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.

Diana's POV

By the time the grandfather clock in the foyer struck six, my body felt like it didn’t belong to me anymore. From the moment I’d arrived at nine that morning, Mrs Smith had ensured not a single minute went unpunished.

First, I’d been made to hand-wash the heavy curtains in Gordon’s room, the fabric so thick it left welts on my palms. Then came the bathrooms, eight in total, scrubbed until the tiles gleamed so brightly they hurt my eyes. After that, she handed me a brush no larger than my hand and sent me crawling across the garage floor. My knees burned, my back screamed, but Mrs Smith’s voice was always there, cold and clipped: "Faster, Diana. Report when you’re done."

I had reported. And each time, she found something worse.

By evening, with no food in my stomach and not a sip of water, I had stumbled outside to mow the backyard grass. My arms trembled on the mower’s handle, sweat soaking my borrowed uniform until it clung like a second skin. The sun was sinking when I finally finished.

Dragging myself inside, I tugged off the gloves, too tired even to wipe the streaks of dirt from my cheeks. My feet felt like stone as I pushed open the front door.

"Diana, why are you dressed like this?"

The deep voice behind me snapped me upright. I spun around quickly, heart in my throat. Mr Smith was standing in the hall, his suit jacket still on, his brows drawn in a frown.

"Hello, Daddy. Welcome home." My voice sounded falsely bright even to me. I forced a smile onto my face, remembering Mrs Smith’s warning never to let him suspect anything.

He studied me closely. "That is a servant’s uniform. And why do you have grass all over you? Your hair, your clothes, you look like you’ve been rolling in the dirt."

I glanced down as if noticing for the first time. "Oh, this?" I let out a weak laugh. "I was pruning the flowers. They’re so beautiful, I just couldn’t resist. Gardening calms me."

Mr Smith’s gaze hardened. "Don’t lie to me, Diana. You were mowing."

The smile stuck to my face like plaster, my jaw aching from holding it. "Just a little mowing. I wanted some exercise."

His frown deepened, but there was no cruelty in it, only concern. "When I heard how you met Gordon, I looked into you. I know you’re a hardworking girl. But you don’t have to prove that to anyone here. You’re my son’s wife. Today, of all days, you should be resting, not exhausting yourself. And you are pregnant."

The word seemed to echo in the wide hallway.

I shook my head quickly.

"I know a thing or two about pregnancy," he continued, his voice gentler now. "The first trimester is delicate. Overexertion can cost you the child. If you need to move, there’s a gym on the rooftop; use that. But promise me you won’t do this again."

I forced another nod.

"And Gordon, where is he?" His tone sharpened.

"He… went out a while ago," I said carefully.

"To do what?"

I faltered. The truth was, I didn’t know.

His lips pressed into a thin line. He turned to one of the men behind him. "Get him. Tell him to come home immediately." Then, to me: "Go change. Tonight, we’ll have a family dinner. It’s time I welcomed you properly."

My heart sank. I had nothing to change into.

I rushed to the servants’ quarters, begging Camila for help. Pity flickered in her eyes as she handed me a simple floral dress, the best she had. I showered quickly, scrubbing away the sweat and grime until my skin stung, then slipped into the ruffled dress. It fit well enough. With my spectacles back on and my hair still tied in dog-ear braids, I thanked Camila and returned to the main house.

At the entrance, Gordon was waiting. His hand shot out, gripping my arm so hard it left a burn.

"What the hell did you tell my father?" His voice was low, dangerous.

"He asked where you were. I told him you’d stepped out," I whispered.

His eyes narrowed, his nails digging into my skin. "Are you sure that’s all you said? Because he didn’t sound convinced."

"Yes, I swear," I said, blinking back tears.

"If I find out you’re lying, I’ll make your night unforgettable in the worst way." His breath was hot against my face.

The front door opened, and in an instant, Gordon’s mask slipped into place. He released me only to rub my shoulder affectionately, plastering on a smile.

"I had to take care of something," he said lightly, pressing a kiss against my temple as if we were the picture of marital bliss.

Mr Smith gave a short nod. "Come to my office."

Gordon followed, his hand brushing mine in a parting gesture that felt like a silent threat.

Unsure where to go, I drifted to the kitchen and helped carry dishes to the dining area. I was about to slip out when Mr Smith appeared with Gordon close behind.

"Ah, you’re already here," he said warmly.

I sank into a chair, folding my hands tightly in my lap. Gordon took the seat beside me, his proximity a warning. Mrs Smith entered moments later, her expression carefully neutral.

When the servants gathered, Mr Smith stood, his presence commanding the room. "This is Diana, my son’s wife. You will give her the respect due to her position. She is part of this family now."

I felt every eye on me, some curious, some pitying. Gordon’s smile never wavered, but beneath the table, his fingers dug sharply into my knee.

Dinner passed in a blur. Mr Smith made polite conversation, and I nodded when appropriate, though every swallow of food felt like ash in my mouth.

