The Perfect Wife’s Last Virtue

My heart broke when I saw my little girl sobbing hysterically. I lost it and slapped them both hard.

Of course, when my husband showed up, his ex twisted the story, claiming we were the ones who attacked them. He didn't even let me explain before shipping us off to some twisted "Women's Virtue Class" to learn how to be "proper ladies."

Six months later, he came to collect me.

I served tea with trembling hands, spoke in whispers, and kept my eyes glued to the floor. Everyone marveled at the program's success—how docile I'd become, so different from my former fiery self.

Until the day I dropped to my knees and said, "Funny how I'm now the most dignified person in this room. Care to test that theory?"

My husband's palm cracked across my face. "Vivian! I sent you there to fix your attitude! This is how you repay me?"

I gave him a hollow smile. "Isn't this what you wanted, darling? Your perfect, obedient wife?"

He shoved me against the wall. "Where's our daughter?"

I whispered, "Gone... she's been gone so long..."

"Vivian, you have a visitor," a mentor's voice hissed in my ear.

My body convulsed with involuntary tremors.

Another "guest." Another test.

In this hellhole, refusal wasn't an option. The slightest hesitation meant punishment. They'd beaten two lessons into me: obey and submit.

Head bowed, I shuffled into the parlor—only to freeze.

There they were: my husband Damien Montclair, his cronies, and his beloved Veronica Sterling.

After half a year of "training," my mind moved through fog. Muscle memory took over—the deep bow, the ritual tea service.

Damien nodded approvingly. "This program works miracles. Should've sent you years ago."

Eyes downcast, I murmured, "Yes, Mr. Montclair."

His brow furrowed at the formal address. "Since Veronica's graciously dropping the assault charges," he continued, "I've transferred half your shares to her. Consider it damages."

When I stayed silent, he barked, "Vivian Winslow! Apologize!"