My Wife is Rich

"Mo—mothel... mama, mama!" Agatha squeled with delight, dashing toward Elara, her eyes sparkling with joy.

Seeing Agatha run with her face all messy, Elara frowned. The black mulberry clutched tightly in the little girl's hand was clearly the culprit behind her un-princessly look in Elara's eyes.

Agatha halted, glancing at her hand in shock—as if suddenly aware of a mistake. Her eyes darted between the mulberry and Elara, weighing which was more important, before she stuffed the fruit into her mouth and chewed quickly.

Elara sighed deeply at the sight of her little angel and stepped over. She gently wiped Agatha's mouth and cheeks with a handkerchief from the nursemaid who nibbled her lower lip in quiet regret.

Then, someone descended effortlessly from the branches of the black mulberry tree, startling Elara. Leaping from a height of nearly twenty feet, the woman floated like a bird flitting from branch to branch.

Agatha, having finished her favourite fruit, smiled innocently when Elara told her to change and come inside the castle with the nursemaid.

Elara's gaze fixed on the woman before her, stirring a nervous flutter. Was it true that Corsarian women were trained to be as capable as men—able to scale trees with such ease? 

A flicker of envy mixed with admiration flashed in her eyes as she glared at Trisha, silently demanding an explanation for the sudden spectacle.

"Don't throw that glare at me… Your Grace. Ah, may I call you Lady Elara instead?" Trisha said with a subtle smile, patting her shoulder and thigh shortly after landing.

"As you wish, Your Highness." Elara lowered her gaze, taking in Trisha's masculine-chic ensemble this morning: trousers paired with a loose, tucked-in tunic accented with lace around her graceful neck, and tall boots that only deepened her commanding presence.

"Please, just Trisha. I'm your husband's colleague, so I'd like us to be friendly since…" Trisha trailed off with a smirk.

"Ah, since you'll be the concubine, should I drop the formality…" Elara paused, then added, "…Your Highness?"

The sun's warmth did little to thaw the chill between them as black mulberry branches swayed in the breeze. Elara straightened her spine, knowing this conversation was a battlefield.

Trisha's sudden laughter made Elara furrow her brow.

"You've grown into a strong woman—one who truly suits this castle. No wonder the once-gloomy march has turned so lively."

"I appreciate the compliment. And… do you really think we can be friendly?" The question carried more of a challenge than sincerity.

Despite her admiration for Trisha's presence, something in Elara's gut warned her not to trust every word she said.

"I'm sure your husband has already told you everything you need to know about this marriage. And I have no intention of playing the third wheel between lovebirds. But…" Trisha stepped closer. "As for us being friendly, I suppose that depends on what your feelings tell you, doesn't it?" She smirked.

That smile—Elara had seen it before. It reminded her of a noblewoman, one of her customers, who had gone slightly mad after her husband's death. 

The kind of smile that screamed danger beneath its charm.

Four years among noblewomen had taught Elara one thing: the moment she showed fear, she became a pushover.

"I don't think feelings hold the highest value in our society, do they, Your Highness?"

"Can a mother truly say that?"

Every warning bell inside Elara blared at once. Her eyes widened.

"What do you want?" she yelped. No one would harm her daughter.

"Shouldn't you ask what I meant?" Trisha's smile deepened, pleased with Elara's reaction. "Don't worry too much. I understand a mother's heart. I'll do my best not to hurt anyone. See you this afternoon, Your Grace."

With a slight dip of her head, Trisha turned and strode down the corridor, vanishing from sight.

Elara stood frozen, her legs weak, fingers twisting the side of her dress.

What kind of nightmare had she just stepped into?

Her heartbeat thudded in steady, ominous rhythm, as if keeping pace with her worst fears—the ones she prayed would never come true.

***

"So you're telling me my wife has earned this much over the past four years?" Reynand raised an eyebrow in astonishment as he skimmed the financial report from the Castle Treasurer.

"In the last two and a half years, to be precise, Your Grace. The Marchioness struggled during her pregnancy and after labor, and she only began her administrative work when Princess Agatha was six months old."

"She turned forbidden charity into an industry? So she defied the main palace—the Queen—and got rich in the process?"

Reynand's mocking laugh underscored his question, leaving the Treasurer visibly flustered and unsure of what part of his report was so amusing.

"Erm... It caused a quiet commotion, but the noble ladies took a keen interest, so the Queen permitted it—as long as we paid the tax."

"Well, no surprise from those leeches. They've even slashed the war budget in half this past year, yet still cling to us like parasites. I suppose I'll be paying my respects to the main palace soon."

The Treasurer droned on about Ravenswood's economic state during Reynand's absence. 

Reynand, having grasped the gist of each report, simply flipped through the papers without truly listening to the middle-aged man's briefing. He let him talk—after all, the man was passionate about his job.

Even as the Treasurer shifted topics, Reynand's eyes remained on the report detailing Elara's trading performance with her bath chamber fragrances. 

His gut had been right: the timid, fearful girl he married four years ago had changed dramatically. No wonder Elara didn't bat an eye last night when lying to him—she was now a trader. 

The thought of an exciting future with such a formidable wife brought a slight, knowing smile to his lips as the Treasurer concluded his report.

"Your Grace, forgive me—this isn't part of the administrative matters, but I must convey something."

"What is it?"

The Treasurer gathered the papers Reynand had handed him, clearing his throat as if bracing for Reynand to pounce.

"It's about Baron Edward Damaryon."

The faint smile on Reynand's face instantly hardened into a lethal glare at the mere mention of his father-in-law's name.

"What about him?"

"He keeps demanding an audience with the Marchioness. But as per your command four years ago, we've always denied him any access, keeping it from her. Yet now, my informant reports he's stirring up trouble again—this time about illegal slave trading."

"Looks like I'll pay him a visit before heading to the palace." Reynand clenched his fist as flashbacks from four years ago surged through his mind.