Diana's POV

Matthew Smith's Office, Friday, 11:30 a.m.

I sat stiffly in the oversized leather chair, my head bowed in shame as Mr Smith’s piercing eyes bored into me. His fingers drummed against the desk, each tap sending a chill down my spine.

I was only nineteen. A month away from finishing college. And yet here I was, pregnant.

The Smiths were the most powerful family in Los Angeles, capable of making people vanish with a single command. And now I had been summoned into Matthew Smith’s office, with no idea how much he already knew…

What terrified me most wasn’t that he knew I was pregnant. It was that I couldn’t understand how he’d found out.

How did I end up in this situation?

It all started when I found out my mother, my only family, was dying. She needed a kidney transplant. After months of waiting, the hospital had finally found a donor, but the surgery cost $400,000. To most people, that was an investment, comparable to the price of a car, a home, or a business deal. For me, it was an impossible mountain.

I was already working two jobs to keep us afloat: waitressing during the day, scrubbing floors at dawn before lectures, sneaking in hours at the library just to keep up with my classes. My grades mattered. I was determined to graduate. But saving my mother mattered more.

Every paycheck vanished into medical bills. Every tip, every dollar scraped together, was gone before I could even breathe. I’d already sold everything that could be sold, our furniture, my mother’s jewellery, even my laptop. All that remained was her life, slowly slipping away before my eyes.

The hospital called, their words slicing me open.

"We need to act now. If we don’t do the surgery soon, she may not make it. But if you can’t pay, the kidney will go to another patient."

The desperation in me turned into a quiet, gnawing panic. I begged. Professors, classmates, neighbours, anyone I thought might have enough money. I promised I would work more jobs, repay every cent, but no one wanted to risk it on me. Their polite refusals felt like knives.

That afternoon, when reality finally crushed me, I sat on a bench behind the sports field, sobbing until my throat burned. The world blurred, my tears falling like acid onto my sleeves.

That was when I heard the voice I least wanted to hear.

"Hey, ugly nerd."

Gordon Smith.

My bully. My tormentor. The boy whose family owned half the city, whose arrogance was as big as his bank account. He always seemed to find me when I was weakest.

I kept my head down, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing my swollen, tear-stained face.

"I heard you’ve been running around, begging for money," he said, his tone dripping with mockery. "For your mom’s surgery, right?"

My hands clenched in my lap. Slowly, I lifted my head. His smirk was in place, cruel as ever.

"I’ll give you half a million dollars," Gordon said smoothly, "if you give me your virginity."

My breath caught. I froze, the world tilting sideways. Of all the insults, all the humiliations I’d endured from him, this was the cruellest. He loathed me, or at least, he enjoyed pretending to. Why would he even want me?

I searched his face for a hint of a joke, some indication that this was just another twisted prank.

But his expression was cool, matter-of-fact.

"I’m serious," he continued when I didn’t respond. He pressed a folded slip of paper into my palm. "Meet me tonight at eight. Room 208. Your body for the money. And try, just try, to look less like a grandma. Lose the dog-ear braids. Wear something sexy."

With that, he dawdled away, leaving me clutching the paper with shaking fingers.

My stomach twisted violently. This had to be a trap, another way for him to humiliate me. But what if it wasn’t? What if he actually meant it?

I stared at the address scrawled on the paper, my thoughts a frantic storm.

Then my phone rang.

"Your mother’s condition is deteriorating," the doctor’s voice said. "We need to do the surgery soon. Do you have the money now?"

My chest tightened until I could barely breathe.

No. I didn’t.

But Gordon did.

"I’ll… figure something out tonight," I whispered, my voice breaking.

My mind circled Gordon's offer.

By evening, desperation had eroded every shred of pride I had left. I wandered into a thrift store, scrolling on my phone for examples of “sexy dresses” because I didn’t even know what counted. After a long, humiliating search, I picked one, a short, body-hugging dress with thin straps. Cheap, but close enough to what I’d seen online.

