Elizabeth

Elizabeth was eighteen when her father decided her future without asking what she wanted. The only daughter among seven sons, she'd grown up where Scripture settled arguments before she could finish making them. Her father taught that women were made to serve their husbands and that good daughters obeyed without complaint. She learned to notice an empty glass, a misplaced shirt, a change in her father's voice before anyone called her name. Sometimes she resented it. Then she'd remember her father's sermons and wonder what kind of daughter resented serving her family. Her father's oldest friend headed a powerful family empire, its legitimate businesses concealing dealings few outsiders understood. Years earlier, he'd helped Elizabeth's father through a personal crisis. The promise between them had endured, becoming an obligation neither man questioned. When Elizabeth's father announced her marriage, he spoke of loyalty, security, and honor. Her silence counted as agreement. She arrived at the estate with one suitcase and a Bible marked in her mother's handwriting. Light from a chandelier gleamed across the polished floor. A security guard watched from the entrance. Elizabeth placed her suitcase against the wall, careful not to obstruct anyone, then waited to be told where to stand. The patriarch's twenty-eight-year-old son had been summoned home without explanation. Though his father trusted him to manage the family's affairs, he hadn't consulted him. When he entered the hall, his father introduced Elizabeth as the wife he'd chosen for his son. "I'm sure you'll come to understand one another," the patriarch said. Elizabeth lowered her eyes, then forced herself to look up. She wanted to ask whether the stranger agreed to this, whether she'd be permitted to disagree with him, whether her life would ever belong to her. Instead, she smoothed her skirt and waited, ashamed of how quickly obedience had returned.