Love for revenge

Humiliation

**This chapter contains scenes of physical and verbal abuse that may be disturbing to some readers. Discretion is suggested.

Giselle

All the way home, I can’t stop thinking about that man’s words. Just imagining the possibility of us having to kiss someday sends a shiver down my spine.

When I arrive at that dreadful place I’m desperate to leave behind, I pay the driver and walk slowly toward the front door. But before I can press the doorbell, it swings open—and the last person I wanted to see steps out.

“Where were you?” Oliver demands, grabbing my arm and yanking me inside.

“I-I just went for a walk.”

“A walk? You left even after I told you not to. What kind of wife disobeys her husband?”

“It wasn’t anything bad—”

“Goddamn it! Don’t talk back,” he hisses, gripping my shoulders and shaking me so hard that, for the first time, I’m genuinely afraid he might hit me just to force the truth out of me.

“Are you cheating on me, Giselle?” he roars, pushing me hard against the door. A cry escapes my lips as the doorknob digs painfully into my right side.

“W-why would you think that?” I ask, tears beginning to fall.

“You really have to ask? I told you to stay in our room and wait for me, and you go out anyway—then you come back smelling like another man’s cologne!” he shouts again, slamming me even harder into the door. I close my eyes, knowing I’ve been caught.

“Oliver!!”

His father’s voice cuts through the air. “Settle this in your room. The staff doesn’t need to be hearing your business.”

When I open my eyes, I see some of the household staff listening in on our fight. And when my gaze meets Paulette’s—the woman I thought had already left—I realize she’s smiling smugly, clearly enjoying my humiliation at Oliver’s hands.

Before I can react, Oliver grabs my wrist with his massive hand and forces me to go upstairs with him.

“Y-you’re hurting me,” I whisper, trying to pull free, but his grip only tightens.

“Who did you screw?” he barks the moment he slams our bedroom door shut. “Tell me!!”

“N-no one! I just went to the beach, I swear. I only went for a walk,” I sob, wiping my eyes with my free hand. “The cologne you’re smelling is the cab driver’s. I swear, that’s all it is!”

“Take your clothes off.”

“W-what?” I blink, unable to believe what I just heard.

“Take them off. I won’t say it again.”

When I don’t move, Oliver storms over and yanks my jacket open with such force that I let out a frightened cry.

“I told you to undress. You didn’t listen—this is what you get,” he snaps, throwing my jacket to the floor and starting to unbutton my blouse.

“I-I’ll do it,” I plead, grabbing his hands to stop him from humiliating me further.

“Then do it. I’m waiting.”

Still crying, I unbutton my jeans and slide them down to my thighs. When he orders me to take them off completely, I do, then cross my arms over my torso, trying to shield myself from his gaze.

“Why are you covering up?”

“B-because I’m ashamed. You’re looking at me like I’m dirty… like I actually did something wrong,” I whisper through sobs.

“Oh, is that it? Or is it because you don’t want me to see the marks some other man left on you?”

Without warning, he grabs my wrists and pulls my arms apart, leaving me completely exposed.

“Does he know where to touch you to make you scream in pleasure?” he growls, letting go only to rip off my bra. “Does he know he has to kiss your breasts first, like this?”

He presses his mouth to my n****e, sucking gently—and far from feeling anything close to pleasure, all I want is for him to stop touching me. I try to push him away.

“P-please, Oliver…”

“Please what?” he growls, then bites down hard, making me scream in pain.

“Oliver!! Open the door!” Paulette’s voice shrieks from the other side, stopping him just as his hand reaches for my underwear. “Oliver?” she insists. And for the first time in my life, I’m grateful for my husband’s mistress.

“You’re mine until I say otherwise,” he growls, his voice low and menacing. “No one is allowed to touch you. If I find out you’re cheating on me, I swear I’ll kill you—and him.”

Then he throws me onto the bed and storms out of the room, leaving me alone.

Afraid he might come back and finish what he started, I grab the bedsheets and wrap them around myself, still crying. I feel so utterly humiliated I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look anyone in this house in the eye again. They all must’ve heard what he was about to do, and no one tried to stop him—no one except Paulette. And maybe she only stepped in to prove she had some kind of control over him.

But either way, I’m thankful.

“What the hell were you thinking, Oliver?” I hear her scolding him, her voice rising with every word.

“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 i***t 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.