“Keep your voice down,” he warns. “Giselle might hear you.”

“I don’t care. Were you seriously about to sleep with her—with me still in the house?”

“Damn it, keep your voice down.”

“She can’t hear me, can she? Don’t you hear her crying like the idiot she is? She’s one scream away from blowing out my eardrum. Don’t tell me you’ve fallen for her after all these years?”

“This isn’t about that. She doesn’t get to walk away. The only one who decides when this relationship is over is me, not her.”

“It better be just that, Oliver. Otherwise, forget about your son—and forget about me.”

“Please, Paulette, don’t go! Wait!!” the man pleads, locking the door to our room behind him.

After a while, once the crying has drained all my strength, I grab my clothes and lock myself in the bathroom. I stare at my half-naked body and the marks Oliver left on it.

With trembling fingers, I touch my chest, and a whimper escapes me as pain shoots through the spot where he bit me—hard. I step under the running water, hoping to drown my pain, to wash away the cruel way he treated me like I was nothing, like I had no worth. As if he had any right to accuse me of anything after he’s been lying to me for years.

Once I’m feeling a little more like myself, I remember the phone Dubois bought me. On a reckless impulse, I dig it out of my jacket, wondering if I should call him—ask him for help. But would he actually come? Would he pull me out of this hell, or just remind me that he can’t do anything until the day we agreed to pretend to be lovers?

After a long, bitter inner battle, I decide not to bother him. Then I realize the phone has a decent camera. I take a few photos—of my arms, my right side, and my chest—where bruises are already starting to bloom from Oliver’s rage.

When I’m done, I return to the bedroom. Knowing full well that Oliver’s mother wouldn’t think twice about digging through my things to see if I’m cheating on her precious son, I slide out a loose floorboard I had noticed under the bed and hide the phone there.

By dawn, Oliver finally comes back. I’m wrapped up in the blankets, completely covered, trying to protect myself from him possibly touching me again. When the bed shifts under his weight, I start trembling and crying silently. I have to cover my mouth so he doesn’t realize I’m still awake.

“Stop crying. I’m not going to hurt you. This is your fault anyway—for leaving without my permission. None of this would’ve happened if you’d just listened.”

Luckily, that’s all he says before drifting off and snoring.

The next morning, I want nothing more than to stay in bed. But Oliver makes me come downstairs with him, so I follow and pick at my breakfast.

“I’m going back to work today,” Oliver tells his parents, who nod slowly. “Please, Mother, don’t let Giselle leave the house—or even her room—unless you say so.”

“Don’t worry, son. Leave everything to me.”

He kisses his mother. When his lips touch mine, I force myself not to pull away, to swallow the bile rising in my throat. Everything about him disgusts me now.

“Go to the garden,” Oliver’s mother snaps just as I get up, about to head back upstairs.

“I want to rest.”

“And you will—after someone cleans your room,” she hisses, glaring at me with pure resentment. “Nana, go with her. Don’t let her out of your sight for a second.”

Just as I suspected, she probably ordered the maids to search every inch of my room while they clean—looking for proof that I’m unfaithful to her son.

I don’t bother answering. I turn on my heel and walk out to the garden, Oliver’s nanny trailing me like a damn bloodhound. I collapse into one of the chairs and curl up, facing away from her, staring sadly at the vast garden stretching before me.

“I can’t believe I’m wasting my time watching over you. Poor Oliver… what kind of woman did he marry? A good-for-nothing who only brings him trouble,” the old woman spews, dripping venom. I close my eyes and pretend to doze, hoping she’ll tire of talking to herself.

“You should take a page out of Miss Paulette’s book. Now she is a lady—beautiful, refined, knows how to behave.”

“Enough!!” I shout, leaping to my feet.

“You have no right to silence me. Let me remind you—you rank lower than the lowest servant in the Lefebvre household.”

“One of these days, I’ll get my revenge,” I whisper, holding back tears. “And when I do, I’ll watch you beg me for forgiveness on your knees.”

“You’d better start learning your place,” she threatens, narrowing her eyes. “Because soon, the one down on her knees might be someone else entirely.”

And I know, deep down, that everyone in this house already knows what Oliver plans to do to me in the days to come.