Chapter 5: Unmasking the Stranger’s Wife

I took a deep breath, raised my head and smiled, boasting shamelessly:

“The boy is four, the girl is still nursing.”

I shrugged, as if motherhood was the most natural thing in the world. The lie felt oddly comforting, a shield against his scrutiny. I almost believed it myself.

“My husband is a butcher—he can slaughter ten pigs a day, wields a huge butcher’s knife, his strength is no less than you soldiers!”

I let out a little laugh, picturing the imaginary butcher in my mind. Anything to keep the conversation light.

“Sir, can you let me go now? I’m afraid if I stay away too long, the baby will cry, my mother-in-law and husband can’t handle her.”

I clasped my hands together, giving him my best pleading look. The story was so ridiculous, I almost believed it myself.

Ethan Blackwell glanced at me coldly.

His eyes narrowed, the old steel returning. Not good. I felt a shiver run down my spine.

A long-lost sense of oppression washed over me. I quickly put away my smile, closed my mouth, knelt, and dared not act rashly. Some things never change.

But he suddenly looked away, lay down, and said lazily:

“Your husband can slaughter ten pigs but can’t handle a child? Such a husband isn’t worth having.”

His words were dismissive. But there was a hint of amusement. I bit back a retort. Was he joking?

“My wounds keep reopening, and now I feel a bit dizzy again. Young lady, stay and keep me company a few more days.”

He closed his eyes, feigning exhaustion. I let out a sigh, resigning myself to another sleepless night. Great.

I slept deeply that night, dreaming of the year we married.

The dream was vivid. Every detail sharp and clear. I could smell the lemon cake, hear the laughter drifting down the hallway.

On our wedding night, maid Annie quietly came to tell me Ethan Blackwell had been forced to drink by his men and was already passed out. No matter how the wedding party called him, he wouldn’t wake up, so there was no hope for the wedding night.

Relief flooded me, mingled with a strange disappointment. I’d spent hours preparing for the night, only to find myself alone in a room full of flowers and cake. Figures.

I breathed a long sigh of relief, slumped my back that had been straight for hours, lifted the veil myself, crossed my legs, and started eating the lemon pound cake at the bedside.

The cake was dense and tart. The perfect distraction. I licked the icing from my fingers, savoring the small rebellion.

While eating, I mumbled:

“I wonder what’s wrong with Ethan Blackwell. There are families in Chicago richer than mine everywhere, and I’m not some beauty queen. Why did he so readily agree to this marriage?”

The question had haunted me for months. I’d seen the way women looked at him—tall, handsome, decorated. He could have had anyone. So why me?

Annie came to help me remove my headpiece:

“Miss, why think so much? Old General Blackwell has promised, tomorrow he’ll go to the city council to plead for your father. Soon your father’s false charges will be cleared, and the jailers, seeing your status as the general’s wife, will let your dad suffer less.”

Her words were meant to comfort. But all it did was remind me how transactional this was. I nodded, forcing a smile.

I wiped the cake crumbs from my mouth, frowning:

“I’m just worried, apart from my family’s money, Ethan Blackwell has other motives. The military budget shortfall has been covered with my ‘dowry,’ my father’s injustice cleared, sooner or later we’ll divorce.”

Maybe that was for the best. The thought was both a relief and a sorrow. I’d grown used to the idea of being temporary, disposable.

“I heard the mayor’s favorite, Victoria Langley, invited only one unmarried man to her debutante ball last year, and that was Ethan Blackwell. The mayor wanted him as a son-in-law. I don’t expect someone so sought after to be content with me as his wife.”

The city’s gossip mill had been in overdrive for weeks before the wedding. I’d seen the way Victoria looked at him, all fluttering lashes and coy smiles. She was welcome to him.

Annie said, “But General Blackwell is a catch. Miss, didn’t you feel anything? At the wedding today, I heard all the girls in Chicago envied you so much.”

Her voice was wistful. Like she still believed in fairy tales. I snorted, rolling my eyes.

I widened my eyes, pointing at myself:

“Feel anything? I’d fall for him?”

The idea was laughable. I’d learned long ago not to trust my heart. Not again.

“I’d rather fall for a butcher on the street!”

Simple. Honest. That’s all I wanted. I pictured the imaginary butcher again, his arms covered in flour and grease. At least he’d be honest about what he wanted.

“Ethan Blackwell can drink a thousand shots with his men, but gets drunk so easily tonight. If I don’t understand his intentions, I’m a fool!”

It was all too convenient. I’d spent the whole day waiting for the other shoe to drop. And there it was.

“A woman’s crush always ends in heartbreak and a lonely grave. Annie, you better stay clear-headed!”

I poked her in the side, grinning. She rolled her eyes. But I saw the worry flicker there.

That night, Ethan Blackwell really didn’t come.

The silence in the house was almost oppressive. I lay awake, listening to the grandfather clock tick away the hours. Longest night of my life.

I slept until noon, and when I woke, heard a commotion in the front hall—a very familiar voice.

It was loud. Brash. Impossible to ignore. I threw on a robe and hurried downstairs, curiosity getting the better of me.

I ran over, just in time to see a young man cracking a blue-and-white vase with his riding crop. Two close staff were also struck and bleeding.

Shards of porcelain littered the floor, glinting in the morning sun. The staff looked shell-shocked, clutching their wounds. What a mess.

I shouted: