The Wrong Woman

The first rays of morning sunlight seeped through the window, painting the room with a gentle glow.

Mila was still in slumber when she heard the door creak open. Startled awake, she slowly rose, her gaze landing on an unexpected visitor.

Fenna stood at the doorway; her initial surprise quickly clouded with dismay. "Why are you sleeping in Nate's room?" she snapped.

Mila clenched her fists slowly, her irritation mounting as Fenna's intrusion disrupted the peace of the early morning. She wondered why Fenna would know the passcode to Nathan's room.

"Why shouldn't I stay in my husband's room?" Mila retorted, her tone tinged with annoyance.

With a grim expression, Fenna rushed into the bathroom, grabbing a cloth and setting to work on the chair and cabinet surfaces.

Mila watched her with confusion. "What's going on?" she asked, puzzled.

snort, a hint of sarcasm in her voice. "You don't know how to clean, but

deep breath to rein in her frustration, Mila asked calmly, "Why are you cleaning

as she looked down at Mila. "Wanda, I'm Nate's assistant. For

darkened further.

dismissed her with a disdainful glance. "What else have you done other than causing him trouble? Have you ever cooked him a meal or done

jealous and stir up trouble in our friendship." Mila felt a pang in her stomach, gritting

childhood, her

that she wasn't destined to be a housewife. Everyone had their strengths and contributions to offer to

herself and responded, "I am his wife, not his maid. Why should I do the

fired back, "Once you married

wife must cook, do laundry, serve, and clean?" With disdain etched on her face, Fenna continued scrubbing the

a twinge of discomfort at Fenna's remark. She couldn't understand why Fenna, who was of her generation