Behind the Fancy World

Anne-Marie’s POV, 

“You look absolutely gorgeous, Anne-Marie. Louis must be taking such good care of you.”

I smiled or at least felt really relieved. The makeup artist had done her magic well; not a single trace of the bruise on my cheekbone, not a shadow of the scar that was on my collar from last week’s aggressive grips. The ballroom glowed and had the fragrance of Fleur du Ciel, the signature scent of Duval Scents — my father’s empire, my family’s pride.

Two years of marriage. That was the occasion. But really, tonight was about my father ,Monsieur Duval, the man who taught me that appearances must never crack whether I was happy or not. I could not disappoint him. Not now, not ever. Since I had chosen to marry my childhood crush, Louis, I must certainly bear the consequences.

“Anne-Marie, ma chère, where is your charming husband?” a voice asked. I turned, barely able to recognize the Polish woman. She was dressed like a queen and was holding a small fluffy puppy that I wanted to squish so badly.

“He’s delayed, a meeting ran late,” I replied smoothly, my accent soft, the lie seamless. “He will arrive très bientôt.”

They nodded, satisfied, moving on to their champagne and gossip. I exhaled slowly, placing a hand on the gentle curve of my stomach. The baby shifted, a quiet protest, perhaps, against the corset and the charade that I was wearing. I greeted some of the guests and then hurried away from the crowd as I went upstairs to get my phone. It was more than two hours since the party began and Louis was nowhere to be seen. I had pleaded with him to make everything look perfect just so media personalities don't question our marriage. Behind the domestic violence and loveless marriage, I wanted to look like I had the perfect marriage but once again, Louis wasn't serious about it and this time, I didn't know if I could take the blame.

I dialed his number. Once. Twice then Voicemail.

“Louis, Where are you?” I whispered. “Everyone is asking for you. Please, mon amour… come.”

 I waited for a while hoping he would respond to either my calls or text,but there was no answer, I heaved a sigh of distress and walked back to the ballroom. As I approached the ballroom, I noticed the music had stopped and the guests seemed to be looking at the entrance. Scared, I increased my pace and when I went down to the ballroom. I gasped at the sight that I almost got an attack.

Louis, my husband was drunk, Shirt half open, tie hanging loose around his neck. His eyes glazed, his weight leaning heavily against a woman — a woman I’d never seen before, her lipstick smeared, her hand gripping his arm to keep him from falling. For a moment, the world went silent. Even the sound of my own heartbeat seemed to vanish. My phone slipped from my hand and hit the floor with a soft thud.

He looked up at me then a lazy smile tugged at his lips.

“Babe…” he slurred.

The room spun.

And all I could think was — this is our anniversary.

 I froze where I stood, the sound of my name on his lips made me more scared. He stumbled forward, trying to steady himself, and I forced my legs to move .

“Please,” I murmured, voice trembling. “You’re drunk, come here .”

I reached for his shirt, trying to cover him, to keep what little dignity we had left intact. But before I could even fix a single button, his hand shot out quickly, suddenly and shoved me back. That alone threw me off balance and I would have landed on the floor if not for the arms that caught me just in time. A man’s voice low, steady murmured, “Careful. You’re pregnant.”

My hands went instinctively to my belly. The baby kicked hard, it was painful but didn't hurt like the humiliation I was currently going through.

“Don’t touch her!” Louis roared, staggering toward us, eyes bloodshot and wild. “Get your filthy hands off my wife, you—”

He didn’t finish. Instead, he turned that venom on me.

“You slut,” he spat. “You can’t even wait until I’m gone, can you?”

The room went deathly silent. Every person watched.

I stared at him, shaking my head, words dying on my tongue. “What are you saying? I was just—”

“Don’t lie to me!” he barked, pointing a trembling finger at the man beside me. “I’ve seen the way you look at other men. You think I don’t know what you are?”

The man who caught me started to speak, voice calm but firm. “Sir, she almost fell. You should—”

“Enough!” I whispered, grabbing his arm, pleading with my eyes. “Please. Don’t. Just… don’t.”

My husband’s laugh was sharp, cruel. He turned towards the woman in the red dress, pulled her close by the waist, and kissed her in front of everyone.

“This,” he said, smirking, “this is my woman now. The only one I need.”

As if that was not enough, he kissed her once again and despite being drunk it was so passionate. Murmurs rippled through the crowd, half gasps, half disbelief.

“Please,” I begged, stepping closer, the tears finally spilling over. “You don’t mean that. You’re drunk. Please, just—”

He shoved me again, this time, harder.

I fell, I wasn't as lucky as I was previously as I hit the floor. Pain exploded inside of me as I felt a trickle of cold liquid from my legs. I looked and saw it was blood,somewhere, someone screamed. 

I saw him, barely through the haze, straightening his collar, his voice cold and final.

“The party’s over,” he announced. “Everyone out.”

He didn’t even look at me. He just wrapped his arm around the woman and led her upstairs, laughing.

My chest constricted. The room tilted, A sharp, tearing pain gripped my abdomen.I clutched my stomach as the pain deepened, spreading like fire through my body. My breath hitched. 

“Someone—please—help,” I gasped.

And just before darkness swallowed everything, I felt m

y water breaking, warm and terrifying. The baby was coming.