Chapter 1: The Mistress Test

He said he wanted a mistress, just like that. So that night, I picked out two of the prettiest girls from the staff and sent them to his room. For a moment, I just stood there in the hallway, heart pounding, watching as Mrs. Quinn led the girls to his door. The old house was so quiet you could almost hear your own thoughts, the hush broken only by the distant whir of the vents and the soft creak of old floorboards. I kept telling myself this was just how things worked in families like the Prescotts—sometimes you had to play along just to survive. Still, when I finally crawled into bed, I felt a knot twist in my stomach, wondering what kind of wife I was supposed to be in a place like this.

Not long after, he came to me and, as if discussing the weather, told me that Caroline Blake from the East Wing was pregnant and wanted me to "handle it."

He said it so casually, like he was asking me to refill the coffee pot or take out the trash. For a second, I just stared at him, my mind spinning with every possible meaning of "handle it." The word hung in the air—sharp. Cold.

Wait, what do you mean by handle it? I stared at him, wide-eyed, and asked cautiously, "Do you want me to take care of Caroline during her maternity leave?"

My voice cracked a bit on "maternity leave," and I tried to sound breezy, but my palms were sweating. Part of me wondered if he meant something darker, the way powerful families sometimes did in the stories my dad used to tell me late at night.

His jaw clenched so tight I thought he might crack a molar. "I've never touched Caroline Blake, and I haven't touched any of the women you sent in!"

I saw something flicker in his eyes—hurt, maybe, or just plain exhaustion. The whole room seemed to hold its breath, tension thick enough to choke on.

My eyes got even wider. What does that mean?

My brain was spinning. Was this some kind of test? Or was he just as trapped as I was? The silence stretched between us, long and awkward.

When I married Jackson Prescott, the governor's son, my father cried as he begged me to remember that we were just a regular, law-abiding family. The governor picked me because he was wary of the Prescott clan's power. Dad told me that once I set foot in the Prescott estate, I had to keep my head down—or the Miller family might be in danger.

I still remember the way Dad squeezed my hands, his voice shaking. "Lila, this isn't a fairy tale. You keep your head down and do as you're told, and maybe we'll all get through this."

The day we got married, Jackson asked me, "How many years has your father been on the city council?"

He was sitting at his desk, not even glancing up from his paperwork. The question caught me off guard. I hesitated, heart skipping, wondering if this was a political test or just idle curiosity.

Is he going to fire my father? Does he think my father, just a minor councilman, is a nuisance?

My heart hammered in my chest. I pictured Dad shuffling through paperwork at City Hall, blissfully unaware his new son-in-law might be plotting his downfall.

With a thud, I dropped to my knees, crying and wiping my tears. "Mr. Prescott, my father has devoted his life to public service and only cares about local history. If you find him a burden, I'll write to my father and ask him to retire back home."

The floor was freezing, and I felt ridiculous, but fear makes you do wild things. I could barely see through my tears, but I kept my head bowed, hoping humility would keep us safe.

Jackson rubbed his forehead. "Get up. I was just making conversation."

He sounded tired, maybe even a little embarrassed. I peeked up and saw a flicker of something softer in his eyes, but I didn't dare trust it.

I didn't believe him for a second. Dad always said people in power never say anything by accident. I secretly wrote to my father, telling him to be extra careful at work and to double-check every report.

I spent that whole evening hunched over my desk, the lamp throwing long shadows across the page. I warned Dad to stay alert, to watch for any sign of trouble, and to trust no one—not even the janitor. My hands shook as I sealed the letter.

The day after the wedding, I had to go pay respects to the governor and his wife. Dad told me the role of Jackson's wife was supposed to go to the governor's niece, and warned me to be careful around the governor's wife and never cross her.

The Prescott estate was all marble floors and oil paintings, but what stuck with me most was the hush in the air—the kind that makes you feel like you can never quite relax. I practiced my curtsy in the mirror a dozen times before Mrs. Quinn finally came to fetch me. Honestly, the place gave me the creeps.

Of course, I got it. After serving coffee, I knelt quietly to the side like a nervous little bird. The governor's wife smiled and told me to get up, even saying to treat this as my own home. As if I could ever dare!

Her voice was sweet, but her eyes were sharp. I stood up, hands clasped tight in front of me, and nodded along. All the while, I felt like a guest at my own funeral.

After the formalities, I trailed behind Jackson back to the main house. Jackson grabbed me and asked in a low voice, "Did you notice the charm my dad wore today?"

He stopped just outside the doorway, his shadow stretched across the polished wood. I froze, mind racing through every detail of the governor's outfit. Did I miss something big?

I shook my head hard. If I said yes, would he accuse me of plotting something and toss my whole family out?

My heart skipped. I felt like I was walking a tightrope, one wrong answer from disaster.

"That was embroidered by my mom for my dad." Jackson glanced at me, waiting for my reaction.

He looked at me expectantly, and I felt the pressure. I tried to read between the lines, searching for a trap.

I asked timidly, "Then should I go to my mother-in-law's room and ask for one for you?"

I kept my tone light, but my hands twisted the hem of my blouse. Was this the right move? It seemed safer than silence.

Mrs. Quinn, the housekeeper Jackson assigned to me, nudged me quietly. "Mrs. Prescott picked out some nice fabric yesterday, saying she wanted to embroider a charm for Mr. Prescott herself."

Mrs. Quinn's voice was gentle, but there was a warning in her eyes. She always looked out for me in her own way—even if it meant nudging me straight into the lion's den.

I shot her a look. She and Jackson were clearly setting me up, planning to slip something into the charm and frame me, right? Like I don't see through that.

I tugged at Jackson's sleeve and said softly, "It's boring to embroider alone. May I go to your study? I won't bother you while you work."

I tried to sound as innocent as possible, hoping he'd let me stay close where I could keep an eye on things. The study felt safer—with all those eyes on us.

At least if I do it right under his nose, nothing can go wrong. Genius, right?

I congratulated myself, thinking maybe I was finally getting the hang of this political wife gig.

Mrs. Quinn was about to say something, but Jackson nodded right away. "Bring the sewing things to my study."

He barely glanced at Mrs. Quinn, just waved his hand like a judge making a ruling. I felt weirdly triumphant.

There were eight security guards outside Jackson's study. I wasn't leaving until I finished embroidering. Let's see who dares to set me up now.

I counted the guards twice, just to be sure. Their presence was oddly comforting—a line of sentinels keeping chaos at bay.