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.

Diana's POV

The days in the cell dragged like years.

Three days had passed, and no one had asked me a single question. No lawyer, no explanation, no hearing of my side of the story. Just silence.

They gave me one meal a day, barely enough to keep me upright. The rest of the time, I sat on the cold bench, my head lowered, my stomach twisting with hunger and grief. I had been thrown here straight from the hospital, still in the thin gown that barely covered me. My bandaged hand throbbed, the burn screaming for care, but no one paid attention.

When I first heard the voice outside the bars, I didn’t look up.

"Hey."

I ignored it. I had learned it was safer not to respond.

The scrape of metal came next, the lock turning. My head lifted just as an officer stepped inside. His expression was void of pity. Without a word, he yanked me to my feet and snapped cold cuffs around my wrists.

"Where are you taking me?" My voice cracked.

"Shut your mouth," he barked, shoving me toward the door. "One more word, and I’ll knock you out. We’ve been given freedom to deal with you however we like while you await trial."

The way he said it chilled me. Freedom. To hurt me. To silence me.

He dragged me into a bare room with a single chair. With a shove, he forced me onto it. My weak arm buckled, and I almost toppled. He stood over me, eyes narrowed with authority that reeked of cruelty.

"Here’s the deal." He tossed a sheet of paper on the table. Blank. Not a single word on it. "We need your signature for comparison. So you’ll sign here." His thick finger jabbed the bottom corner.

I frowned. "Why would I sign a plain piece of paper?"

His eyes flashed. "You’re not here to ask questions. Sign the damn thing."

I reached for the pen but hesitated. Something felt wrong. Too wrong. I looked up at him.

"I said, sign!" His hand lashed out across my face. The slap cracked like thunder. My head whipped sideways, and I tasted blood instantly. My lip split. A tooth loosened.

Tears stung my eyes, but I forced my shaking hand to pick up the pen that had clattered to the floor. My name spilled across the paper in trembling strokes.

He snatched it back with a sneer and walked out. Moments later, another officer came and hauled me back to my cell like a sack of dirt.

The next morning, they shoved a faded orange prison jumper into my hands.

"Change."

I thought the officer would leave, but he stayed. Leaning against the bars, arms folded, he watched. My skin crawled under his gaze, but I had no choice. I slipped out of the flimsy gown, clutching at what dignity I had left, and pulled the jumper on. He smirked, clamped cuffs on my wrists, and shoved me into the back of a police van.

I didn’t dare ask where we were going. I knew the punishment for asking questions.

When the van doors opened, the truth hit me. The courthouse loomed tall and merciless before me.

Inside, they led me into the courtroom. Shackles weighed down my wrists and ankles, clinking with every step. My bandaged hand throbbed so badly I suspected infection had set in, but the pain didn’t matter anymore. Nothing did.

The room buzzed with whispers. I forced my gaze forward, only to falter.

There they were. Mrs Smith, draped in black, a veil shadowing her face. Beside her sat Gordon, also dressed in mourning. His hand rested on hers, their united front as chilling as it was false.

I froze. Mourning. For whom?

"All rise," the clerk intoned.

The judge entered. I barely heard the formalities, my ears ringing.

"Proceed," the judge said briskly.

The Smith family’s lawyer stood, slick in a dark suit. He introduced himself, then began presenting what he called evidence. He laid out papers, photographs, and bottles. Each item, each word, carved deeper into my horror.

Poison. The cause of Mr Smith’s death, they claimed.

And the accused, me.

My knees buckled under me. My stomach dropped. Mr Smith was dead? When? How?

The lawyer’s voice was clear, practised, rehearsed. He painted me as a conniving wife, a gold-digger who poisoned her husband's father for his wealth. He spoke of motive, of opportunity, of confession.

Confession?

I hadn’t confessed to anything.

Then, like a nightmare, another man rose. A stranger. "Your honour, I represent the accused."

My lawyer? I stared at him, but he never looked my way. His words drove the last nail in my coffin.

"My client has admitted her actions privately," he declared solemnly. "We ask the court to temper justice with mercy. She acted out of desperation, not malice."

The room tilted. My lips parted, but no sound came. He was lying. They all were.

It lasted no more than half an hour. A mockery of justice. The Smiths sat serene, their grief convincing. Gordon’s gaze flickered toward me once, his lips curving in a smile so slight it made bile rise in my throat.

At last, the gavel fell.

"Guilty."

The word shattered me.

"Sentenced to life imprisonment."

Tears streamed down my face as the hammer struck wood. With that sound, my future was sealed.

They transferred me to Lynwood Women’s Prison. The intake process blurred past me: searches, papers, stripped dignity. They shoved me into a cell that stank of sweat and mildew.

Later, I unwrapped the bandage around my hand. My breath hitched. The burn looked worse than I remembered, raw, angry, oozing in places. It needed treatment, but I had nothing. Not even a clean cloth. I considered tearing my jumper, but the fear of infecting it worse stopped me. I left it bare, hoping air alone might do something.

By evening, they herded us into the dining hall for supper. My hunger gnawed, but I barely touched the food.

That was when an officer’s voice cut through. "Wilson. On your feet."

I obeyed and followed her out. We walked into a small room, and she frowned when she saw my hand. "What the hell is that?"

"Hot oil burn. Untreated." My voice was flat.

"You’ll need to file a health service request form." She shook her head. Then, almost as an afterthought, she handed me a phone. "But first, someone’s on the line for you."

I pressed it to my ear, cautious. "Hello?"

"Hello, Ms Wilson."

The voice froze my blood. Recognition hit instantly. It was my mother’s doctor.

I stiffened, trembling. Since my marriage, my contact with my mother had dwindled to rare, stifled phone calls. Once, I was arrested, even that was stolen from me. My heart raced. Why would he be calling me now?

His next words ripped the air from my lungs.

"Ms Wilson… I’m sorry to inform you that your mother passed away earlier today. Heart failure, brought on by extreme shock. We tried everything. But we lost her."

The phone slipped from my grip. My throat closed. "Okay," I whispered, blinking rapidly as my vision swam.

Shock surged through me like fire, then ice. My knees weakened. Darkness clouded the edges of my sight.

"Ms Wilson? Are you alright?" the officer asked sharply.

Her voice faded. My ears buzzed.

And then, light.

My mother appeared before me, radiant in a flowing white dress. Her face was peaceful, her smile soft. She looked younger, freer, unburdened by pain.

"Stay strong, my brave little angel," she said, her voice echoing like a melody. "Things will not be like this forever."

I reached for her, desperate, but before I could touch her, the darkness claimed me fully.

And I fell.