Chapter 2: The House Divided

The next morning, we visited the family chapel to light candles for Nathan’s parents. Their portraits hung above the altar—young, beautiful, and full of promise. Nathan’s nanny stood beside us, dabbing tears with an embroidered handkerchief and murmuring to the photos, “Mr. and Mrs. Pierce, Nathan’s finally married. You can rest easy. She’s a good girl, respectable.”

Nathan’s eyes glistened as he squeezed my hand—maybe for show, but the clamminess of his grip told me some of it was real.

Orphaned young, Nathan had been raised by this woman, who ran the estate with an iron fist. She wore orthopedic shoes and a string of pearls, her voice the kind that could hush a room with just a look. Everyone called her Ms. Margaret, and she’d been with the family since Nathan’s father was in diapers.

Nathan didn’t bother hiding the truth from her. Political families know the staff always know everything anyway.

Over syrupy Earl Grey, Ms. Margaret gave me her take: “Nathan values relationships. If you get close, he won’t have the heart to send you away. Men are simple—give them comfort, they’ll give you loyalty.”

Compared to Rachel Thompson, Ms. Margaret liked me as Mrs. Pierce. She made sure my clothes were in the master bedroom closet, on the side with the best morning light.

I knew why. My background was nothing compared to Rachel’s—no military brass, no old money—and I probably seemed easy to manage. Just a small-town girl grateful for a grand house.

She had no intention of ceding control of the household. I was too new, too polite to ask for the keys, the credit cards, the alarm codes. But when Rachel Thompson came by, Ms. Margaret had staff stop her at the gate—claiming it was my order.

Rachel, used to treating the Pierce estate like her own, was livid. She still had her own key, for God’s sake. Now she was blocked twice—humiliating for her. On the fourth day of our marriage, she tore up the driveway, tires squealing, riding crop in hand.

Nathan and I were playing chess in the sun room—loser slept outside that night. He’d let me win basketball on the half-court the night before, after I’d twisted my ankle.

Rachel stormed in, her riding crop flying, shattering the chessboard. Pawns scattered, rolling under antique chairs.

“Jesus,” Nathan shot me a look, not even flinching. “Who set you off this time?”

He sounded more indulgent than angry, like she was a kid throwing a tantrum.

I dismissed the staff with a nod—they scattered like startled birds.

Rachel jabbed her crop at me, voice shaking with rage. “You say she’s innocent? She had people block me from the house! Who does she think she is? Since when does she give orders in the Pierce estate?”

Nathan’s frown was sharp, the first time he’d looked at me with anything like real accusation.

“Nathan,” I said softly, letting my shoulders sag, “I’ve only been here four days. I still get lost finding the library. I don’t even have the keys—Ms. Margaret runs everything. How would I order anyone around?”

He blinked, the realization slowly dawning. The gears were turning.

Ms. Margaret chimed in, her tone brisk. “Just married, and already it’s unclear who belongs here and who doesn’t. Think of the Senator’s reputation. What would the papers say?”

Nathan looked trapped, torn between the two women who’d raised him—one literally, one in spirit.

He respected Ms. Margaret, and Rachel—well, for his sake, she held her tongue, though her knuckles were white around her crop.

Ms. Margaret thought I was grateful for her help, that I’d be her ally in keeping the house her way. After she left, her orthopedic shoes clicking down the marble hallway, I brought up the household authority myself. “Let Ms. Margaret manage things for now. It’s not proper—a wife should run her own house—but I’ll be gone in a year. Better for her to hand everything directly to Miss Thompson. Less trouble all around.”

My lack of ambition surprised Rachel. She eyed me, suspicious and sharp.

I poured fresh coffee, steadying my hands. My heart raced, palms sweating, but I kept my tone cool. “Not seeing each other for a day must feel like forever. But things are different now. Nathan’s married, and private chats could start rumors. With me here, it’s above board. Don’t mind me—I’ll work on my needlepoint.”

Both Nathan and Rachel blushed, caught off guard, like kids busted passing notes in class.

So I sat there, the perfect chaperone, pretending to stitch as they talked about the weather, friends, Derby Day—nothing intimate.

That night, Nathan wanted a rematch at chess, carefully collecting the scattered pieces. I showed him the back of my hand, where a red welt from Rachel’s earlier outburst still stung.

“Your sweetheart did this,” I teased, playing the wounded damsel. “Aren’t you going to make it up to me?”

He grinned, pulling out the Neosporin and gently dabbing my hand. His touch was softer than I expected from someone who shot skeet for fun.

I giggled, pulling my hand away, then letting him catch it again as he deliberately blew cool air across my skin.

“Alright, you can sleep inside tonight,” I relented. “But breakfast is on you—I want those fancy croissants from the French bakery downtown.”