with venom in every word.

“You’re a charity case, Abigail.”

“Vandell men never stay with women like you.”

“She’ll disappear when the novelty wears off.”

Her hands clenched into fists. She remembered sitting there, forcing herself to remain quiet, her face composed while her insides burned. It was humiliating. Yet, amidst it all, one voice had cut through: the woman from the Lois Cruz family. She hadn’t defended Abigail directly, but her sharp, dismissive words toward Obetta and the others had created a pause, a shift in the current of the room. That subtle act of defiance had been enough to remind Abigail she wasn’t completely alone.

Now, walking past the roses in bloom, Abigail whispered under her breath, “Thank you.” She didn’t even know the woman’s first name, but gratitude swelled in her chest. Perhaps allies could be found in the most unexpected places.

That evening, Luke returned earlier than usual. Abigail was seated in the lounge, a book open in her lap but unread. She looked up as he entered, his tall frame filling the doorway. Without a word, he crossed to her, leaned down, and brushed his lips over hers a gesture brief but claiming.

Her heart raced. “You’re home early.”

“Meetings were dull,” he replied simply, loosening his tie. His eyes settled on her, scanning her face. “You’ve been thinking.”

“Always,” she murmured.

He sat beside her, the space between them shrinking until his presence surrounded her completely. “Tell me.”

Abigail swallowed. She thought of the club, of Carmen’s schemes, of Obetta’s smirk. But she also thought of the woman from the Lois Cruz family, of her own resolve that had taken root in her chest like a growing flame. “I won’t let them control me, Luke. Not Carmen. Not Obetta. No one. I know what they want to see me break. But I won’t give them the satisfaction.”

Luke studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he spoke, his voice deep and steady. “Good. Because the moment you let them dictate your worth, you cease being mine.”

Abigail’s breath caught. His words, harsh as they sounded, filled her with a strange sense of strength. She reached for his hand, and he let her fingers slip into his, their grip firm.

For the rest of the evening, they sat together in silence, their hearts steadying against the storm that loomed ahead.

The next morning began with fresh tension. Servants bustled quietly, their eyes lowered, but Abigail felt their sideways glances. Word always traveled quickly in households like this, whispers slipping through corridors faster than the wind. She ignored them, keeping her head high.

Luke walked beside her, his arm brushing hers as they entered the dining hall. He didn’t say much, but his presence was enough to anchor her. When he finally left for the company, she watched him go with a quiet ache, the same ache she had felt every morning since she realized her heart had gone far beyond their contract.

But today, unlike before, she did not feel weak. She felt ready.

The rest of the day was hers to think, to plan, to remember. She thought of Maya her friend who had reminded her of strength in simpler times, before all the wealth and politics. She thought of how far she had come. And she thought of what still lay ahead: Carmen’s subtle wars, Obetta’s shameless provocations, and the eyes of the elite club fixed on her every move.

As the sun dipped low, Abigail stood at her window, looking out over the estate. She whispered softly to herself, her voice carrying a quiet fire:

“They don’t control me. I do.”