Chapter 4: First Day in the Smith Home

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.