When the plates were cleared, Mr Smith clapped Gordon on the shoulder. "Take your wife inside. She needs rest."

Rest. If only he knew.

Upstairs, Gordon led me into his suite, a sprawling space divided into a bedroom and a living area. At first, I thought he might actually let me sleep. But then he gestured to the corner.

"Stand there."

Confused, I obeyed. He placed an apple on my head. My stomach dropped as he picked up a dart from the table.

"You’ll replace my dartboard tonight," he said casually, reclining on the bed, elbow propped, aiming.

I froze, heart hammering as the first dart sailed past, thudding into the wall. Another grazed my ear. He laughed softly, amused by my fear. He kept at it until his phone rang. His expression brightened instantly as he checked the screen.

"Get out," he said, already lifting the call.

"I don’t know where to sleep," I whispered.

"The guest rooms are locked. Keys with my mother. Spend the night in the kitchen storeroom. Tomorrow I’ll decide what to do with you. Now go." His eyes never left the phone.

I left quietly. The house was dark, shadows stretching across polished floors. In the kitchen, I pushed open the storeroom door. It was vast, lined with shelves of food. The air was cold, the kind that sank into your bones.

I found an empty rice sack, tore it open, and spread it in a corner. Curling onto it in Camila’s dress, I shivered violently. The chill gnawed at me until exhaustion dragged me toward sleep.

I had barely drifted off when a hand clamped over my mouth.

"Shut up," Gordon’s voice hissed in the dark. "You scream; I’ll choke the life out of you."

Terror rooted me to the floor.

"Do you… need something?" I whispered when he loosened his grip.

"I’m horny. And you’re my wife."

"What?" The word cracked in my throat.

He shoved me flat, his weight pressing me into the cold floor.

"Please, Gordon, wait. I don’t feel well…"

"I don’t care," he said and forced a kiss on me. I tried to push him away with the little strength I had left.

"Gordon, please. I’m still pregnant. You’re going to hurt me, and our baby," I cried when my lips were freed.

Something in him shifted. He froze, then slowly lifted his body off me. My face was wet with tears.

"I’ll let you off this time," he said at last, his voice a low growl. "You chose to marry me despite my saying no. So have it at the back of your mind, it’s one of your duties, wifey."

With that, he turned and left, the door closing softly behind him.

For a long time, I didn’t move. The air was still thick with his presence, the silence too heavy to breathe through. My body ached, not from his touch, but from fear itself.

I lay there until dawn’s pale light crept through the storeroom window. Only then did I force myself up, limbs trembling, heart hollow. He had stopped, and for that, I was grateful.

Gathering what little strength I had left, I brushed the wrinkles from Camila’s floral dress and made my way to her bungalow, each step echoing in the quiet morning.

Diana's POV

Camila squinted at me the moment she opened the door. "Where did you spend the night? You look like crap."

I tried to smile, but my lips barely moved. "I didn’t sleep."

Her grin widened like she had just confirmed a suspicion. "And what are you doing here at this hour?" she asked, still smiling.

I ignored the expression on her face. I didn’t have the energy to figure it out. "Do you have a spare uniform? I need to wash the one I wore yesterday… and this dress."

Her smile vanished. "Wait. You’re Mr Gordon’s wife. Why on earth do you need a worker’s uniform?" She folded her arms, narrowing her eyes. "Don’t tell me you’re joining us to work again today?"

"Camila, marriage is just a label. A tag to wear," I whispered. "It doesn’t mean anything."

She tilted her head, frown deepening. "Really? Then where did you sleep last night?"

"Why do you ask?" I muttered, dodging the question.

"You’ve got threads from a rice sack stuck in your hair," she said bluntly. "Did you sleep in the storage room?"

My eyes widened. I rushed forward, clapping a hand over her mouth. I glanced left and right to make sure no one was around, my heart thudding with panic. "Please," I begged, lowering my voice. "No one must know."

When I let go, she stared at me, realisation dawning. "So that’s what you meant by ‘marriage is just a tag.'" She exhaled heavily. "Mr Gordon is still being himself, huh? For a moment, I thought he had changed when he brought you here. But…" She shook her head, pity flashing in her eyes. "Girl, of all the men in this world, why him?"

I took the fresh uniform she pulled from her wardrobe, my voice small. "It has nothing to do with his wealth. Something beyond me happened, and that’s how I ended up here."

She eyed my belly. "Oh dear Lord, don’t tell me you’re creating a mini version of him inside you. One Gordon is already too much for the world."

Despite the ache in my chest, I forced a reply. "People aren’t born with character. The world shapes them. Exposure, circumstance… all that."

She sighed and softened. "Take a shower. And listen, if he ever forces you into the store room again, just come here. It’s not healthy for you or that little one to sleep on the floor."

For the first time that morning, I felt something close to gratitude. "Thank you, Camila."