Back at my apartment, I stared at it in my hands, my chest tight with dread.

This is for Mum.

That thought became my shield, the only thing that kept me moving forward.

When the cab dropped me at the hotel, my heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst. The lobby gleamed with wealth, chandeliers, polished marble, and staff in crisp uniforms. I felt out of place in my long skirt and cardigan, like an intruder in a world that would never be mine.

The receptionist eyed me with open disdain.

"I’m here for the guest in Room 208," I said quietly.

"Your name?"

"Diana Wilson."

Her nose wrinkled. She picked up the phone, murmured something too low for me to catch, then gestured lazily.

"Fourth floor. Do you know how to use the elevator?"

Heat flared in my cheeks, but I forced myself to nod and walk away.

Gordon opened the door shirtless, his expression irritated. He yanked me inside like I was something to be hidden.

"Seriously? I told you to wear something sexy. You look like you came from a church choir."

"I… I brought a dress. I’ll change."

"Good. Bathroom’s that way."

Inside the bathroom, my hands trembled as I slipped into the dress. It clung to me awkwardly, exposing more of me than I’d ever shown before. My braids fell loose around my shoulders as I raked nervous fingers through them.

I whispered to my reflection, This is for Mum.

When I stepped out, Gordon’s smirk widened.

"Now we’re talking," he said. "Turns out the ugly duckling has something worth looking at after all."

I stood frozen, my stomach churning. He stripped my glasses from my face and kissed me, his touch rough, claiming. Tears burned my eyes, but I stayed still, enduring. This wasn’t my dream. This wasn’t how my first kiss, my first time, was supposed to be. But my mother’s life was the price.

And so I let him.

When it was over, I lay trembling, my heart hollow. Gordon pulled a card from the drawer and tossed it to me.

"Here. Half a million, like I said. You’re mine now, my little secret. Whenever I call, you come. In exchange, I’ll keep paying you. But if anyone finds out about this, you’ll regret it. Understand?"

I nodded numbly, clutching the card with shaking fingers.

"Good. Now get out."

In the bathroom, I changed back into my modest clothes, braiding my hair again with trembling hands. Silent sobs wracked my chest, but I repeated the words in my mind like a prayer: It’s worth it. Mum will live.

At the hospital that night, I handed over the money. The surgery was scheduled for the morning. I sat outside the operating room until the doctor finally emerged with a tired but relieved smile.

"It was a success," he said.

Relief washed through me so strongly I thought I might collapse. My mother was safe. That was all that mattered.

Or so I thought.

A month later, on my way back home after school, dizziness overtook me. My knees buckled, and I fainted on the roadside. When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed.

And standing beside me was Matthew Smith.

His gaze was sharp, his voice clipped.

"So, you’re pregnant," he said. "Tell me, my son is responsible, isn’t he?"

I froze. Words refused to come.

"Don’t bother lying. I already know," he continued. "I only need your confirmation."

I swallowed hard and nodded.

Which is how I ended up here, in his office, trembling under his gaze.

The door opened, and Gordon walked in. His steps faltered when he saw me.

"Dad? You wanted to see me?"

Matthew’s tone was absolute, leaving no room for argument.

"She’s carrying my grandchild. You two are getting married tomorrow. My decision is final."

The words struck me like a thunderclap. My breath caught, my vision blurred.

Married. To Gordon.

My world tilted, and everything went black.

Diana's POV

"She is carrying my grandchild. You two are getting married tomorrow. My decision is final."

Mr. Smith’s voice cracked like thunder across the room. My heart stopped.

"What?" Gordon and I blurted at the same time, disbelief hanging between us.

"Yes, you heard me," Mr. Smith said evenly, though his eyes were locked on his son, sharp with anger.

Gordon let out a humourless laugh. "Dad, I don’t even know her. You know me, there’s no way I’d move in with a girl like her."

My stomach twisted at his words. Was this really the same man who had taken my body a month ago, like his life depended on it?

"Diana," Mr. Smith turned to me, his tone gentler, "do you know my son?"

I froze under Gordon’s glare. His eyes warned me: Say yes and you’ll regret it.

And just like that, my mind slipped into an old nightmare.

I was back in high school, trapped in the suffocating stench of the girls’ restroom. Gordon’s friends had my head shoved into a toilet bowl, their laughter bouncing off the tiles. My lungs burned as I struggled.

"Hold her under until she drowns," Gordon’s voice commanded coldly, arms folded as if he were above it all.

"Diana?"

The sharp snap of fingers yanked me out of the memory. Mr. Smith leaned toward me, concern etched into his face. "Are you alright?"

I nodded quickly, forcing my trembling hands into my lap.

"Don’t let him scare you," Mr. Smith said firmly. "Now answer me, have you been with my son? And by that, I mean, have you two not slept together?"

Heat burned my cheeks. I lowered my gaze, hesitated, and then shook my head.

"See?" Gordon sneered immediately. "There’s no way I’d touch this disgusting thing."

His words sliced me open, and I dropped my head lower so neither of them could see the tears threatening to fall.

"Gordon!" Mr. Smith’s voice thundered. "Never, do you hear me? Never call another man’s child a disgusting thing."

Gordon’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

"Whether she admits it or not," Mr. Smith continued, "you two will marry. That’s final. Go get ready."

"Dad....."

"Get out of my office. Either you marry her, or I’ll have you thrown into jail for rape."

The word rape struck like a hammer. Gordon’s face drained of colour before he stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

Silence hung heavy until Mr. Smith turned back to me, his expression softening. "Ignore my son. He’s hot-headed, rude, but… he can be sweet when he chooses. He’ll make a good husband in time."

I wanted to laugh, but my throat was too tight.

"I know about the Room 208 incident," he added casually. "It’s my friend’s hotel, after all."

My heart stopped. He knew. He had always known.

"How is your mother?" he asked.

"She’s… fine. Just not as strong as before."

"She’ll recover," he assured me kindly. Then his face grew serious again. "In my family, it is forbidden for a man to impregnate a woman and abandon her. My son will do the needful. Tomorrow morning, my driver will pick you up at eight sharp and take you to the courthouse."

He smiled then, a warm, fatherly smile that almost made me believe him. "You’re a good girl, Diana. By the time this child is born, Gordon will warm up to you. I promise you, I’ll give you the wedding of your dreams."

"I'll let my driver drop you home."

I forced myself to smile back. "Thank you, Mr. Smith. But I’ll go home by myself. I need to explain everything to my mum. If I show up in an expensive car, she’ll panic."

"That’s fine." He opened his drawer, pulling out a bundle of cash. "Here. I need you and the baby to be safe. Call for a ride, don’t take the bus."

I took only a small portion. "This will be enough for the ride, thank you."

He pressed the rest into my hand. "Keep it. From now on, I’m your father-in-law."

My throat tightened with unspoken gratitude as I slipped out of his office.

The corridor felt like a tunnel closing in on me. I was nearly to the stairs when Gordon’s voice lashed out from the shadows.

"So, you went running your dirty mouth to my dad, huh?"

I spun, startled. "I didn’t! I didn’t even know I was pregnant. All I remember is passing out on my way to the bus stop."

"And I’m supposed to believe my dad just happened to find you?" His voice dripped with venom. "Somehow, he’s convinced I got you pregnant? How the hell do you get knocked up from one time?"

"I, I don’t know. You were my first."

His eyes narrowed, suspicious. "And you expect me to believe you didn’t sleep with anyone else after me?"

My body trembled, but my voice hardened. "If I were that kind of girl, I wouldn’t have been a virgin, would I?"

Gordon scoffed, leaning in close so only I could hear. "Don’t you dare show up tomorrow. If you do, you’ll have brought this misery on yourself." He shoved past me, his cologne choking the air as he disappeared down the stairs.

