The Bride They Buried Alive

Watch your clumsy feet, you worthless lump!” 

Vivian’s voice cracked across the dining room the second I pushed the door open with my hip. The heavy tray of silverware and tea things wobbled in my hands. I let it tilt on purpose, just enough so one cup slid and clattered onto the floor. Hot tea splashed over the edge of the rug.

I dropped to my knees right there. “Sorry… Mother. I… I didn’t see the step.” My words came out thick and slow, the way I always made them sound when anyone in the house was watching. I kept my head down so my tangled hair fell across my face like a dirty curtain.

Isabella’s laugh rang out from the far end of the long table. She sounded like bells, light and pretty, the way everything about her always did. “Of course you didn’t see it, Lila. You never see anything. Look at you crawling around like some half-wit dog. Mother, tell her to hurry up. I want my tea hot, not cold on the floor.”

Vivian clicked her tongue. She didn’t move from her chair. “You heard your sister. Clean that mess and pour fresh cups. And stand up straight for once. No one wants to look at that hunched back of yours all evening.”

I scraped the broken pieces together with my bare hands. A shard nicked my finger. Blood welled up, but I didn’t flinch where they could see. I just wiped it on my apron and kept going. “Yes… Mother. I’ll fix it. I promise.”

Isabella leaned forward, elbows on the polished wood. Her golden curls were pinned up with pearls that caught the lamplight. “Fix it? You break more things than you mend. Honestly, why do we even keep you in the house? You’re like some stray cat that keeps coming back no matter how many times we chase it away.”

Vivian poured herself a glass of wine and didn’t offer me any. “Because she’s family, darling. Barely. Your father says we have to feed her. But feeding and treating her like one of us are two different things.” She glanced at me. “Aren’t they, Lila?”

I nodded, still on the floor. “Yes… Mother. I know my place.” The words tasted like ash, but I said them anyway. I always said them. It was safer.

Isabella picked up a small mirror from beside her plate and checked her reflection. She smiled at herself, then let the smile drop when she looked at me again. “Place? Your place is the scullery. Or the stables. Anywhere we don’t have to smell you.” She waved a hand. “That dress smells like old potatoes. Did you roll in the garden again?”

I stood up slow, shoulders rounded, knees bent a little like my legs didn’t work right. The tray felt heavier than it was. “I… was weeding. Like you asked yesterday. The roses… they needed it.”

Vivian snorted. “The roses needed it. Not you. You just like getting dirty so no decent person will ever look twice. Smart in one way, I suppose. Saves us the trouble of explaining why our other daughter is so… plain.”

I carried the tray to the sideboard and started pouring fresh tea. My hands shook on purpose, so a few drops spilled again. Isabella sighed loud enough for the whole room to hear.

“See? She can’t even pour without making a scene. Mother, can we send her to the kitchen for good? I’m tired of watching her ruin every meal.”

Vivian sipped her wine. “Not yet. Your father still thinks she might be useful for something. Though what, I can’t imagine.” She turned her head toward me. “Lila, stop dripping everywhere and bring Isabella her cup. Then fetch the bread from the oven. And don’t burn it this time.”

I shuffled over and set the cup in front of my sister. She didn’t thank me. She just took it and blew on it, eyes on me the whole time. “You know, Lila, sometimes I wonder if you were dropped on your head as a baby. That would explain a lot.”

I stared at the floor between us. “Maybe… I was. I don’t remember.”

Vivian laughed once, short and sharp. “She doesn’t remember. Of course she doesn’t. The girl barely remembers her own name half the time.” She pointed at the door. “Go. Bread. Now. And wash your hands first. I don’t want your filth on our food.”

I turned and walked out, steps dragging. The hallway felt colder than usual. Behind me their voices picked up again, softer but still clear enough.

Isabella said, “I don’t know how you stand it, Mother. Having her around all the time. It’s embarrassing.”

Vivian answered, “It won’t be forever. Your father has plans. He mentioned something about the Kane match the other day. If things go well for you, maybe we can finally do something with her. Ship her off. Anywhere. I don’t care.”

I stopped just outside the door, back pressed to the wall. My chest squeezed tight. Kane. I knew that name. Everyone did. Isabella’s fiancé. The one they whispered about in the village. Crippled. Impotent. Rich. The perfect match for my perfect sister.

I bit the inside of my lip until I tasted blood. Then I kept walking toward the kitchen like I hadn’t heard a thing. My hands stayed loose at my sides. No fists. No running. Just the same slow, stupid walk I’d practiced for years.

The bread was already warm when I pulled it from the oven. I wrapped it in a cloth and carried it back, careful not to drop it. When I stepped into the dining room again, Isabella was laughing at something Vivian had said. They both went quiet the second they saw me.

“Finally,” Vivian said. “Set it down and leave. We don’t need an audience while we eat.”

I put the bread on the table and stepped back. “Is there… anything else? I could… help serve the soup.”

Isabella rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might stick. “Help? You’d probably spill it in my lap. Go away, Lila. Go stare at a wall or whatever it is you do when no one’s looking.”

Vivian waved me off like I was a fly. “You heard her. Out. And stay out until we call you. I don’t want to see that face again tonight.”

I nodded once, slow. “Yes… Mother. Good night… Isabella.”

Neither of them answered. I turned and walked out, closing the door behind me with a soft click. The hallway stretched dark and empty. My steps still dragged, even though no one could see me now. I made it all the way to the narrow stairs that led to the servants’ wing before my legs finally stopped pretending.

I sat on the bottom step, back against the cold stone. My hands shook for real this time. I pressed them between my knees so the tremor wouldn’t show if anyone came looking. The cut on my finger stung. I stared at the tiny line of blood and felt the same old ache crawl up my throat.

They hated me. They always had. And I let them. I made sure of it. Because the one time I’d spoken up, years ago, Vivian had locked me in the attic for a week with nothing but water. Isabella had stood outside the door laughing the whole time. So I learned. I learned to be ugly. I learned to be slow. I learned to be nothing.

Footsteps sounded from the main hall. Heavy. My father’s. He was home.

I stood up fast and smoothed my apron. My shoulders curved again. My head dropped. The mask slid back into place like it had never left.

The study door creaked open down the corridor. Vivian’s voice carried clearly. “Harlan, you’re back. We need to talk about the girl. Tonight.”

My father’s low rumble answered, too quiet for me to catch the words. But I heard my name. Lila. And then something else. Something that sounded like “useful.”

I stayed frozen on the step, listening. My heart beat hard against my ribs, but I kept my face blank. Whatever they were planning, it was never good for me. Never.

The study door shut. Silence fell again.

I turned and climbed the stairs, one slow step at a time. My room waited at the top—little more than a closet with a straw mattress and one cracked window. I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Before I could close it, Vivian’s voice called up the stairs, sharp as ever.

“Lila! Come down here. Now. Your father wants to see you in the study. And don’t dawdle, you stupid child.”

I stood there for half a second, hand on the door. Then I turned around and started back down the stairs, shoulders hunched, steps dragging, the same useless girl they all expected.

But my mind was already spinning. Whatever waited in that study, it felt bigger than the usual scolding. Bigger than another night of cold soup and silence.

And for the first time in years, I wondered if pretending might not be enough anymore.