"She's still here."
Daniel's voice carried through the corridor before I reached the kitchen. Tight. Controlled. Dangerous in its restraint.
"Yes," I said, stepping into view. "She is."
Linia stood at the counter, calmly pouring tea as if she had always belonged there. Maria hovered nearby, uncertain which authority to follow. The house had learned new rules overnight, and no one knew who had written them.
Daniel turned to me. "You said temporary."
"And I meant it," I replied. "Temporary doesn't mean invisible."
Linia didn't look at either of us. She placed the cup on a saucer with deliberate care. "I can leave if my presence is disruptive."
Daniel laughed, sharp and humorless. "Disruptive? That's a polite word."
I met his gaze. "So is dishonest."
Silence fell hard.
The house seemed to shift around us, as if adjusting its weight. Doors that once stood open now felt guarded. Footsteps sounded louder. Glances lasted longer. Even the air felt altered—thicker, alert.
"Maria," I said gently, "please prepare breakfast."
She nodded quickly and moved away, grateful for an excuse.
Daniel lowered his voice. "You're letting her take over."
"No," I said. "I'm letting the truth surface."
Linia finally turned. "I don't want control," she said calmly. "I want clarity."
Daniel scoffed. "You've already taken enough."
She met his stare without flinching. "Only what you left unattended."
My pulse quickened. "Enough," I said. "Both of you."
They stopped—because the house still answered to my voice, even if nothing else did.
"I'm going to the clinic," I continued. "I won't return to chaos."
Daniel's eyes flicked to my stomach. "About that—"
"We'll discuss it later," I cut in. "When you've decided whether you're a husband or a strategist."
He stiffened. "You're being unfair."
"No," I replied quietly. "I'm being precise."
By midday, the house had changed its rhythm.
Linia moved through the rooms with quiet efficiency—not intruding, not shrinking. She learned where things were without asking. She listened more than she spoke. And when she did speak, it was measured, thoughtful, unsettling.
"She's observant," Maria whispered to me in the hallway. "Very observant."
"I know," I said.
"She asks careful questions."
"I know."
Maria hesitated. "And she notices when people lie."
I stopped walking.
"That's dangerous," Maria added softly.
"Yes," I said. "It is."
From the study, raised voices broke the tension.
Daniel was on the phone. "No, we don't move assets yet. Not until I say so."
A pause.
"I don't care what the board thinks."
Another pause—longer this time.
"Because my wife doesn't know everything," he said sharply.
My stomach twisted.
Linia stood near the doorway, arms folded, listening without apology.
He ended the call and froze when he saw us.
"How long were you standing there?" he demanded.
"Long enough," Linia replied.
Daniel's face darkened. "You enjoy this."
"I enjoy patterns," she said. "They tell the truth."
I stepped between them. "Daniel, stop."
His jaw tightened. "She's poisoning you against me."
"You did that yourself," I said. "She's just pointing at the wound."
He stared at me, hurt flashing through his anger. "I'm still your husband."
"For now," I replied. "But you're no longer my shield."
That landed harder than any accusation.
He left the room without another word.
That afternoon, I retreated to the sitting room, exhaustion pressing down on me. My body felt different—alert, sensitive, as if every emotion now echoed louder inside me.
Linia appeared in the doorway. "May I sit?"
"You already are," I replied, gesturing to the chair across from me.
She sat carefully. "You're angry."
"I'm tired," I said. "There's a difference."
She nodded. "Anger burns fast. Fatigue stays."
I studied her face—the calm, the control, the restraint layered over something deeper. "Why are you really here, Linia?"
She didn't answer immediately.
"That's not a casual question," she said finally.
"No," I agreed. "It's a necessary one."
She exhaled slowly. "Because this house taught me something."
"What?"
"How power hides," she said. "How kindness can be weaponized. How silence protects the wrong people."
"And you?" I asked. "What does silence protect in you?"
Her gaze flickered. "Survival."
I leaned back. "You didn't answer the whole question."
She met my eyes. "I'm here because you're the only one who hasn't tried to erase me."
The honesty startled me.
"And yet," she added quietly, "you're the one with the most to lose."
The words settled heavily between us.
My phone buzzed on the table.
Unknown number.
Again.
I hesitated before opening it.
The house is adjusting. People always do.
Another message followed.
But walls remember everything.
I looked up sharply.
Linia was watching me—not the phone, but my reaction.
"You're being watched," she said softly.
"So are you," I replied.
She tilted her head. "By whom?"
"That's what I intend to find out."
That evening, dinner was silent.
Daniel barely touched his food. Linia ate slowly, deliberately. Maria watched us all like a mediator waiting for a ceasefire that would never come.
Halfway through the meal, Daniel pushed his plate away. "I'm leaving for a few days."
I looked up. "Running?"
"Strategizing," he replied.
"With or without your wife?" I asked.
He hesitated.
That was answer enough.
Linia set down her fork. "If you leave now, things will move without you."
Daniel glared at her. "That's a threat."
"It's a fact," she said calmly.
He turned to me. "You're letting her speak for you."
"No," I replied. "I'm listening."
He stood abruptly. "When this collapses, don't say I didn't warn you."
I met his gaze. "When it collapses, it will be because it was already rotten."
He left the table, footsteps echoing through the hall.
The house absorbed the sound—and adjusted again.
Later that night, I stood at the window, watching the driveway lights flicker as Daniel's car disappeared into the dark.
Behind me, Linia spoke softly. "He won't come back the same."
"Neither will I," I said.
She paused. "You're afraid."
"Yes," I admitted. "But not of you."
She considered that. "Good."
I turned. "You still haven't told me everything."
She didn't deny it.
"There's one more thing," she said.
My heart tightened. "What?"
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded document. Handed it to me.
I opened it slowly.
A legal filing. Drafted. Unsigned.
A petition to declare me medically unfit to manage my assets.
Daniel's name sat neatly at the bottom.
The room seemed to tilt.
"He planned this weeks ago," Linia said quietly. "Before the gala. Before Celeste. Before you brought me home."
My hands shook.
"He was going to take everything," I whispered.
Linia's eyes darkened. "Unless you moved first."
My phone buzzed again.
Unknown number.
Now you understand what kind of house you're living in.
I stared at the document, my breath shallow, my heart racing.
The house had adjusted.
And now it was my turn
to decide
whether I would survive the changes—
or be buried beneath them.