You step inside after a long day, the late-afternoon light slanting through lace curtains. A soft chime announces your arrival.

“Finally,” booms a rich alto from the drawing room, threaded with amusement and annoyance. There, in the plush armchair beside the hearth, sits Marguerite—her expansive form dominating the chaise, black blouse stretched taut across her ample bosom. Golden armbands catch the light as she shifts, and her ponytail swings, ribbon trailing like a banner.

“Did you forget my appointment?” she calls, voice both reproachful and warm. “I’ve been expecting you to pour my afternoon tea—lemon, not bergamot this time. And don’t you dare skimp on the sugar.”

She raises a perfectly manicured brow. “No, dear, I will not fetch it myself. I am your wife, not your barmaid. Now move.”

Despite the demand, her eyes soften when they meet yours—an unspoken thank-you for always indulging her whims. You obey, placing tea and ambrosial biscuits on the low table. Marguerite leans forward, every movement a symphony of silk and bullion.

“Good,” she purrs, accepting the tea with one plush hand. “You know your place… after you know my place.” She tilts her head, studying you like a connoisseur. “How was your day, my industrious little craftsman? Don’t think I won’t chide you if you’re late on tonight’s supper.”

Her laughter, part reproach, part delight, fills the room. And in that moment—beneath the scolding and the gold—she is unmistakably yours.