Updated Nov 1, 2025 • ~12 min read
The envelope was waiting on Camille’s pillow when she returned from her morning run.
Cream-colored, heavy stock paper, her name written across it in Eleanor’s precise script. No return address, no explanation. Just Camille in black ink that looked almost like calligraphy.
She stood in the doorway of her bedroom, staring at it. Nothing good ever came in envelopes left on pillows. That was a universal truth.
Nicholas emerged from the bathroom, hair wet from his shower, and stopped when he saw her expression. “What’s wrong?”
“Your mother left me something.” Camille gestured at the envelope like it might explode.
Nicholas crossed to the bed, picking up the envelope and turning it over. His jaw tightened. “She hasn’t done this in years.”
“Done what?”
“The list.” He handed it back to Camille. “When Blair married Reed, my mother gave her a list of household expectations. Rules for living here. Blair lasted three months before she and Reed moved to Manhattan.”
Camille’s fingers trembled as she broke the wax seal—actual wax, like this was the nineteenth century. Inside was a single sheet of paper, typed in what looked like an actual typewriter font, complete with Eleanor’s signature at the bottom.
ASHTON FAMILY RESIDENCE – EXPECTATIONS FOR HOUSEHOLD MEMBERS
The following guidelines ensure the continued harmony and proper function of the Ashton family estate. All residents are expected to adhere to these standards.
Social Obligations:
- Sunday family dinners are mandatory unless prior approval is granted (minimum 48 hours notice)
- Attendance required at all family events, charitable functions, and social gatherings deemed necessary by the family matriarch
- All social engagements must be coordinated through the family calendar maintained in the study
Household Standards:
- Dress code for common areas: business casual minimum during daylight hours, formal attire for dinners
- No overnight guests without prior approval
- Quiet hours observed between 10 PM and 7 AM
- All household staff to be treated with courtesy and respect
Personal Conduct:
- Discretion is expected in all matters concerning family business
- Public behavior should reflect the dignity and reputation of the Ashton name
- Media inquiries to be directed through the family attorney
Family Planning:
- Any discussions regarding family planning, pregnancy, or significant life changes must be brought to the matriarch first
- Medical matters concerning potential heirs require family consultation
Financial Matters:
- Personal expenses over $10,000 to be documented and submitted for family records
- Trust fund distributions subject to matriarch approval
- Prenuptial agreements and financial arrangements remain confidential
Failure to adhere to these expectations may result in reconsideration of family standing and associated privileges.
Eleanor Ashton
Matriarch, Ashton Family Estate
Camille read it twice, her disbelief growing with each line. “This is insane.”
“It’s my mother.” Nicholas read over her shoulder, his expression darkening. “She did the same thing to Blair. And to my father’s business partners when they stayed here. She needs to control every aspect of this house.”
“Family planning discussions?” Camille’s voice rose. “She wants me to ask permission before I—before we—” She couldn’t even finish the sentence. “Nicholas, this is medieval.”
“It’s a power play.” He took the paper from her hands, scanning it again. “She’s establishing dominance. Reminding you that you live here at her pleasure.”
“I’m your wife, not her employee.”
“To her, there’s not much difference.” Nicholas crumpled the paper, then immediately smoothed it out again, as if destroying it would make things worse. “Look, I know this is ridiculous. But you need to play along. At least for now.”
“Play along?” Camille snatched the paper back. “She wants me to ask permission to have overnight guests. To report expenses over ten thousand dollars—which I’ll never have anyway. To dress formally for dinner like we’re living in Downton Abbey.”
“She wants control.” Nicholas moved to the window, staring out at the gardens. “After my father died, she lost control over so much. The business, the family, her own life. This house is the one place she can still dictate terms. And she’s terminal, Camille. She’s dying and trying to lock everything down before she goes.”
The reminder of Eleanor’s diagnosis softened Camille’s anger, but only slightly. “That doesn’t give her the right to—” She looked down at the list again, at the line that had made her stomach turn. “Family planning discussions with her first? What does that even mean?”
Nicholas was very still. Too still.
“Nicholas.”