My legs carried me outside on autopilot. I hailed a cab straight home.

When I told my mother everything, the deal, the pregnancy, the marriage, her face crumpled.

"Oh, Diana." Her voice was soft, pained. "You shouldn’t have given your body away like that." She studied me with worried eyes. "So tell me, are you marrying him because you’re pregnant, or because he loves you?"

The truth clawed at my throat. Because I have no choice. Because survival is all that’s left.

But I couldn’t let her carry that burden.

"Mummy… he loves me," I lied, twisting my hands. "He just pretended it was about money. But he loves me, and I love him too."

Her face softened, relief overtaking worry. "If that’s the case, I won’t stand in your way. You have my blessing, Diana. I’ll even accompany you tomorrow."

Tears filled my eyes as I hugged her tightly. "Thank you, Mum."

The next morning, she woke me early.

"I wish I could’ve bought you something pretty," she said, holding up a dress she had stayed up all night sewing. "But everything’s happening so fast. I wanted you to have this."

It was simple, a white, off-shoulder dress with a small belt and a neat flare that fell to my knees, but to me, it was priceless.

"Mum," I whispered, throat thick, "it’s beautiful."

She styled my hair into a soft bun, kissed my forehead, and by 7:50, we were ready. A black four-wheel drive was already parked outside.

Mr. Smith stood at the courthouse steps when we arrived, his bodyguards looming like statues. "Good morning," he greeted warmly. "You must be Diana’s mum."

"This is my mum, Ms. Wilson," I said quickly.

"Mrs. Wilson, or?" he asked politely.

"Ms. Wilson," she replied, shaking his hand firmly.

"Son, come greet your mother-in-law," Mr. Smith called.

Gordon stepped out of the car in a suit, his face thunderous. But when he reached us, he forced a smile that didn’t touch his eyes.

"You look beautiful, my dear," Mr. Smith whispered to me, making me flush with embarrassment.

"Hello, Ms. Wilson," Gordon greeted stiffly.

After brief introductions, Mr. Smith clapped his hands. "Alright, let’s get these two married."

The courthouse felt sterile and cold, the walls too white, the silence too loud. My steps faltered as the ceremony began. The words—Do you take this woman… do you take this man…—floated past me like smoke. My hands shook as I signed my name beside Gordon’s on the marriage certificate.

It was done.

"Congratulations to you both!" Mr. Smith declared, hugging us in turn. My mother hugged me too, her smile tender and hopeful.

But I felt nothing but emptiness.

As we walked out, Mr. Smith’s phone buzzed. "I must get to the office. Gordon, take Diana and her mother to gather her belongings. From now on, they live with us."

"Oh, don’t worry about me," my mum interjected. "I run my business at the flat. Take Diana with you. I’ll visit whenever."

I wanted to protest, but my words stuck. She hugged me one last time, eyes bright with love, and waved as we drove off.

I never imagined it would be the last time I saw her alive.

Gordon rolled up the window, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "I told you not to show up. But you just couldn’t listen. If not for my dad holding a gun to my back, I’d never have married you."

My heart shrank.

"You wanted this so badly, didn’t you? Well, congratulations." His mouth twisted in a cruel smile. "You just signed yourself into hell. Don’t expect happiness in this marriage."

He slammed his foot on the accelerator. The car shot forward, my body jerking against the seatbelt. My heart raced wildly as the world blurred past.

He took turns too sharply, the tires screeching. Fear clawed at me as tears streamed down my face. I gripped the seat, screaming as he sped faster, as if trying to fling me from this world entirely.

And in that moment, I understood, this marriage wasn’t a promise.

It was a prison.

I just got myself a certificate for hell.

Diana's POV

"Gordon, please, you’re going to kill us both!" I cried, clutching the seatbelt as the car swerved dangerously across lanes.

My plea was useless. Gordon’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, his eyes locked on the road with the kind of mad focus that chilled me. The tires screeched, the car tilted as he pulled an insane manoeuvre. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might tear from my chest.

