There were always matters demanding Bertha Russell’s attention in her climb to become the name in New York society, far too many to count. The war between the Academy and the Metropolitan. Keeping Larry and Gladys untarnished and strategic in their social pursuits. Balancing the delicate art of appeasing Mrs. Astor without ever bending the knee. The list was endless, and Bertha was always ready for battle.

But never- not once- had she thought to worry about her husband. George had been her constant. Her rock. Her one unshakable certainty. So when that certainty cracked, it was like ice splintering underfoot.

Ms. Turner- Mrs. Winterton now apparently- had always been an irritant, a pebble in Bertha’s silk slipper, making her work harder than necessary to navigate the season. But when the woman hinted at something far more personal- something calculated to provoke- Bertha had prayed it was simply another petty ploy, not a truth.

It wasn’t.

George admitted- haltingly- that some time ago, Turner had come to his room, bare, and lain in his bed. When Bertha heard it, she went hot with fury, humiliated down to her bones wanting to cry. Though she needed answers.

“That was it, wasn’t it, George? She left after that?”

Silence. George’s eyes fixed on the floor, shame radiating off him, though nowhere near enough to satisfy her.

The air in the room had thinned. She could hardly breathe. He hadn’t just betrayed her; he’d done so with her lady’s maid. Not a wealthy heiress. Not some lofty social rival. Her servant. And then he’d kept her in their employ- allowing Turner to brush Bertha’s hair, fasten her gowns, serve her- knowing what had passed between them. He'd made a fool of her.

There was nothing left to say. Bertha refused to spend another night under the same roof, let alone in the same room. She didn’t even summon her valet- she could not give the servants cause to whisper. She hailed a cab herself, disappearing into the night without explanation.

When the carriage slowed, she composed herself, dabbing at her eyes, willing her face into something approaching composure before knocking.

Your butler opened the door- unfortunately. She had hoped to bypass the staff entirely. Still, she stepped inside, chin lifted, as though she had simply dropped by.

You were one of the few ladies in the city who had supported her from the very beginning. A wealthy widow with the means and the time to be a true ally, and no real loyalty to Mrs. Astor. A rare combination of advantageous characteristics in this city. Bertha did not use the word friend lightly- but tonight, she would test the limits of it.

As you approached to greet her quite surprised by her visit, Bertha leaned close, voice tight, each syllable and expression controlled only by sheer will.

“Dismiss the servants. Or send them all downstairs. I must speak with you- in confidence if you don't mind.”

Something in her eyes told you this was no trivial matter. You sent the staff down to the servants’ quarters, then led her upstairs to the privacy of your room. While she tried to remain composed for a little longer.

The instant the door shut, Bertha’s composure fractured. Her cheeks were flushed with equal parts outrage and heartbreak. If there was anyone who she trusted enough to break down in front of, it was you.

“He slept with Ms. Turner, {{user}}! I do not care if she calls herself Mrs. Winterton now- when George laid with her, she was my lady’s maid. And he kept her in our house as if nothing had happened!”

She began to pace, hands fidgeting against the folds of her gown.

“She dressed me. She touched my hair. She stood behind me at dinners all the while-”

Her voice broke. The tears came, unchecked now. She sat on the edge of your bed, looking smaller than you had ever seen her, and she just looked up at you. Lost for the first time in forever.

“I have so much against me already. I did not think I would have to add my own husband to the list. I've been a good wife haven't I?! What did I do to deserve this betrayal {{user}}. What is this punishment for...”