Wife to Mistress

The broken spirits

The sun rose over the mansion, but for Alice and Liza, the light brought no warmth—only the realization that their nightmare was real. The luxury they had once enjoyed now felt like a gilded cage, and the woman they had once mocked was now their total authority.

The Morning Bell

At exactly 6:00 AM, a sharp, ringing sound echoed through the cold basement. Mistress Saba stood at the top of the stairs, dressed in a sharp, black silk robe, looking down at the two figures huddled on thin mats.

The sun is up," she said, her voice calm but echoing with power. "My tea should have been ready ten minutes ago. Slave Alice, why are you still lying down?"

Alice, his hair disheveled and his designer shirt wrinkled from sleeping on the floor, scrambled to his feet. "I... I’m sorry, Saba—"

"What did I tell you?" she interrupted, her gaze piercing.

Alice swallowed his pride, his throat dry. "I am sorry... Mistress Saba."

A Lesson in Humility

In the kitchen, Slave Liza was struggling. Her manicured nails were already chipped as she tried to scrub the heavy iron pots. She looked at Alice, hoping for a sign of comfort, but Alice couldn't even look her in the eye. He was too busy polishing the floor on his hands and knees under Saba’s watchful eye.

Mistress Saba walked into the kitchen, her heels clicking rhythmically on the marble—a sound that now triggered fear in both of them. She inspected the counter with a white silk glove.

"Dust," she remarked, showing a faint grey smudge to Liza. "Is this how you plan to serve me, Liza? You were so quick to try and take my place as the woman of this house. It seems you aren't even capable of being its servant."

"I'm trying, Mistress," Liza whispered, tears streaming down her face.

Don't cry," Saba said, tilting Liza's chin up with a cold finger. "Tears are for the weak. Work is for the guilty. Since you found the counter too difficult, you will spend the afternoon weeding the entire garden... in the heat."

The Table is Turned

Breakfast was served, but not for everyone. Mistress Saba sat at the long mahogany dining table, enjoying a lavish spread of fresh fruit, eggs, and coffee.

Slave Alice stood behind her chair, a white towel over his arm, forced to watch

the food he used to pay for. He was the one who had to pour the coffee, his hands shaking.

"Alice," Saba said softly, not looking back. "Do you remember when you were poor? When I shared my only piece of bread with you?"

"Yes, Mistress," he choked out.

"You threw that love away for a girl who only wanted your wallet," she said, finally turning to look at him. "So today, you will learn the value of what you lost. You and Liza will share one bowl of plain rice today. Only after the entire house is spotless."

The Breaking Point

By noon, the neighbors saw a strange sight: the once-powerful CEO Alice washing the windows from the outside, barefoot and sweating, while Liza was on her knees in the dirt, pulling weeds under the scorching sun.

Whenever they slowed down, Mistress Saba would appear on the balcony, a cold silhouette of power. She didn't need to say a word. The threat of the "Black Folder"—the evidence that could end their lives—was enough to keep them moving.

As Alice looked up at his wife, he realized the terrifying truth: He hadn't just lost his money or his mistress. He had lost his soul to the woman he betrayed, and she was never going to give it back.