I set the paper down, crush the cigarette into the ashtray, and nod once. “Check it.”
The men scramble to obey. She leans back in her chair, arms crossed, satisfaction flashing in her eyes. When the others leave to carry out the order, it’s just the two of us.
“You’re welcome,” she says dryly.
“You’re insufferable,” I reply, though there’s no heat in it.
Her lips twitch like she wants to smile but refuses to give me that. “You’re welcome anyway.”
I should hate the sound of her voice, but instead I find myself listening for it.
The late nights pile up. Sometimes we argue until the walls shake, her voice sharp, mine low and dangerous. She doesn’t flinch when I raise mine, doesn’t shrink back the way others do.
Other times the arguments burn themselves out and leave nothing but silence. It’s not a comfortable silence, not yet, but it’s different from the kind I’ve known all my life. It doesn’t suffocate. It lingers.
Every so often, she lets something slip—a muttered joke, a half laugh when I call one of my men an idiot—and it catches me off guard.
The first time I laugh with her, truly laugh, the sound feels foreign in my own throat. She freezes, staring at me like I’ve grown another head.
“I didn’t think you knew how,” she says, tilting her head.
“Don’t get used to it,” I tell her.
Her eyes linger on me for a moment too long before she looks back down at her papers, but I notice the faint curve at the corner of her mouth.
It doesn’t stop there. The work I give her grows heavier. At first, it was small tasks—translation, sorting intercepted messages, combing through shipping manifests. Now she organizes entire convoys, draws routes, reassigns men. She takes notes during meetings, her neat writing sharper than most of the men’s reports.
When she speaks, she doesn’t falter.
One night she’s bent over the map, drawing lines with a pen while the men stand around waiting for my word. “You can’t send the same crew through both districts,” she says, not even looking at me. “They’ll burn out, and if rivals are watching, they’ll see the weakness.”
The men glance at each other. One dares to mutter, “What’s she talking about?”
“I asked you something?” Her voice slices through the air before I can even speak. She looks up at him, eyes cold, steady. The man stumbles, shakes his head, falls silent.
I should put her in her place. I should remind her that contradicting me carries a cost. Instead I find myself asking, “Who would you assign?”
She doesn’t hesitate. She points to two other crews, explaining her reasoning with clarity, confidence. Every word is precise. When she finishes, the room holds its breath.
“Do it,” I say.
The men leave with their orders, some of them glancing back like they can’t believe what just happened. Others are already getting used to Vivienne’s presence.
She sits back, arms folded, chin lifted. “You’re giving me power,” she says, almost like a challenge.
“I’m giving you work,” I reply.
Her smile is sharp. “Same thing.”
She’s right, though I don’t say it.
I should feel threatened by it, by her. Another voice in my world could mean division, weakness. Instead I feel something else, something I don’t recognize at first. Pride.
Watching her speak with authority, seeing men twice her size bow their heads to her words, it does something to me. My chest tightens, and I can’t take my eyes off her. She was never meant to be locked away in a room, never meant to be caged as a prisoner. She belongs here, and she’s proving it every time she opens her mouth.
One night I stand back, watching from across the room as she gives orders in my name. Her voice is firm, commanding, her posture straight and sure. The men don’t argue. They move as if it’s my voice giving the command, but it isn’t. It’s hers.
She catches me watching her, eyes flashing, daring me to say something. I don’t. I let her finish, let her stand there fierce and unafraid, and I know then that whatever lie I told the Council has already become truth. She isn’t just my wife on paper. She’s becoming a force beside me.
