The air in the drawing room was thick with tension, the scent of Earl Grey and lavender polish doing little to mask the venom in the air.
For goodness sake, Edward, would you look at what shes wearing? Margaret Harringtons voice dripped with saccharine disdain. That dress is straight out of a charity shop. I swear I saw one just like it at a jumble sale last weekend. Five pounds at most.
I adjusted the collar of my simple blue dress, inexpensive but neat. It was part of the agreementone of my grandfathers cruel conditions.
Edward, my husband, shifted uncomfortably, eyes fixed on the Persian rug.
Mum, thats enough. Theres nothing wrong with it.
Nothing wrong? His sister Beatrice scoffed, fanning the flames. Honestly, Edward, your wife has the fashion sense of awell, what do you expect from an orphan from the Midlands?
She gave me a slow, withering once-over, her lips twisting in triumph. Couldnt even manage a bracelet, could you? Oh, waityou dont have any, do you?
I met her gaze steadily, cool as a scientist observing lab rats.
*Subject No. 2: Beatrice. Aggression: high. Motivation: envy, dominance through humiliation.*
Predictable. Like watching foxes in a henhouse.
Margaret sighed dramatically and perched beside me on the Chesterfield, her heavy hand landing on my shoulder. She smelled of drugstore perfume and roast beef.
Eleanor, darling, were not your enemies. We only want whats best for you. Its just our Edward is a man of standinga director, respected. And you, well She trailed off, waiting for tears.
None came.
Where was the Edward Id fallen for? The sharp, confident man whod charmed me? Now he was a shadow, strings pulled by his mother and sister.
Ive had a thought, Margaret announced, eyes gleaming. You still have your mothers earrings, dont you? The little pearl ones? Hardly wear them. Lets pop them down to the pawnbrokers.
Edward choked on his tea.
Mum, be serious! Theyre sentimental!
Sentimental? She waved a dismissive hand. Sentimental for what? Poverty? At least theyd do some good. Well get you a decent dress, maybe a new barbecue for the garden. Everyone wins.
Beatrice tittered. Exactly! Those pearls on her look like paste on a pig.
They didnt realise they werent humiliating me. They were exposing themselvestheir pettiness, their greed.
I studied their smug faces. Textbook behaviour. The experiment was proceeding flawlessly.
Fine, I murmured.
Silence. Even Edward gaped.
What do you mean, fine? Margaret demanded.
Ill sell them. If its for the family.
Their eyes metmomentary doubt, then triumph. They mistook strategy for surrender.
To me, they were chess pieces. And theyd just walked into checkmate.
The next day, Margaret dragged me to a pawnshop in Camden. Beatrice tagged along, smirking. Edward drove in sullen silence, his protests crushed by his mothers snapped, Honestly, must she dress like a beggar?
The shop was cramped, reeking of brass polish. The pawnbrokera weary man in a frayed waistcoatpeered at the earrings through his loupe.
Well? Theyre real, arent they? Margaret tapped the counter. Fifty quid?
He snorted. Pearls, yes. Cultured. Settings base metal. Twenty pounds, and thats generous.
Margarets face fell. Beatrice huffed, Twenty? That wont even buy a decent handbag.
I played my part perfectly. Leaned in, hesitant. Perhaps we shouldnt? Theyre sentimental And twenty is so little. Maybe another shop?
A feint. Theyd never resist.
Oh, hush, Eleanor! Margaret snapped. What do you know? The man said twenty, its twenty!
Beatrice sneered. Or youll drag us halfway across London and lose the lot. You always ruin everything.
Edward tried, weakly, Mum, maybe a jeweller?
Oh, shut up! Beatrice cut in. Under her thumb, are you? *We* decide whats best!
They took the money. Split it on the pavement. Twelve to Margaret: For the barbecue and hydrangeas. Eight to Beatrice: Needed a facial.
And my new dress? I whispered.
Beatrice laughed in my face. Oh, *Eleanor*. Dont be absurd. For that? Try Primark.
They left, smug. Edward looked broken. Another mark in his file.
Im sorry, he muttered.
Its alright, I said softly. Theyre family.
But the final blow came that evening. My desk was bare. The laptopordinary-looking but triple-encrypted, my lifelinewas gone.
Heart frozen, face calm. Edward, wheres my laptop?
Beatrice swept in, smirking. Oh, that old thing? Mines kaput. Ive deadlines. What do *you* need it for? You dont work. Watch telly on your phone.
I turned slowly. Inside, a lock clicked.
The trap was sprung.
That laptop wasnt just a deviceit was my world. Reports. Analytics. The experiments proof. No hacker could breach it. But that wasnt the point.
Theft. Blatant. Shameless. As if I were nothing.
I looked at Edward. His last test.
Edward. Get it back. A command, not a plea.
He wavered. Glanced at Beatrice.
Bea, just give it
Oh, *please*! She flung herself into the wingback. Youre listening to *her*? I *need* it! Buy her a new one with your bonus.
Eleanor, shes right, Edward mumbled. Dont make a fuss.
Something shattered inside me.
Hed chosen. Now I would.
Enough.
I pulled out a burner phone. Dialled the contact labelled Curator.
Mr. Whitmore. Observation phase complete. Proceed to action. All three subjects. Initiate Protocol Reckoning. Start with the sister.
I hung up. Placed the phone down. Met Beatrices sneer.
You have ten minutes to return my laptop. Untouched.
She giggled. Or what? Who even *are* you?
Not a threat. A fact. In nine minutes, your urgent project will vanish from your firms server. Five minutes after, your boss will receive proof youve been leaking trade secrets.
Her face drained.
Youre lying!
Eight minutes.
Her phone rang. *JAMESON & CO.* Her boss.
She snatched it, trembling. Mr. Jameson? What? No, thats not!
She hurled the laptop at me. Take it! Stop this!
Too late.
Edward finally stirred. Eleanor, what have you *done*? Shes my sister!
I turned. No mask left.
Still dont see? You thought I was some penniless orphan you could trample? Hand out my things like spare change?
I strode to the window. Below, a black Jaguar idled.
My name isnt Eleanor Smith. Its Eleanor *Cavendish*. My grandfather isnt some retired banker. Hes *Sir Richard Cavendish*, founder of *Cavendish Holdings*. And this I gestured around the room, was a year-long experiment. His condition: live as a nobody, to see why you married me.
A bitter smile.
I wanted to prove him wrong. That you loved *me*, not my fortune. But you you surpassed expectations.
A knock. Mr. Whitmore entered, crisp in his Savile Row suit. Handed each an envelope.
Miss Beatricetermination for corporate espionage. Criminal proceedings to follow. Mrs. Harringtonimmediate repayment of your mortgaged cottage. Mr. Edwardeviction notice. This flat belongs to Cavendish Properties. You have twenty-four hours.
I took my laptop, my phone. Didnt look back.
No gloating. No rage. Just cold, clinical satisfaction. Hypothesis confirmed.
Downstairs, the Jaguar waited.
Home, Mr. Whitmore.
I hadnt gained freedom. Id gained truth. That trust belongs in actions, not words. That real strength isnt wealthits staying true when the world thinks youre weak.
And sometimes, to see a persons soul, you must let them believe youre beneath them.
**Epilogue**
Six months later.
From my office in Cavendish Tower, London
