“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.