"We need to talk," he said.
His tone was not angry, exactly. But there was something in it that made Anthea straighten.
"About what?"
"About this afternoon." Gregory closed the door behind him. "About the way you were acting during the parlor games."
Anthea's spine stiffened. "I was facilitating conversation. Helping you make connections with?—"
"You were pretending to be ignorant," Gregory interrupted. "And I want you to stop."
The blunt words hit like a slap.
"I was not?—"
"Yes, you were." Gregory moved closer, his expression intense. "That comment Lord Pemberton made about crop rotation? You knew it was wrong. I saw it in your eyes. But instead of correcting him gently—which you are perfectly capable of doing—you pretended to be some empty-headed woman who knows nothing about agricultural science."
"I was being diplomatic," Anthea said defensively. "Men like Lord Pemberton do not respond well to women who challenge them?—"
"I do not care how Lord Pemberton responds," Gregory said flatly. "I care that you made yourself smaller to accommodate his fragile ego."
"I was helping you," Anthea insisted. "If I had corrected him, he would have been offended. He might have withdrawn his support?—"
"Then let him withdraw it," Gregory said, and there was real anger in his voice now. "Do you think I want success at any cost? I need your help navigating society, Anthea, but not like this. Not if it means you must pretend to be less than you are. Not if it costs you the very things I admire most—your intelligence, your sharp tongue, your refusal to suffer fools." He stepped closer, his voice dropping. "I will not have you diminishing yourself to secure my investments. I will not have you silencing the parts of yourself that make you extraordinary simply to make insecure men comfortable."
Anthea stared at him, genuinely shocked. "But that is what wives do. What Society expects?—"
"I do not give a damn what Society expects," Gregory interrupted. "You are my wife. My partner. And I need you to be yourself—sharp and brilliant and utterly uncompromising. Not some pale imitation designed to flatter men who should know better."
"You are not being reasonable," Anthea said, but her voice had lost its certainty. "These investments matter to you. Your tenants depend on?—"
"My tenants will be fine," Gregory said. "I will find other investors if necessary. But I will not—cannot—watch you make yourself less to achieve my goals. Do you understand? It mattersless to me that I secure funding than that you remain who you are."
The words settled in the quiet room like stones in still water.
"Why?" Anthea whispered. "Why does it matter so much?"
Gregory's expression softened slightly. "Because I married you for who you are. Not for who you could pretend to be. And watching you diminish yourself—even for good reasons—it feels like losing something precious."
Anthea's throat felt tight. "I thought I was helping."
"You were helping," Gregory said. "But not in the way that matters most." He reached out, cupping her face gently. "I do not need you to make me palatable to people like Lord Pemberton. I need you to be exactly who you are—brilliant and challenging and utterly unafraid to speak your mind. That is the woman I want beside me. Not some docile creature who agrees with everything I say."
"Even if it costs you investments?"
"Even then." Gregory's thumb brushed across her cheekbone. "I would rather fail on my own terms with you as my true partner than succeed by asking you to be less than you are."
Her breath caught—a soft, involuntary sound. Something in Anthea's chest cracked open, and her vision blurred.
She had spent so many years learning to make herself smaller. To be less opinionated, less challenging, less threatening to fragile male egos. Had convinced herself it was necessary, strategic, the only way to survive in a world that did not value women who spoke their minds.
And here was Gregory—proud, stubborn Gregory—telling her to stop. Telling her he valued her intelligence more than social success. That he would rather have her authentic and challenging than diminished and compliant.
"I do not know how to be that person anymore," she admitted quietly. "I have spent so long pretending that I am not certain I remember who I actually am beneath all the performance."
"Then we will figure it out together," Gregory said. "But please, Anthea—promise me you will stop making yourself less. For me, for anyone. You are extraordinary exactly as you are."
"You are being absurd," Anthea said, but there was no heat in it. Only wonder.
