“Sit down, Vanessa,” Ethan commanded, his voice artificially deepened. “We need to talk.”
I didn’t sit. I placed my briefcase on the console table and remained standing, leaning my hip against the wood, projecting absolute, unbothered calm. “I’ve been on my feet for twelve hours, Ethan. If you have something to say, say it.”
Ethan cleared his throat, glancing nervously at his mother for reassurance before looking back at me.
“Mom and I have been talking,” Ethan began, entirely abandoning the concept of a private marriage. “And Mom is right. This arrangement isn’t working anymore. It’s chaotic. It’s unnatural. I am the head of this household, and I expect my wife to act like a wife.”
“Define ‘act like a wife,’ Ethan,” I said softly, my eyes narrowing just a fraction.
“You’re going to quit your job,” Ethan said, the words rushing out in a surge of unearned bravado. “You’re going to fire the maid. You’re going to fire the nanny. You are going to stay home, raise Liam, and take care of this house the way a woman is supposed to. I make enough to support us if we budget.”
Margaret nodded enthusiastically, her eyes gleaming with malicious joy. “It’s about time he put his foot down,” she muttered.
For a second, the room went completely, utterly still. The air grew heavy, thick with the staggering weight of their delusion. I looked at the man I had married. I looked at the pathetic, insecure boy standing in front of me, demanding I shrink my entire life to fit inside his fragile ego. I realized in that exact moment that the marriage was entirely, irrevocably dead.
“And if I refuse?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Ethan puffed out his chest. “Then you leave. You have two options, Vanessa. Leave your job and stay here as a real wife, or leave this house and your child.”