Sirens wailed behind us.

"Oh, shit," Gordon muttered, glancing at the rearview mirror. His lips twisted into a cruel smile. "Looks like whatever you ate this morning is about to come right out, along with that bastard you tied around my neck."

His words stabbed me deeper than the reckless driving. He didn’t even bother looking at me. Just spitting venom.

It had been less than an hour since we signed the marriage certificate, and already, I was regretting every second. I knew Gordon didn’t care for me. I’d expected ridicule, coldness, maybe the same humiliation he used to rain on me in school. But this? This was cruelty on a level I hadn’t prepared for.

The speedometer climbed. The world outside blurred. I screamed, sobbing uncontrollably, but Gordon acted as though I wasn’t even in the car. Behind the wheel, he looked possessed, like Tom from the old Tom and Jerry cartoons, riding that toy train full-speed into disaster. Only this wasn’t funny.

The sirens grew louder. Blue and red lights flashed ahead. A barricade of police cars blocked the road. Gordon cursed and slammed the brakes, jerking us violently forward. My head nearly hit the dashboard.

He turned to me, his gaze hard and hateful. "Now you’re going to act like you’re in pain. Whatever I say, you nod and agree. Disobey me, and I swear I’ll send you and that bastard in your womb six feet under, and make it look like a tragic accident."

His threat landed heavier than the seatbelt pressing into my chest. I nodded quickly, too terrified to breathe.

A uniformed officer approached, peering into the car. "Sir, do you realise you were speeding?"

"I’m sorry, officer." Gordon’s voice slid into smooth charm. "I’m Gordon Smith, son of Mr. Matthew Smith. This is my wife; we just got married. She’s pregnant, and she’s been having pains. I was rushing her to the hospital."

The officer’s eyes shifted to me. My face was puffy, my eyes swollen from crying. My stomach cramped lightly, stress, fear, maybe both. I clutched it with trembling hands and leaned against the door. Then the nausea overwhelmed me. I stumbled out, bent over, and vomited onto the pavement. There was no need to pretend; I wasn't feeling okay.

The officer’s sternness softened. "Ma’am, are you alright?"

I couldn’t answer. My throat burned, my body shook. Gordon stepped in smoothly, closing my door with a practised snap. "See? I need to get her to the hospital right away, officer."

The man nodded, sympathy winning over suspicion. "Of course, Mr. Smith. Go ahead."

Back on the road, Gordon hissed through his teeth. "You’d better not vomit in my car. And God, I wish you’d lose that bastard already."

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, tears burning my eyes. What did I do to deserve this hate? I thought bitterly. A month ago, when he touched me, there hadn’t been this much venom. Cruelty, yes. But not this burning hatred. Now it was as though my very existence offended him.

Minutes later, the car screeched to a halt. "Get out," Gordon snapped.

I lifted my head, disoriented. The road stretched ahead, lined with tall coconut trees swaying gently in the heat. There was no house in sight.

"I said get out," he repeated, voice sharp enough to slice.

My hands fumbled with the door handle. I stepped out, clutching my small bag. Gordon popped the trunk, retrieved my bag, and hurled it onto the dirt. Without another word, he slid back behind the wheel.

"You know where the house is. Walk." He spun the car around and sped off, leaving a trail of dust behind.

I stood frozen, watching the spot where the car vanished. The silence pressed down, broken only by rustling palm fronds and the far-off hum of traffic. My legs trembled. The Smith estate wasn’t far, recalling from my visit yesterday, but it was at least a thirty-minute walk under the blazing sun.

There was no choice. I picked up my bag, slipped off my heels, and began walking barefoot on the scorching asphalt. Sweat poured down my face, my neat hair clinging damply to my neck. With each step, my shoulders sagged lower. The heat seemed to strip away more than strength; it stripped away dignity.

By the time the grand gates loomed before me, I was drenched, exhausted, and barefoot. I pressed the intercom bell.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" a man’s voice demanded.