He turned back to face her, and she could see the guilt written across his face. “The inheritance terms. They’re not just about being married by my thirty-third birthday. They’re about… producing an heir.”
The words landed like stones. “What?”
“The full inheritance—the eight hundred million, not the two hundred I told you about—it comes in stages.” Nicholas rubbed the back of his neck, not meeting her eyes. “Two hundred when I turn thirty-three and I’m married. Another three hundred after five years of marriage. The rest…” He trailed off.
“The rest when what?”
“When there’s a legitimate heir. A child.” He finally looked at her. “My father set it up that way. He was obsessed with legacy, with continuing the family line. And my mother… she’s enforcing his wishes.”
Camille felt like the floor was tilting beneath her feet. “You didn’t tell me this.”
“Because it doesn’t matter. We’re not—this arrangement ends after a year. You’ll get your money, I’ll get enough of the inheritance to be set, and we walk away. The heir thing is irrelevant.”
“Except your mother clearly doesn’t think so.” Camille shook the paper at him. “She wants family planning discussions. She’s already thinking about grandchildren, about continuing the precious Ashton bloodline.”
“She can think whatever she wants. We’re not having children.”
“No, we’re not. Because this isn’t real.” Camille’s hands were shaking. “But she doesn’t know that. And what happens when a year passes and I’m not pregnant? When you’re not getting the full inheritance because there’s no heir? She’ll figure it out, Nicholas. She’s not stupid.”
“By then it won’t matter. I’ll have enough money to be independent of her.”
“Will you?” Camille moved closer to him, forcing him to look at her. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re still following her rules. Still living in her house. Still letting her dictate every aspect of your life with typed-up lists of expectations.”
Nicholas’s jaw tightened. “What do you want me to do? Move out? Cut her off? She’s dying, Camille. I can give her one more year of thinking she’s in control.”
“And then what? You think she’ll just accept that we’re not having children? That we’re getting divorced? She’ll fight it. She’ll use every resource she has to keep us together, to force us to produce an heir.”
“Then we’ll deal with it then.” But Nicholas’s voice lacked conviction.
Camille looked down at the list again, at Eleanor’s precise signature at the bottom. Every line was a chain, every rule a trap. And the one about family planning was the most dangerous of all.
“When were you going to tell me?” she asked quietly. “About the heir requirement?”
“I don’t know. Maybe never.” Nicholas sank onto the edge of the bed, suddenly looking exhausted. “It felt like too much. You were already desperate, already backed into a corner. If I’d told you the full terms—”
“I wouldn’t have agreed.” Camille finished. “Because that changes everything. You’re not just asking me to play a part for a year. You’re asking me to fail at giving your mother what she wants most. And when we do fail, when this arrangement ends and there’s no heir, she’ll destroy us both.”
“She’s dying. She won’t have time—”
“Six to twelve months, your file said. That’s enough time to make our lives hell.” Camille moved to her dresser, pulling out the folder she’d hidden there—the one with Juliette’s photo, with all of Eleanor’s secrets. “She’s been planning this for months, Nicholas. Maybe longer. Finding me, vetting me, making sure I was desperate enough to agree but strong enough to survive. And you think she doesn’t have a backup plan?”
Nicholas stared at the folder. “Where did you get that?”
“Your mother’s study. She wanted me to find it. Wanted me to know about Juliette, about the inheritance, about her diagnosis. Everything’s a test with her.” Camille set the folder on the bed between them. “The question is whether we’re passing or failing.”
Nicholas opened the folder, his face going pale as he saw Juliette’s photo. His hands trembled slightly as he touched the obituary, the date standing out in stark relief: March 15, 2023.
“I didn’t realize,” he whispered. “When we got married. I didn’t put together the date until it was too late.”
“I know.” Camille sat beside him, careful to maintain distance. “Your mother told me. She knows everything, Nicholas. Every secret, every lie, every detail we thought we were hiding. And she’s using it all to control us.”
“So what do we do?”
It was the first time he’d asked her opinion, treated her like a partner rather than a prop in his elaborate scheme. Camille looked at the list of rules, at Juliette’s smiling face, at the sapphire ring on her finger that wouldn’t come off.
