Suspicion

Giselle

After more than thirty minutes, I finally reach the gates of the house—a place that now fills me with nothing but disgust. With no other choice, I step through them. Once again, I find myself standing before the door. I ring the bell, and after a few seconds, the housekeeper opens it, but not without throwing a disdainful look my way.

“Where have you been?” she snaps, not even bothering to greet me.

“I just went for a walk,” I reply, eyes lowered. I can’t believe no one in this house respects me. But worse than that—I can’t believe I’ve been stupid enough to put up with it for so long.

“Instead of wasting your time, you should’ve been taking care of my boy,” she mutters bitterly. Before she can continue with her venomous remarks, my mother-in-law’s voice cuts through the tension.

“So you finally decided to come back. Where were you?” she asks, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her glare sharp and accusing.

“I went for a walk.”

“A walk? Isn’t the garden air good enough for you?” she screeches, her frown deepening. “Come help me with Oliver.”

“What happened to him?” I force myself to ask, climbing the stairs behind her at a slow, resigned pace.

“If you’d been here, you would’ve known what that bastard did to my poor son. But no, the lady of the house had better things to do than stay home.”

“And since you’re not even good enough to give my son the heir he wants so badly, the least you can do is finish disinfecting his wounds while I go call the doctor,” she adds with a sneer, handing me a bottle of antiseptic before disappearing into her room.

Dragging my feet, I head to my bedroom. I swallow hard, trying to keep myself from cursing Oliver for everything he’s done. When I open the door, I’m immediately met with his cold stare.

“What happened to you?” I ask with feigned concern. If this had happened a few hours ago—before I found out what kind of person he really is—I would’ve been terrified for him. But now, looking at his bruised face and the dried blood on his clothes, all I can feel is grim satisfaction.

“Where were you?” he asks, echoing the same question the other women did.

“I went for a walk,” I answer mechanically. “I was trying to get some inspiration for a new fragrance.”

“Dd you have any ideas?” he snaps, sitting up too fast and wincing as he grabs his ribs.

“No, I didn’t,” I lie. “So far, I haven’t found inspiration for anything new.”

“Useless,” he growls, collapsing back onto the bed and glaring at me with that same look of disgust I never noticed before—blinded as I was by love.

I look away and go to the bathroom to wash my hands. When I return, I soak a cotton pad with antiseptic and begin dabbing it gently on the wounds across his face.

At some point, I press a little too hard on his cheekbone, making him flinch in pain. He shoves me.

“What the hell is wrong with you? Are you so stupid you can’t tell I’m in pain?”

“I-I’m sorry,” I murmur, standing up quickly.

“What’s going on, Oliver? What did you do to my son?” his mother demands as she barges into the room without even knocking.

“Nothing,” I whisper defensively.

“This idiot hurt me, Mother,” he whines with a grimace.

“You’re useless. Get out. I don’t want you near my son’s face—God forbid you make it worse.

“You know what?” she adds, stopping me just as I’m about to leave. “Since Oliver’s injuries are quite serious, you’ll be sleeping in the guest room for the next few days. Take your things and leave him alone. That’s what he needs most right now.”

“Thank you, Mother. You always know how to take care of me.”

“All right,” I say. On any other day, I would’ve insisted on staying by his side. But now that I know who he truly is, being away from him is the best thing that could happen to me.

I grab a few changes of clothes and leave the room, hearing the two of them complaining behind me about the horrible care I give him. I let out a long sigh of relief as I search for one of the many empty rooms in the house. When I find one, I collapse onto the bed, utterly exhausted and with a deep ache in my chest that I know won’t be easy to heal.

I curl into myself, hugging my arms tightly. Just as the tears are about to come, I remember I left my toiletries in the bedroom. I’ll have to go back, even if I don’t want to see those people who clearly despise me.

Reluctantly, I push myself off the bed. Moving slower than usual, I retrace my steps. Just as I’m about to knock on the door, I hear a quiet conversation between Oliver and his mother. I move closer, my curiosity getting the better of me.

“You should press charges against that beast who attacked you,” the woman whispers.

“I can’t.”

“Why not? Look at you! That bastard deserves to be behind bars.”

