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