Chapter 4: Pawns and Poison

Meanwhile, the couple entered a cold war.

The mansion felt like a battlefield, every room charged with tension. The staff walked on eggshells, afraid to take sides. Nobody wanted to be next.

The Lady refused to see Mr. Whitmore after his scolding. Mr. Whitmore, annoyed by her arrogance, wouldn’t apologize either.

They passed each other in the hallways like strangers, their silences louder than any argument.

I played the part of the good consort: “Sir, I’m fine now. You should visit the Lady—she must be missing you.”

I kept my voice gentle, my eyes wide and innocent. It was the role I was born to play.

He looked at me, conflicted. “After how she treated you, you still want me to see her?” I nodded, playing my part.

I smiled. “I’m new to the mansion; the Lady was just teaching me the rules. I understand. But you and the Lady have years of affection—I’d hate to cause trouble between you. That would be my fault.”

I let my words hang in the air, sweet and selfless. He swallowed the bait whole. Hook, line, and sinker.

He pulled me into his arms. “You really are obedient.”

His embrace was warm, but I felt nothing. I was ice inside.

I nestled against him, silent.

I counted the seconds until he let go.

The couple had fought before, but each cold war only strengthened their bond. I might as well play the good guy—though with her pride, who knows if the Lady could accept it?

I’d seen it before—their fights were just foreplay, a way to remind each other how much they cared. Sickening.

Just as I expected, the next day Mr. Whitmore visited the Lady.

He brought flowers and an apology. The staff breathed a collective sigh of relief. Crisis averted.

She was happy—until she learned he came at my urging. She lost it, screamed at him, “You only came because that tramp told you to? Harrison, are you insane?”

Her voice carried through the halls, sharp enough to draw blood. Nobody missed it.

“Are you bewitched by her? Do you actually like her now? How could you do this to me?”

Her words were wild, desperate. I almost felt sorry for her.

“Harrison, you heartless bastard! How could you betray me like this?”

The sound of something breaking echoed down the hallway. I flinched, even though I was nowhere near the suite. Old habits die hard.

Harrison—the head of the family.

His name carried weight. Even the walls seemed to listen when he spoke.

The lord of the Whitmore estate.

He ruled with an iron fist, but his heart belonged to the Lady—at least, that’s what everyone believed.

Even the Lady, even the woman he loved, couldn’t get away with screaming in his face. He stormed out in fury. Not this time.

The staff scattered like leaves in the wind. No one wanted to be caught in the crossfire.

Just as I expected, the Lady came straight to my suite.

Her footsteps were thunderous, her anger a storm about to break. I braced myself for the worst.

She brought a whole crowd. As soon as she entered, before the servants could announce her, she slapped me hard across the face.

The force of the blow sent me reeling. My ears rang, but I didn’t cry out.

“Tramp! How dare you seduce my husband in front of me?”

Her voice was raw, almost unhinged. I could see the madness flickering in her eyes. She’d lost it.

“Drag her out and beat her to death!”

Her words hung in the air, shocking even her own followers. Nobody moved.

“Yes, ma’am!”

The guards hesitated, but one look from the Lady and they sprang into action.

Her men dragged me out—two burly guards, built like linebackers. I was pulled across the ground, pain lancing through me.

My dress tore on the stones, my skin scraped raw. I bit my lip to keep from screaming.

I wondered if these were the same people who brutalized my sister.

The thought gave me strength. If she could survive, so could I.

Thinking that, the pain didn’t seem so bad.

I focused on the memory of her smile, the way she used to tuck my hair behind my ear.

The beatings came down, not like household discipline, but like prison torture. They wanted to break me.

Each blow was calculated, meant to break me. I refused to give them the satisfaction.

This Lady—truly ruthless. No saving her.

She watched from the doorway, her face expressionless.

I didn’t hold back—I screamed and wailed, each cry more gut-wrenching than the last, enough to make anyone’s blood run cold.

I let the pain out, raw and wild. Maybe someone would hear. Maybe someone would care. Maybe.

Mr. Whitmore arrived to this scene.

He burst into the courtyard, his face pale with rage. The guards froze mid-blow.

His face changed. “Stop, all of you!” His voice boomed.

The Lady, seeing him protect me, got even angrier. “Don’t stop! Keep beating her—beat her to death!”

She shrieked, her voice cracking. The staff looked from her to Mr. Whitmore, unsure who to obey.

Her people, used to her arrogance and Mr. Whitmore’s indulgence, ignored him and kept going. Big mistake.

The blows started again, but only for a moment.

That crossed the line.

You could feel the danger in the air. Mr. Whitmore’s face darkened. “Guards, arrest these disobedient fools!”

He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. The threat in his voice was enough.

“Yes, sir!”

His personal guards appeared, swift and silent. The staff panicked, dropping to their knees, begging for mercy.

Fools. Did they really think the couple’s love was stronger than his authority? Mr. Whitmore ordered them dismissed on the spot.

The message was clear: no one was above his rules—not even the Lady. Lines had been crossed.

