The Neglected Wife's Bitter Awakening

Cassandra sat on the edge of the mattress. Her fingers twisted the crisp white bedsheet, pulling the fabric so tight her knuckles turned a stark, bone-white. The tears were still wet on her cheeks, but the despair in her chest was already hardening into something cold and sharp. Despair was a useless emotion. It wouldn't win her Kahlil. Only action would. Cold, sharp action.

Mrs. Dawson stood beside the bed. She handed Cassandra a tissue, her voice a low, conspiratorial whisper. "Miss Mills, you can't let that woman steal everything from you."

Cassandra snatched the tissue. Her voice shook, but the venom in her throat was undeniable. "She has everything. The face, the name. And now she wants his child? I won't let her."

Mrs. Dawson leaned closer. The older woman's breath smelled of peppermint and malice. "I overheard the staff talking. Mrs. Sinclair is trying to be with the master. To conceive."

Cassandra's head snapped up. Her pupils dilated. A hot, ugly jealousy burned in her stomach, rising to her throat like bile. "Conceive? After he rejected me? It's all her doing! She's bewitched him!"

Mrs. Dawson paused, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "There is one person. A Sinclair. A useless playboy, but he has the name and the appetites."

Cassandra's breathing hitched. A twisted, cold smile stretched across her lips. "Preston Sinclair. The family embarrassment."

She grabbed her phone from the nightstand. Her thumb tapped the screen rapidly. When the line connected, the coldness vanished from her face. Her voice instantly dropped into a soft, trembling pitch. "Preston? It's Cassandra. I... I need your help. It's about my sister..."

A low, sleazy laugh echoed through the speaker. Cassandra's stomach churned with disgust, but she forced a sweet, helpless tone, spinning a web of lies.

When she finally ended the call, the fragile mask shattered. Her eyes were flat and dead. "If she's ruined, Kahlil will have no choice but to see her for the harlot she is."

Cassandra pushed herself off the bed and settled into her wheelchair. She rolled out of the guest room, the wheels gliding silently over the thick carpet as she headed toward the kitchen.

Inside the kitchen, Bianca stared at the mixing bowl. Her hands were covered in white flour. She gripped a whisk, her chest tight with frustration.

Mrs. Gable hovered nearby, wiping the marble counter with a frantic rhythm. "Madam, perhaps you should let the chef..."

"No." Bianca bit her lower lip so hard she tasted copper. "I need to do this. It's part of the plan."

The thought of the heir agreement made her stomach drop. She reached for a bottle of dark sauce. Her hand trembled. The bottle slipped. Dark liquid splashed across the pristine white stove, hissing loudly as it hit the hot burner.

Mrs. Gable gasped, rushing forward with a towel. Bianca squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her flour-coated palms against her forehead. Her lungs felt tight.

The soft squeak of wheels broke the tension. Cassandra sat in the doorway, a perfect, concerned smile painted on her face.

"Bianca? What happened? You look overwhelmed." Cassandra's voice dripped with fake sympathy.

Bianca dropped her hands. She glared at the woman in the wheelchair. "Just trying my hand at cooking. What do you want?"

Cassandra rolled forward. Her eyes scanned the messy counter, a flash of mockery hiding behind her long lashes. "Let me help. I'm not good for much, but I can manage this."

Bianca wanted to scream at her to leave. But she looked at the ruined sauce and remembered Kahlil. She needed him to come home. She needed this dinner. Her jaw tightened. "Fine. Don't mess it up."

Bianca turned on her heel and walked out of the kitchen, her footsteps heavy on the hardwood floor.

The moment Bianca was gone, Cassandra's smile vanished. She stood up from the wheelchair with ease, grabbed an apron, and tied it around her waist. Her movements were sharp and practiced.

Mrs. Gable watched her, eyes wide. "Miss Mills, you seem quite skilled."

Cassandra let out a short, hollow laugh. She picked up a knife and began dicing vegetables. "I had to learn. My father wasn't always around."

She turned to a young maid standing by the sink. "Could you check if Mr. Montgomery is in his study? I want to make sure the timing is perfect for dinner."

The maid nodded and scurried away. Cassandra kept chopping, her ears straining to catch the whispers of Mrs. Dawson, who had just sidled up beside her under the pretense of checking the pantry.

"Miss Mills," Mrs. Dawson whispered, leaning close so the other staff wouldn't hear. "I checked the pharmacy receipts this morning. Madam is ordering ovulation tests. She is actually trying."

Cassandra's knife slammed into the cutting board, slicing clean through a carrot. Her pulse pounded in her ears. Bianca wanted to get pregnant. She was actually trying.

Cassandra took a deep, uneven breath. She swept the vegetables into a hot pan. The oil sizzled and popped. Preston's plan needed to happen faster. She couldn't wait. The smell of roasting garlic filled the air, but to Cassandra, it smelled like victory.