CHAPTER 62

WITHOUT HIM YOU'RE NOTHING...

The estate carried a heavy stillness the following morning, the kind that always seemed to come before a storm. Abigail woke with that same weight pressing on her chest, but there was no hesitation in her movements. She dressed carefully, choosing a soft gray dress that clung to her frame with understated elegance. It wasn’t loud, it wasn’t meant to impress. It was her statement: quiet strength.

She descended the grand staircase with poise, her hand trailing lightly along the polished banister. The servants watched her in silence. Some still carried the faint look of disbelief whenever they saw her as though they couldn’t quite reconcile the young woman they had once dismissed with the mistress of the house she had become. Abigail noticed but didn’t waver.

Luke was gone already. His business consumed him, but his presence lingered in the house like an unseen shadow. She drew comfort from that, even as she prepared for what lay ahead.

Today, Carmen had sent word. There was to be a gathering at one of the private lounges in the city, an informal meeting of the women from the club. Abigail had considered refusing, but the thought died quickly. Luke had been clear: she was to hold her place, to learn the language of that world and, in time, bend it to her will. Avoidance was no longer an option.

So she went.

The lounge was opulent low golden lighting, velvet chairs, and walls lined with art worth more than entire towns. The air smelled faintly of roses and expensive wine. Abigail entered with her head high, her every step measured. Conversations lulled for a heartbeat as the women turned to look at her. She felt their eyes grazing her like blades, but she didn’t flinch.

Carmen was there, of course, seated elegantly at the center as though she owned the room. Her emerald dress shimmered in the dim light, her posture flawless, her smile faint but cutting. Beside her lounged Obetta, lips curved into a smirk, eyes gleaming with unspoken malice.

“Abigail,” Carmen’s voice drifted through the room, silk over steel. “We were wondering if you’d actually come.”

“I was invited,” Abigail said evenly, her voice calm, controlled. She moved forward and took a seat without waiting to be directed, an action that earned a few raised brows.

The women around them shifted, some stifling giggles, others exchanging glances. Carmen tilted her head, her smile never wavering. “You’re learning,” she murmured, as if Abigail were some student under her tutelage.

Abigail folded her hands in her lap, her face smooth. “I don’t learn for anyone, Carmen. I only choose when to reveal what I already know.”

A ripple of laughter moved across the room, sharp and entertained. Carmen’s smile faltered, just for a second. But she recovered quickly, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

Obetta leaned forward, her tone syrupy sweet. “It’s bold of you to speak so… directly. But then again, boldness doesn’t equal staying power. A pity, really. You remind me of so many women who once thought they had a place among us.”

The insinuation hung thick in the air. Abigail’s fingers tightened briefly around the hem of her dress beneath the table. She kept her expression serene. “And yet, here I am. Not fading away. Not being replaced. Still here.”

The jamesberth woman, tall, graceful, with a piercing intelligence in her eyes, let out a soft chuckle. “Perhaps what keeps her here isn’t boldness or pity, but something you underestimate, Obetta: strength.” Her voice sliced neatly through the undercurrent of mockery.

Silence followed. Carmen’s gaze flicked to the berth woman, then back to Abigail, as if weighing something unseen.

The conversation shifted to trivial matters after that jewelry, upcoming galas, rumors of political changes in the city. But beneath it all, Abigail felt the steady hum of tension. Every time she spoke, Carmen’s eyes tracked her like a predator. Every silence Abigail kept was measured, controlled, her refusal to be baited becoming its own form of defiance.

At one point, Carmen leaned in slightly, her voice pitched low so that only Abigail could hear. “You think a single word of resistance makes you untouchable? You’re still here because Luke tolerates you. Without him, you’re nothing.”

Abigail turned her head slowly, meeting Carmen’s gaze. She didn’t raise her voice, didn’t let anger sharpen her tongue. Instead, she smiled faintly, her expression unreadable. “And yet with him, I’m everything you’re not.”

The words struck like glass breaking. Carmen’s eyes darkened, though her lips curved into an even sweeter smile, hiding the sting. Abigail knew she’d landed the blow, and she didn’t need to press further.

Hours later, when the meeting dissolved, Abigail stepped into the cool night air. She inhaled deeply, letting the scent of the city wash over her, her chest rising with something close to relief. But beneath it was pride. She hadn’t broken. She hadn’t let Carmen steer the conversation, hadn’t bent under Obetta’s barbs.

The berth woman emerged a few steps behind her. For a moment, Abigail thought she would walk past, but instead she paused. “You handled yourself well,” she said softly.

Abigail blinked, then offered a small nod. “I only did what I had to.”

The woman studied her, her gaze calculating. “That’s what makes the difference. You did it without showing desperation.” She tilted her head. “Be careful. Carmen doesn’t forgive easily. And Obetta she’s the type to burn the house down just to prove she could light a fire.”

Abigail’s lips curved faintly. “Then I’ll be the one who stands in the ashes.”

The woman’s eyes glittered with something that almost looked like approval before she walked away into the night.

When Abigail returned home, Luke was in his study. He looked up as she entered, his pen pausing mid-stroke. “How was it?” he asked, his tone clipped but intent.

She sank into the chair opposite him, her shoulders relaxing only now. “They tried,” she said. “Carmen, Obetta. All of them. But I didn’t bend.”

Luke leaned back, his dark eyes assessing her carefully. Then, for the first time that day, a flicker of pride warmed his gaze. “Good.”

Abigail met his eyes, her voice steady. “Luke, they think I’m here because of you. That without you, I’m nothing. But I need you to understand I won’t let them reduce me to that. I’m your wife. Not your shadow.”

The silence between them was thick. Finally, Luke rose, came around the desk, and stood before her. His hand lifted, fingers brushing against her jaw, tilting her face up. His eyes burned into hers. “Then prove it. To them. To me. To yourself. Don’t just stand at my side, Abigail stand as though you were always meant to.”

Her heart thundered, but she didn’t look away. “I will.”

And in that moment, she believed it more fiercely than ever.

That night, as she lay in bed, Abigail thought of Carmen’s cutting words, Obetta’s venom, and the way the Beth woman’s voice had intervened like a shield. She thought of Luke’s challenge, of the weight of being his wife in a world that wanted to see her crumble.

But instead of fear, she felt fire.

Tomorrow, they would look at her again. Tomorrow, they would test her. But tonight, she knew the truth that had been quietly building inside her for weeks.

She could not be controlled. Not by Carmen. Not by Obetta. Not by anyone.