“You think if I report him, he won’t do the same to me? We’ve been stealing his formulas for years. He might not have hard proof, but even the mere accusation would ruin our reputation. So no, Mother, I won’t report him. But I swear—he’s going to pay for every bruise. Double.”

“Giselle, what are you doing there?” asks Oliver’s father, startling me with his sudden appearance.

“I-I was just about to knock.”

“Why would you knock on your own bedroom door?” he asks, his tone laced with suspicion.

“It’s just that… my mother-in-law asked me to stay in one of the guest rooms so I wouldn’t disturb Oliver. His injuries were a bit serious, and she thinks it’s better to let him rest alone,” I reply, my mouth dry.

I knock on the door a couple of times, and when Oliver lets me in, both he and his mother wrinkle their noses the moment they see me.

“What are you doing here? I told you my son needs to be alone. If you’ve come to insist on staying with him—”

“I just came to grab a few things I forgot,” I cut her off, stepping into what used to be my own room.

“Don’t interrupt me when I’m talking to you. I don’t understand how you could marry a woman like her, Oliver. She has no manners,” the woman mutters with disdain.

Ignoring her complaints, I walk straight to the bathroom. Once I gather everything I need, I return to find the entire Lefebvre family watching me with narrowed eyes.

“I-I’ll go. I’ll leave you all alone,” I stammer before closing the door behind me.

I run back to my new room, lock the door, and collapse onto the floor. I’m almost certain Mr. Bastian told them he caught me eavesdropping on their conversation. They must be suspicious of me now.

Minutes pass, and thankfully no one comes looking for me. Eventually, I pick myself up and settle into the room.

[…]

The next morning, I head downstairs for breakfast. When three pairs of eyes greet me with obvious distrust, I stop in my tracks and force a tight smile.

I take my seat beside Oliver and, like every other day, keep my eyes low. When someone finally brings our food, I eat slowly, silently, pretending not to notice the weight of their stares.

Once we’re done, I stand up, ready to leave the house, when Oliver’s mother stops me.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she asks, grabbing my arm tightly, her nails digging into my skin.

“To the garden. Where else could I possibly go?” I reply, my tone cold.

“Don’t talk to me like that,” she screeches before raising her hand and slapping me across the face, turning my head so sharply my neck aches. “Stop wasting time in the garden. Go help the maids wash the breakfast dishes—or better yet, help them cook lunch. The least you could do is be useful for once in your life.”

“But lunch isn’t for several hours…” I whisper, touching my lip, now split from her blow.

“Don’t talk back to my mother. Do as she says,” Oliver scolds me, one hand clutching his ribs.

“Fine,” I mutter, holding back tears, forcing myself to endure yet another humiliation. But it's getting harder. If it were up to me, I’d slap her right back.

“Go rest, Oliver. You’re in no condition to work. That brute left you all beat up,” Mrs. Chantal says, brushing past me. She helps her son up the stairs without casting me so much as a glance.

I spend the rest of the morning helping the staff—washing dishes, chopping vegetables—preparing Oliver’s favorite meal. Once we’re done, I head upstairs hoping to lie down for a while, but fate doesn’t favor me. I run into Oliver in the hallway. He blocks my path.

“Where are you going?” he asks—the phrase I’ve heard so often it’s starting to make me sick, especially coming from him. We both know he doesn’t actually care where I go or what I do.

“I just want to rest. I’ve been on my feet for hours and I’m exhausted.”

“It’s time for lunch.”

“You go ahead. I’ll eat later. I’m really tired.”

“No. We’re going together. Like what we are—husband and wife,” he says, grabbing my hand and squeezing it hard as he forces me to follow him.

We sit in silence. I only speak when they ask me something directly; otherwise, I keep to myself, avoiding conversation with any of them.

“You’re moving back to our room. No need for you to stay in the guest room anymore,” Oliver says once I stand up, ready to flee.

“W-Why? Your mother said you needed to be alone and—”

“And your duty as my wife is to be by my side at all times. So stop arguing and move your things back to our room,” he says firmly, taking my hand again and pulling me upstairs.

When we reach the guest room, he opens the door and nods toward my belongings. With heavy reluctance, I do as he says. A knot forms in my stomach—I’m certain now that Oliver suspects something. And that means it’ll be even harder for me to meet with that man in two days… to hear his answer.