Georgia's POV
My world has contracted to the boundaries of his house. A gilded cage with marble floors that echo my diminishing footsteps. Days dictated by his preferences, voice calibrated to please him. I need something, anything, to remember who I'd been before I dissolve completely into the wallpaper of his life.
That's when I turn to charity work.
A quiet rebellion Josiah can't easily dismiss. A wife devoted to charitable causes isn't scandalous. It's expected. Women of my standing lend their names to orphanages and relief societies, though usually in ways that allow for admiration without dirty hands or inconvenient emotions.
But I want more than gestures. I crave purpose beyond being Josiah's perfect accessory. The thought kindles a small flame in my chest, the first real warmth I've felt in months. A dangerous, beautiful heat that I nurse secretly, afraid he might see it glowing beneath my skin.
I choose St. Brigid's Home for Women and Children, a shelter on the city's outskirts that takes in society's discards. Widows left penniless. Abandoned mothers. Children who've never known anything beyond cold alleyways and hollow stomachs. Places women like me, in silk dresses and diamond chokers, aren't supposed to see.
With Josiah away on business, I seize the rare opportunity for unsupervised breath.
The shelter is modest. Faded walls that hold stories in their cracks, rooms scented with bread and honest sweat. Floorboards that creak without apology, unlike the silent opulence of my prison-home.
There I meet Mrs. Callahan, who runs the home with fierce dedication. Her hands are rough as bark, face lined with stories, but her eyes hold clarity I envy with physical pain.
"You're the first lady of your station to set foot beyond the parlor." She eyes my gloves with naked amusement. "Most just send money and consider their souls saved."
I peel off my gloves finger by finger, exposing skin that's never known honest work. "I want to do more than write checks. I want to help."
Her expression softens. "Can you knead dough?"
"I can learn."
She laughs, rough and genuine. "Then get in the kitchen, Mrs. Mason. We've got forty mouths to feed."
And I do. I spend hours in the cramped kitchen, sleeves rolled to elbows, kneading dough alongside women whose stories flow into mine. Flour dusts my arms, works under my nails. Evidence of labor I wear like medals of honor.
I read to children with matchstick limbs. Brush hair tangled with neglect. Mend clothing torn by desperation.
"You're good at this," Mrs. Callahan says one afternoon, watching me braid a little girl's hair. "Natural."
"I like it." The admission surprises me with its simplicity. "I like feeling useful."
"You are useful." She hands me another ribbon. "These children need someone who sees them. Really sees them. Not just their circumstances."
For the first time since becoming Mrs. Mason, I feel real. Substantial. Present in my own skin rather than hovering above it, watching myself perform.
But freedom, even small freedoms, never goes unnoticed in relationships built on control.
One evening, returning home with flour still embedded in my nail beds and something like hope flickering in my chest, I find Josiah waiting in the foyer.
He stands perfectly still beneath the crystal chandelier, expression unreadable as he removes his gloves with measured precision. The leather whispers as he pulls them from long fingers. The grandfather clock ticks loudly in our silence, each second stretching into infinity.
"Where have you been?"
His voice is quiet, controlled. More frightening than any shout could ever be. The air thins, suddenly hard to draw into lungs. I feel my pulse quicken, my body recognizing danger before my mind can process it.
I hesitate. Lying is pointless. He always knows.
"At the shelter. St. Brigid's."
His lips press into a thin line, disappointment radiating from him like cold from ice. He steps closer, his presence filling the space between us until I can hardly breathe.
"Georgia." My name in his mouth sounds like something broken. "This is not suitable. A woman in your position—"
"They need help," I interrupt, weeks of frustration making my voice quaver. "Real help. Not just another check."
His jaw tightens. The only visible sign of rage carefully contained behind his perfect mask. "And you believe scrubbing floors alongside common women is the best use of your time?"
"I believe it's my time to use as I wish."
Silence stretches between us. My defiance settles in the space between his authority and my newfound resolve. Then his expression softens, anger smoothed like ripples in still water. He steps closer, brushing fingers along my cheek with calculated gentleness.
"I only want what's best for you." His voice comes silk-soft. "For us."
His fingers trail down my neck, resting at the hollow of my throat where my pulse betrays me. A reminder of how easily he could crush it, how completely I belong to him. Not a threat. Josiah doesn't need threats. Just a reminder of reality.
"The shelter is important to me," I say, hating how small my voice sounds.
"I understand." He kisses my forehead, cold and perfunctory. "Which is why I'll make a donation in your name. A generous one. You can support them without exhausting yourself."
"That's not what I—"
"It's decided, Georgia." He releases me, already turning away. "I'll have my accountant handle it tomorrow."
And I know what's coming. Inevitability settles in my stomach like lead.
Two days later, a generous donation is made to St. Brigid's Home in my name. The shelter's coffers fill, resources replenish.
And I'm no longer welcome.
Mrs. Callahan's letter arrives on cheap paper, ink slightly smudged.
Your husband has been very generous, Georgia. We are grateful. But I think it best if we keep things as they were before.
I trace fingers over words until they blur. Understanding dawns with brutal clarity. Josiah has bought my freedom. Again. Has turned my rebellion into another demonstration of his power, his wealth, his absolute control.
He never mentions it again. The topic hangs between us, unspoken. A reminder of how far I dared to stray, of how swiftly I was reminded of my place.