When they were dragged away, the mansion fell silent. The Lady was stunned.

Her mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. For the first time, she looked truly afraid. She’d never seen him like this.

“Harrison, you’d get rid of my people for that tramp? Are you insane? How could you do this to me?”

She lunged at him, her hands shaking. He didn’t flinch. Desperation.

She lunged at him, slapped him hard across the face.

The sound echoed, sharp and final. Mr. Whitmore’s jaw clenched, his eyes cold.

The room went still. Mr. Whitmore’s face darkened. The Lady realized what she’d done and panicked. “Darling—”

Her voice broke, pleading. But it was too late.

He shoved her away. “Victoria, you’re acting like a madwoman. Guards, escort the Lady back to her suite. She is not to leave without my permission!”

His words were ice. The guards closed in, gentle but firm.

“Yes, sir!”

They took her by the arms, guiding her away. She struggled, but it was useless.

The Lady’s face changed. She struggled and screamed, “Let me go! Harrison, you can’t do this to me! You bastard!”

Her screams faded as the doors closed behind her. The mansion was silent, holding its breath. Nobody dared speak.

The more she raged, the more Mr. Whitmore despised her.

I saw it in his eyes—a cold, hard finality. Something had broken between them, maybe for good.

After this, the Lady was put under house arrest. The balance had shifted.

Whispers spread through the halls like wildfire. Some said she’d never recover. Others said it was only a matter of time before she clawed her way back.

It wasn’t the first time, but it was the first time Mr. Whitmore himself ordered it.

That made all the difference. The staff watched me with new eyes, unsure what to make of the shift in power. They didn’t know what to make of me.

I kept a low profile, serving Mr. Whitmore with girl-group routines and modern tricks from the twenty-first century.

He liked the novelty, the way I made him feel young again. I played my part to perfection.

He suspected nothing—just thought I was like any other woman, madly in love with him, obedient and never presumptuous. Naturally, he favored me more and more. He had no idea.

It was almost too easy. I wondered when the other shoe would drop.

I was finally truly favored.

I felt the shift in the air, the way people stepped aside when I entered a room. It was intoxicating—and terrifying.

My status rose from Silver Hollow girl to Savannah Lin, Lady-in-Waiting. A new title. New enemies.

Six months after entering the mansion, I finally met the matriarch—the woman who had helped Mr. Whitmore seize control. She was the previous Mr. Whitmore’s wife, not the current head’s birth mother.

She was a legend in her own right. People said she could make or break a man’s fortune with a single word. I believed it.

The previous Whitmore household was even more chaotic—scheming, jealousy, endless strife. Mr. Whitmore’s own mother died in household intrigue, which made him hate these politics all the more. He never forgot.

He also resented the matriarch. She’d worn the crown before.

Their relationship was icy at best. I made sure to tread carefully.

He blamed her for not protecting his mother, leading to her tragic death.

It was the kind of grudge that never really faded, no matter how much time passed.

My sister didn’t know this—she just wanted to survive and find a protector. But she picked the one person Mr. Whitmore despised most. Bad luck.

It was a fatal mistake. One she never saw coming.

So, though he favored my sister, he saw her as the matriarch’s pawn, and let the Lady frame and torture her.

It made my blood boil. I swore I’d never make the same mistake.

This man—truly rotten to the core. No saving him.

Sometimes I wondered if there was any good left in him. If there was, I hadn’t seen it.

That’s why I didn’t rush to see the matriarch. Only after becoming Lady-in-Waiting did I formally pay my respects at the east wing. I’d gone before, but always as a nobody, trailing behind the Lady, leaving right after.

This was my first time going alone.

My palms were slick with sweat. I rehearsed my lines over and over, afraid I’d stumble. Showtime.

There, I saw a chubby little girl. The moment I saw her, my eyes filled with tears—she looked just like my sister. I almost lost it.

She was the spitting image—same round cheeks, same stubborn chin. My heart twisted in my chest.

This was my sister’s child.

Her legacy, her hope. I wanted to scoop her up and never let go. But I couldn’t.

The only thing she left behind in this world.

I knelt, fighting back tears. I couldn’t let anyone see how much she meant to me.

The little girl greeted me politely, “Good afternoon, Lady Savannah.”

Her voice was soft, careful. I smiled, hoping she couldn’t see the pain in my eyes.

My eyes stung. I quickly lowered my gaze. “Good afternoon, Miss Anya.” Don’t cry.

I forced the words out, my throat tight. She grinned, showing a gap where her front tooth should be.

That was all we said. I didn’t look at her again, instead turning to the woman holding her—the matriarch introduced her as Emily.

Emily’s eyes were sharp, missing nothing. I bowed low, hoping she’d remember my gratitude.

I bowed. “Good afternoon, Miss Emily. I’ve never thanked you for saving my life. I finally have the chance.”

My voice trembled, but I meant every word.

Emily’s gaze was calm. “No need to thank me.” She didn’t want gratitude.

She shrugged, as if it were nothing. But I knew better.

“I just happened to be passing by.”