“We follow the rules,” she said finally. “For now. We attend Sunday dinners and dress formally and ask permission for overnight guests we’ll never have. We play along.”
“And the family planning thing?”
Camille met his eyes. “We tell her we’re trying. That we’re hopeful. That these things take time.” She paused. “We lie. Like we’ve been lying about everything else.”
Nicholas nodded slowly. “She’ll want proof eventually. Doctor’s appointments, fertility testing—”
“Then we’ll fake those too.” Camille’s voice was harder than she’d ever heard it. “If she wants a performance, we’ll give her one. A convincing one. Convincing enough that by the time she realizes there’s no heir coming, it’ll be too late.”
“That’s cold.”
“That’s survival.” Camille stood, smoothing down her running clothes. “Your mother made the rules, Nicholas. We’re just learning how to play by them.”
She moved to her closet, pulling out appropriate clothing for common areas—business casual, per Eleanor’s requirements. A silk blouse, tailored pants, the kind of outfit that screamed “Ashton wife” even though Camille still felt like an imposter wearing it.
“Camille.” Nicholas’s voice stopped her at the bathroom door. “I’m sorry. For not telling you everything. For dragging you into this mess.”
She looked back at him, at the guilt and exhaustion written across his face. He was just as trapped as she was, just as desperate, just as broken by the weight of Eleanor’s expectations.
“We’re both dragging each other,” she said. “The question is whether we drown or learn to swim.”
She closed the bathroom door and leaned against it, clutching Eleanor’s list of rules in one hand. Her reflection in the mirror looked tired, scared, young. Not at all like someone capable of going head-to-head with Eleanor Ashton.
But she’d have to become that person. Because the alternative was being crushed under the weight of expectations she could never meet, rules she could never follow, a performance that would never end.
Camille looked down at the list again, her eyes catching on the final line: Failure to adhere to these expectations may result in reconsideration of family standing and associated privileges.
It was a threat. Comply or be destroyed.
She folded the list carefully, tucking it into her pocket. She’d need to memorize it, internalize it, make following Eleanor’s rules look effortless. Because any sign of struggle, any hint of resistance, would be marked as failure.
When she emerged from the bathroom, dressed in her required business casual, Nicholas was still sitting on the bed, staring at Juliette’s photo.
“Do you miss her?” Camille asked quietly.
“Every day.” His voice was raw. “But it’s getting harder to remember what it felt like. To love someone without all these calculations, without all these lies. I think I’m forgetting how to be real.”
“Me too.”
They stood in silence for a moment, two people trapped in a performance neither of them had auditioned for, reading lines they’d never wanted to speak.
“Sunday dinner,” Nicholas said finally, setting down the photo. “That’s tomorrow. She’ll want to discuss the rules, make sure you understand your place.”
“I understand my place.” Camille’s hand went to the sapphire ring, twisting it. “The question is whether I’ll accept it.”
Nicholas looked at her, something like respect flickering in his eyes. “You’re stronger than I gave you credit for.”
“I’m more desperate than you gave me credit for.” She paused. “But maybe they’re the same thing.”
“Maybe they are.”
The clock in the hallway chimed ten. Quiet hours had officially begun, per Eleanor’s rules. No noise, no disturbances, no evidence of life except for the carefully controlled kind Eleanor approved of.
Camille wondered if this was what the rest of her year would look like—every moment measured against a list of expectations, every breath calculated to avoid drawing Eleanor’s attention. A year of following rules designed to break her, to mold her into the perfect Ashton wife.
Or a year of pretending to follow those rules while finding every loophole, every workaround, every way to survive with her identity intact.
She looked at Nicholas, at the man who’d bought her services for a year, who was slowly revealing himself to be just as trapped, just as desperate, just as broken as she was.
“Same time tonight?” she asked. “To coordinate our story?”
“To survive Eleanor,” he corrected.
“Same thing.”
Nicholas smiled, and it almost reached his eyes. “Yeah. Same thing.”
Camille retreated to her bedroom, Eleanor’s list burning a hole in her pocket. Tomorrow was Sunday. Tomorrow was dinner. Tomorrow was another test she’d have to pass.
And she was running out of right answers.
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