Whispers Turn Into Threats
At first, it was just whispers.
Soft.
Dismissive.
Easy to ignore.
“The colonel’s daughter spends too much time with that brute.”
“She’s lonely. It’s natural.”
“It’s improper.”
Improper.
Such a small word.
Such a dangerous one.
Then the whispers changed.
“They say she smiles at him.”
“They say he reads to her like she’s his equal.”
“They say—”
“They say she’s forgotten her place.”
One afternoon, I learned just how far those whispers had traveled.
I was in the garden when Mrs. Ellington arrived.
Unannounced.
Uninvited.
Unwelcome.
“My dear Elellanar,” she said, her smile tight and brittle. “You’re looking… well.”
She didn’t mean it.
“I am,” I replied.
Her eyes flicked to Josiah, who stood a respectful distance behind me.
Always behind.
Always silent.
“How… interesting,” she said.
I knew that tone.
It was the tone people used when they were about to destroy something.
“You spend quite a lot of time with him, don’t you?”
“I spend time with those who treat me with respect,” I said calmly.
Her smile faltered.
Just slightly.
But it was enough.
“My dear,” she said, leaning closer, lowering her voice, “people are talking.”
“Let them.”
“You don’t understand,” she insisted. “This is not… appropriate. You are a Whitmore.”
“And he is a man,” I replied.
That did it.
Her eyes hardened.
“You are playing a dangerous game.”
“No,” I said quietly.
“For the first time in my life… I am not playing at all.”
She left shortly after.
But she didn’t leave quietly.
She took the whispers with her.
And turned them into something sharper.
That evening, my father called me into his study again.
His face was unreadable.
“Sit,” he said.
I obeyed.
Josiah stood outside the door.
I could feel him there.
Waiting.
“I’ve heard things,” my father began.
“I’m sure you have.”
“Elellanar—”
“I won’t stop seeing him.”
The words came out before I could stop them.
The room fell silent.
My father stared at me.
Not angry.
Not yet.
But calculating.
“You think this is about affection?” he asked.
“It is.”
“No,” he said firmly. “This is about power. About perception. About survival.”
“I’ve been surviving my whole life,” I snapped. “I would like to live.”
That hit him.
I saw it.
Just for a moment.
The father beneath the colonel.
Then he leaned back in his chair.
“You care for him.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.”
“And he cares for you.”
“Yes.”
Silence.
Long.
Heavy.
Then—
“They will come for him,” my father said quietly.
My heart stopped.
“What?”
“The men who are talking. The ones who feel… threatened. They will not tolerate this.”
“This?” I demanded. “What is this?”
“This idea,” he said. “That someone like him… could be seen as equal.”
I felt cold.
“Then protect him,” I said.
My father looked at me.
Really looked.
For the first time in years.
“I might not be able to.”
And in that moment—
I realized something terrifying.
This wasn’t just a story about love.
This was a story about survival.
To be continued in Part 04
Click Here : [Part 04] She was deemed unfit for marriage, so her father married her to the strongest slave.