Her words were casual, but her eyes said otherwise. I wondered what she was hiding. Secrets everywhere.

Really?

I wanted to press, but I held my tongue. Some secrets were better left buried.

I wondered, but didn’t press. “Regardless, it was a lifesaving favor. I’ll never forget it.”

I offered her a smile, hoping she’d accept it.

She finally looked at me, then smirked. “Another clever one.”

Her words stung, but I took them as a compliment. In this house, cleverness was survival.

She didn’t want to talk, just played with the little girl, who giggled and called her “Aunt Emily” sweetly, making me jealous.

Their laughter filled the room, warm and bright. I ached to join them, but I kept my distance.

I could only clench my fists and force myself not to look, acting like any other consort before the matriarch—bowing and leaving without another glance at the girl. It hurt.

It took everything I had not to turn back. I walked away, my heart heavy.

I couldn’t let anyone discover my connection to my sister, or that I cared about the little girl. People are unpredictable—what if word got out?

In this house, secrets were currency. I couldn’t afford to spend mine.

After all, Mr. Whitmore and the Lady were truly in love.

Their bond was a fortress, unbreakable. I was just a crack in the wall. I’d never fit in.

I couldn’t count on using Mr. Whitmore to get rid of the Lady or make him hate her for good. If she softened, they’d be back to normal in no time.

I’d seen it before. Love and hate were two sides of the same coin.

I had to stay alert! Always.

I slept with one eye open, always waiting for the next attack.

A month after the Lady was put under house arrest, the Langley family came to visit her. Mr. Whitmore didn’t stop them. After they left, mournful piano music drifted from her suite.

The notes were slow, haunting. They echoed through the halls long after she stopped playing. I couldn’t escape it.

That night, Mr. Whitmore went to her.

The staff whispered about it for days. Some said he brought her roses. Others said he just sat with her in silence.

True love, indeed.

I rolled my eyes, but a small part of me envied her.

He didn’t leave her suite that night.

The next morning, the house was filled with the scent of fresh coffee and laughter. The Lady had won, at least for now.

The next day, the Lady emerged radiant.

She wore a new dress, her hair perfectly styled. She smiled at everyone, as if nothing had happened. Like nothing had changed.

After that, her looks at me were no longer full of rage and jealousy, but colder, deeper.

Her eyes followed me everywhere, calculating. I felt the weight of her scrutiny like a stone in my pocket. She was planning something.

She became more composed, acting the part of a proper Lady. She stopped slapping favored women or punishing them for petty reasons.

Her restraint was more terrifying than her anger. I knew she was planning something.

She decided to raise the little girl—my sister’s child.

The announcement came at breakfast. The staff applauded, the other women murmured their approval.

When I heard this, my face turned grim. Mr. Whitmore still had no sons, but there were three daughters. The other two had living mothers, but only my sister’s child was motherless. The Lady wanted to raise her. My mind raced. Why her? Why now?

I saw the danger immediately. The Lady didn’t want a child—she wanted leverage.

People said the girl was lucky—raised by the Lady herself, the first child she’d ever claimed as her own. Her status would be higher than any other girl. If only they knew.

The gossip spread like wildfire. Some even said she’d be the next matriarch.

Even the other women envied her.

They brought her gifts, hoping to win favor by proxy. I watched from the sidelines, seething.

The family praised the Lady’s kindness.

They called her generous, compassionate. I wanted to scream.

But my heart sank. I quietly went to the east wing and learned the real reason the Lady wanted to raise the girl.

Emily met me at the door, her face grave. She told me everything.

The Langley family wanted her to have a child, but knew she’d never conceive, so they suggested adopting a son. Even a daughter would do—it would tie her closer to Mr. Whitmore.

It was all politics, all strategy. The girl was just a pawn.

So she wanted to adopt the little girl. Over my dead body.

I sneered. “Wishful thinking.”

Emily smiled, just a little. “You’re not the only one who thinks so.” That helped.

The matriarch said, “The Langley family and the Lady have been seeking ways to help her conceive. If she ever gets pregnant, Anya will be useless to her.”

Her words were blunt, but true. I nodded, swallowing my fear. I wouldn’t let it happen.

“So I won’t let her take Anya.”

Relief washed over me. I bowed deeply, gratitude shining in my eyes.

Relieved, I returned to my suite and wrote a letter for my assistant to deliver to Judge Harper.

I poured my heart into the letter, begging him to protect the girl at any cost. He had to.

Mr. Whitmore agreed to let the Lady raise the girl, but the matriarch refused, so she couldn’t take her. Mr. Whitmore planned to persuade the matriarch himself.

The tension in the house was palpable. I waited, breath held, for the next move.

But just then, the groundskeeper reported a nest of deadly snakes had been discovered in the Whitmore family mausoleum—copperheads, rattlesnakes, water moccasins. Anyone bitten wouldn’t last long.

The news sent a chill through the estate. People whispered about curses, about old ghosts coming back for revenge. I just tightened my grip on my resolve. Whatever came next, I would be ready. Bring it on.