The air is still cold. The wife steps outside, supported by a servant, a light veil covering her hair. Her face is pale, yet her eyes shine with a new determination. The concubine, startled, bows hastily, her voice soft and falsely humble:
— "Madam, you should rest… The morning air is sharp."
The wife straightens and answers, her tone calm but cutting:
— "My rest is none of your concern. But it is time we spoke."
The servant withdraws. The wife stands tall — fragile, yet dignified. Her voice lowers, but each word falls like a judgment:
— "I know what you seek. You think a woman who has just given birth leaves an empty space in her husband's bed. But you forget one thing."
She steps forward, her gaze fixed on the concubine — unyielding, despite the gentleness of her tone.
— "The wife is the mistress of this house. Even broken, even confined to her bed, I remain the only one to whom my husband belongs. You are nothing but a gift imposed upon us — a shadow within our walls."
The concubine pales, her lips trembling.
The wife finishes, her voice softer now, but all the more terrible:
— "You may try with beauty, with sighs, with cunning. But from him you will have only silence. For his gaze, his duty, his blood, and his children… are mine."
Silence. The concubine lowers her eyes, defeated. The wife, faint from exhaustion, turns away. Her steps are slow — yet each one resounds like a victory.