Under her thumb

Suzanne’s heart pounded. Cold panic surged through her veins. Her body trembled, her mind clouded in a haze. The weight of the moment pressed down on her like a suffocating blanket.

Charles’s eyes locked onto hers, the malicious glint unmistakable. He approached with slow, deliberate steps. Suzanne’s body instinctively recoiled, but there was nowhere to run. The bedframe dug into her back. The cold sheets beneath her offered no comfort.

"Do you think you can defy me?" His voice was low, menacing. "You’ve forgotten your place, Suzanne. Let me remind you."

She opened her mouth to speak, to fight back, but no words came out.

His hand was already at her back, fingers gripping the fabric of her dress. He yanked it down, exposing her skin.

“No, please.” Her voice cracked, barely a whisper.

He didn’t listen.

The belt cut through the air with a sharp snap. Leather met flesh with a sickening crack.

Pain exploded across her back.

Suzanne gasped, her breath catching.

Another lash followed. Then another. Each strike was deliberate, brutal.

She gritted her teeth, swallowing the cries of pain rising in her throat.

The burning sting blurred her thoughts. How many had he given her already?

She couldn’t keep track. The pain was endless, a relentless wave of fire tearing through her body. Her strength drained until she could no longer cry out.

Her skin felt raw. Welts rose like angry reminders of his cruelty. Her body was no longer her own—it belonged to his violence.

Finally, he stopped.

Suzanne lay there, shaking. Her body was limp, drained of every ounce of fight.

Charles loomed over her, his gaze filled with disgust.

Without a word, he turned and walked away.

The door clicked shut.

Silence swallowed the room.

Suzanne didn’t move. She couldn't. The pain anchored her to the bed, heavy and suffocating.

Morning light filtered through the curtains, its warmth weak against her aching body. She hadn’t slept. How could she? Every movement sent fresh waves of pain through her spine.

At some point, exhaustion won. Her body forced her into a restless, dreamless sleep.

The peace didn’t last.

A loud bang shattered the silence.

The door flung open.

"Get up, Suzanne!"

Beatrice’s voice was sharp, cutting through the fog of pain.

Suzanne’s eyes shot open.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

Beatrice stood in the doorway, arms crossed, lips curled in disgust. "What are you doing still in bed? Lazy. That’s what you are."

Suzanne forced herself upright, a sharp gasp escaping as the pain flared across her back.

Beatrice’s eyes narrowed. "Pathetic," she muttered. "You couldn’t even bear a child, and now you’re wasting time lying around."

Suzanne’s head spun.

She wasn’t ready for this.

She wasn’t ready to face the day.

But Beatrice didn’t care.

“I... I’m trying to get up,” Suzanne rasped.

"Trying?" Beatrice scoffed. "That’s what you call this?"

Suzanne gritted her teeth, pushing past the agony as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

Beatrice sneered. “If you want to be of any use to this family, you need to start acting like it.”

She turned on her heel and strode out.

The door slammed behind her.

Suzanne exhaled shakily.

She had no time to recover. No moment to breathe.

She had to move.

She had to pretend she was fine.

Her reflection in the mirror stopped her in her tracks.

Pale skin. Bloodshot eyes. Hollow cheeks.

The dress clung to her back, the welts beneath the fabric burning.

She had no choice. She had to wear it. She had to go downstairs. She had to pretend that everything was fine.

Her hands trembled as she finished dressing.

It didn’t matter if she was hurting.

She had to survive.

---

Suzanne forced steady steps as she entered the dining room.

The soft clink of dishes was the only sound.

Beatrice sat at the head of the table, eyes sharp, expectant.

Suzanne placed the plate before her with practiced precision.

Beatrice didn’t thank her.

Her gaze dropped to Suzanne’s arms.

A frown creased her face.

"What are these?"

Suzanne stiffened.

Beatrice’s eyes lingered on the faint, still-visible marks beneath her sleeves.

Suzanne fought the urge to pull her arms away.

"They’re... from last night," she said, voice barely above a whisper.

Beatrice scoffed. "Really?" She reached out, grabbing Suzanne’s arm roughly.

Suzanne flinched.

Beatrice inspected the marks with a sneer. "So this is how you present yourself? Walking around looking like... this?"

Her gaze flicked back to Suzanne’s face, eyes cold, calculating.

"You look like you’ve been through a battle," she said, releasing her grip. "And we’re in the middle of a house of gossip. Do you realize how much attention you’re drawing?"

Suzanne’s heart pounded.

She wanted to scream. To tell Beatrice it wasn’t her fault.

But she stayed silent.

Beatrice’s lips curled into something resembling pity. It was a lie. Another mask of cruelty.

"If you had acted like a good wife last night," Beatrice continued, "you wouldn’t look like this."

The words were a blade, cutting deep.

Suzanne clenched her fists.

"I suggest you start covering up that useless body of yours." Beatrice’s voice dripped with disdain. "I won’t have the maids whispering about what a pathetic wife you are."

The humiliation burned in Suzanne’s chest.

She wanted to fight back.

She wanted to tell Beatrice to go to hell.

But she knew better.

"You need to start behaving like a proper woman," Beatrice went on. "If you focused more on your duties, perhaps you wouldn’t have to hide. You could finally give Charles an heir and make yourself useful."

Suzanne swallowed hard.

Her hands trembled.

Beatrice set her fork down with a quiet clink.

"You look pitiful," she said, voice devoid of emotion. "But you still have duties to perform."

Suzanne braced herself.

"I’m attending a function tonight." Beatrice’s tone was firm. "You will accompany me."

Suzanne’s stomach twisted.

The thought of being surrounded by people, forced to smile, to act as if nothing was wrong—

She wasn’t sure she could do it.

But she had no choice.

Beatrice’s eyes hardened. "Get yourself dressed. I won’t tolerate delays."

Suzanne hesitated.

She wanted to refuse. To beg for one night of peace.

But she knew better.

"Yes, Mother," she whispered.

She turned to leave, her head bowed.

Beatrice’s voice followed her, cold and unyielding.

"You will be the picture of composure, Suzanne."

Suzanne clenched her fists as she stepped out of the room.