After bathing, I washed the dress and the uniform from yesterday, wringing the clothes with trembling hands. I had just finished emptying the bucket when I turned and froze.

Mrs Smith stood at the edge of the yard, her eyes cold and calculating.

"Good morning, Mrs Smith," I greeted quickly, my stomach twisting.

She looked me up and down, then spoke with crisp authority. "You stay in Camila’s room until ten. That should be enough rest. Come to the main house at ten-thirty. I’ll assign your tasks."

Without another word, she turned and walked away, heels clicking on the stones.

I exhaled shakily. That wasn’t a concern. She wasn’t giving me rest for my sake; she was ensuring her husband never saw how she truly treated me.

At ten-thirty, I stood before her in the main house. As expected, Mr Smith was nowhere to be found. Mrs Smith’s tone was brisk and sharp as she rattled off a list of chores, polishing, scrubbing, cooking, each with strict time limits.

Halfway through her commands, Gordon strolled in, his cologne preceding him. He kissed his mother’s cheek and informed her casually, "I’m going into town." He didn’t even glance at me. Not a single word.

He brushed past me like I was invisible.

That became my life. Days blurred into weeks. I was a slave in everything but name, with Camila as my only comfort. She slipped me food when she could, loaned me clothes, and whispered encouragement when my strength faltered. But every night, Gordon sent me back to the store room, or worse. His cruelty was relentless.

And still, no one knew.

A month passed.

I was in the kitchen, sweat dripping down my temples as I worked over the stove. Supper had to be finished before six, before Mr Smith returned. Mrs Smith had banned anyone from helping me. Alone, I chopped and stirred, exhaustion weighing heavily on my bones.

Today should have been my graduation day. My classmates were probably tossing caps into the air, celebrating their future. I had no future. No ceremony. Just a knife in my hand and a pot simmering on the stove.

I hadn’t seen a doctor once since learning of my pregnancy. Gordon lied to his father, telling him he took me for check-ups. I said nothing. I couldn’t.

Suddenly, the kitchen spun. My vision swam, my legs threatening to give way. I sat quickly, clutching the counter until the dizziness eased. This wasn’t new, I had learned to endure it, to lie flat or rest until it passed.

But when I stood again, knife in hand, everything blurred. The room dimmed. My knees buckled.

The crash of falling utensils rang in my ears as darkness swallowed me.

I woke to the steady beep of machines. My left arm throbbed, wrapped in thick bandages. The pungent smell of antiseptic filled my nose.

Panic shot through me. The baby.

A doctor entered, clipboard in hand. She checked my vitals before meeting my desperate gaze.

"When was your last antenatal check?" she asked.

My lips trembled. "I… I never had one."

Her face softened with pity. "Hmm."

I gripped the sheet, my chest tightening. "Please. Is my baby okay?" Tears blurred my eyes.

The doctor hesitated, then sighed. "I’m sorry. Your pregnancy was very delicate, and your body was already weakened and malnourished. You lost the baby before we got you here. You also suffered burns to your hand from hot oil."

The words sliced through me like knives.

"No…" I shook my head violently, clutching my stomach. "No, please, not my baby."

But her lips stayed pressed in a sorrowful line.

A sound tore from my throat, half scream, half sob. I shoved my fist into my mouth to muffle it, rocking on the bed as hot tears poured down my face. My bandaged hand pressed against my empty belly, desperate for a heartbeat that was no longer there.

The door banged open. I barely registered the commotion until a heavy hand grabbed my arm.

"There she is," Mrs Smith’s sharp voice declared. "She cooked that meal. Officer, arrest her."

I blinked at her, stunned. What?

"She’s faking illness," Mrs Smith added coldly. "There’s nothing wrong with her."

The officer glanced uncertainly at the doctor.

"We’re still running tests," the doctor said, frowning. "I can’t give results yet."

That didn’t matter. The officer yanked me upright, cuffing my wrists together.

"Wait.......what are you......?” My words broke into sobs. I was still in a hospital gown, my body weak, my womb aching with loss.

He dragged me down the hall, ignoring my protests. The cold bite of metal cut into my skin. Nurses and patients stared, whispering, but no one intervened.

The ride in the police car was a blur. My tears had dried, leaving me hollow, numb.

At the station, the officer barked orders. "Put her in a cell. No visitors allowed. She’s under investigation for attempted murder."

Attempted… murder? My mind reeled. What are they talking about? Whose murder? What did I supposedly do?

No one explained.

The cell door clanged shut behind me. I sank onto the hard cot, shivering in my hospital gown, bandaged hand throbbing.

The doctor’s voice echoed in my mind: I’m sorry, you lost the baby. Mrs. Smith’s orders followed like a poison whisper: Officer, arrest her.

The grief was too much. My knees buckled, and I fell to the cold floor, pressing my forehead against it.

A cry ripped from my throat, raw, broken, unrestrained.

It was the sound of a mother mourning, of a girl condemned, of a soul breaking into pieces.