The first year of marriage was honeyed and calm. Year two began to taste metallic.
Charles stopped asking permission and started assuming authority. His children stopped hinting and began pressing. Documents began appearing on the kitchen counter. “Routine paperwork,” Charles would say. “Estate alignment,” Lucas would add. “Just signatures,” Sabrina would smile.
The first time I refused to sign, Charles didn’t speak to me for two days. The silence was heavy, punitive.
The second time, his smile didn’t reach his eyes. It stopped at his mouth, a frozen grimace.
The third time, I came home early from the vineyard to find all three of his children in my private winery office. They were rifling through my file cabinets, pulling out ledgers and contracts with a familiarity that felt like trespassing wrapped in entitlement.
“We’re just helping you organize,” Lucas said smoothly, not even flinching.
I heard the wolves in the politeness. That night, I called Mara.
“This isn’t curiosity, Elle,” she said, her voice tight. “This is positioning.”
I thought that was my worst fear—that they were greedy. I was wrong. It was so much worse.
Months later, things escalated quietly, which is always how the most dangerous things begin. Charles took me to a “routine wellness appointment.” Just a checkup, he said sweetly. Just ensuring we age responsibly, darling.
Except the appointment wasn’t routine. It was evaluative.