"My name is Diana Wilson. I was here yesterday to see Mr. Matthew Smith. Gordon Smith… dropped me off. I’m his wife."

Silence. Then: "Hold on. I’ll confirm."

I waited, swaying on my feet. I must have looked pitiful: hair plastered to my face, shoes dangling from my hand, feet coated in dust. The carefully styled bride was gone; what remained was a sweaty, broken girl who looked like she’d crawled out of the earth.

At last, the gates opened. I dragged myself up the long driveway, past the manicured roundabout and pristine lawns, to the front porch of the mansion.

The door opened to reveal a young maid. She looked me over from head to toe, her expression blank but her eyes assessing.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" she asked curtly.

"I’m Diana Wilson. Gordon’s wife," I said, trying to sound steady.

Her eyes narrowed, sweeping over my dishevelled state again. "Stay here." She shut the door in my face.

Minutes passed before it reopened. This time, an elegant older woman stepped into view. She wore silk, her dark hair coiled neatly, her posture radiating authority. Her eyes landed on me, and in that instant, I knew I had walked into the lion’s den.

"So," she drawled, "you’re the woman my husband spoke of yesterday. The pregnant one." She looked me up and down, lips curling. "I can’t believe my husband forced my son to marry… trash like you."

Heat flared in my cheeks. I lowered my eyes.

"Did you not shower before arriving?" she asked, her voice sharp.

I glanced down at myself, dusty feet, sweat-streaked face, clinging clothes. Shame burned hotter than the sun had.

"Yuck." She snapped her fingers. "Camila!"

The maid appeared instantly.

"Take this thing to the workers’ shower room. Scrub her. Disinfect her. She looks like she’s carrying every germ in the city."

"Yes, ma’am," Camila said.

"Not through the house," Mrs. Smith barked. "Take her round back. And throw that… thing she’s holding into the bin."

My heart lurched. My bag.

Camila led me silently around the side of the house to the workers’ bungalow. Inside, she handed me soap and shampoo. I stared at the mirror, at the pitiful wreck staring back, and nearly didn’t recognise myself. Then I stripped and showered, scrubbing away sweat and dirt, trying to wash off the humiliation, though it clung deeper than skin.

When I emerged, wrapped in a towel, Camila was gone. My bag was gone, too.

"Camila?" I called, panic rising.

She returned holding a folded bundle of cloth.

"My bag?"

“I’m sorry. It’s in the bin. Mrs. Smith’s orders.”

“What?” My voice cracked.

"That bag had my certificates! My books! My clothes, and a photo of my mum!" My chest tightened as if the air had been punched out of me. That photo was irreplaceable.

Camila’s face softened, but her voice stayed neutral. "I’m sorry." She held out the folded bundle.

It was a maid’s uniform.

I dressed quickly, no underwear, no dignity, just the rough fabric against my skin. But I wasn’t ready to surrender. "Where’s the bin?"

She hesitated, then pointed.

I ran. The incinerator loomed at the back, smoke curling skyward. A worker in protective gear was shoving my bag into the fire.

“No!” I screamed, rushing forward.

"Ma’am, stay back, you’ll hurt yourself," the man warned.

But it was too late. Flames devoured the bag, the books, the photo, the last pieces of my past life. Ash floated upward, scattering like my dreams.

I stumbled back to the bungalow, hollow. Camila led me wordlessly to the main house again, where Mrs. Smith reclined on the balcony, sipping something cold.

She didn’t even look at me as she spoke. "Listen carefully. From eight in the morning until five in the evening, you’ll work with the staff to keep this house spotless. From now on, lunch preparation will be your duty. Do you understand?"

Her tone was casual, as though she were giving instructions about furniture, not a human being.

I stood there in the scratchy uniform, hands clasped behind me, swallowing hard. My identity, my dignity, my history, all burned. And now, on my first day as Gordon’s wife, I wasn’t welcomed into his home.

I’d been demoted to his servant.