Hidden Scars
1397 Words
"It was the most wonderful chicken curry I’ve had in a lifetime, silly girl," Grandma whispered, a small satisfied smile gracing her pale lips.
She leaned back against the pillows.
"I'm glad, Grandma," I said, my voice thick with a tenderness I only allowed myself to feel within these four walls.
I packed away the containers, my heart momentarily buoyed by her comfort.
"I'll make it again next week. I promise."
But as I stepped out of the room, the warmth evaporated. My bodyguards stood like gargoyles flanking the door
Their expressions shifted from boredom to alertness the moment I appeared.
---
I didn't expect to see him.
August was standing by the glass window at the far end of the hall, his back to me. He was silhouetted against the gray afternoon sky.
My heart skipped a beat, that familiar anxiety rising in my throat. I tried to walk past him silently, my eyes fixed but his voice stopped me.
"Finished playing the devoted martyr?"
I halted, my grip tightening on the empty food container. August turned around slowly. He looked immaculate, his suit without a single crease.
"She’s my only family member, August," I whispered, my voice sounding fragile in the vast hallway.
He stepped closer, his shadow falling over me like a shroud. He glanced down at the plastic box in my hand.
"Home-cooked spices. Domestic bliss in a plastic tub. Do you truly believe these trivialities compensate for the ruin you’ve authored?"
His cruelty was slow poison. I looked up at him, my eyes stinging.
"If you hate me this much, why pay her bill then? Is it just to prolong my agony?"
August leaned in, his signature invading my senses.
"Because death is a mercy, Spring. And mercy is a currency you haven't earned. I want you to look at her through a glass wall every day and know that her heartbeat is a debt you can never settle. I want you to remember that your peace is a fragile thing, held together solely by my whims."
He walked away without waiting for a reply. He just left me there, a girl clutching an empty box that suddenly felt like a heavy stone.
The return to the manor was a silent, suffocating journey.
When I entered the room, the bed was covered in gold-embossed boxes. Silk ribbons were strewn across the duvet and layers of tissue paper rustled in the draft.
Luba was standing there, her fingers hovering nervously over a shimmering garment.
"Ms. Willow... these arrived while you were out," she whispered.
"From the Old Manor. From Madam Tricey."
I picked up the cream-colored card. The handwriting was elegant.
“A Harrington must look the part, even if she is merely an imitation. Wear this to the Charity Gala tonight. Do not further embarrass the name you’ve borrowed.”
It was a trap. I felt it in my marrow. Tricey, August’s mother, and his sister, Shaila. They didn't send gifts out of kindness.
"It’s beautiful, Ms.," Luba said, holding up the dress.
It was an exquisite piece. It was daring—far more revealing than anything I usually wore.
"Help me, Luba," I said, a sense of impending doom settling in my gut.
Luba worked quickly, her hands trembling as she zipped me into the gown. She spent an hour on my hair, pinning it into a sophisticated loose updo that left my neck exposed—the neck that still bore the faint, yellowish shadows of August’s grip.
"You look... ethereal," Luba breathed, stepping back.
I looked in the mirror. I saw a lamb being gilded for the altar.
The Charity Gala was held in a ballroom that felt like the cold, glittering heart of a diamond.
Thousands of crystals dripped from the ceiling, reflecting the light of a thousand flickering candles. The air was thick with the hum of high-society gossip.
I walked a few steps behind August. He didn't offer his arm. He moved through the crowd like a monarch, acknowledging nods with a brief, icy incline of his head, while I trailed behind like a shameful secret he was legally bound to carry.
"Oh, look. The miracle wife has finally graced us."
The voice was Shaila’s. She was standing with a clique of women whose jewelry probably cost more than the hospital wing Grandma was in. Beside her stood Tricey.
"Spring," Tricey said.
"I see you managed to fit into the dress. A bit snug, perhaps? But then, one cannot expect a common frame to carry couture with natural grace. It requires a certain... pedigree."
"Thank you for the dress, Madam," I said, keeping my head bowed, my eyes on her diamond-encrusted shoes.
"Madam?" Shaila laughed, a shrill, mocking sound that drew heads.
"She still speaks like a scullery maid. Mother, I told you she was a hopeless case. Look at her—she’s trembling."
A woman nearby... Sara, one of Shaila’s closest friends tittered behind her hand.
"I heard she didn't even bring a dowry. Just a mountain of medical bills and a tragic backstory. How... quaintly middle-class."
"August, darling," Tricey called out, pulling him into their circle with a sharp gesture.
"Your wife seems a bit overwhelmed. Perhaps you should remind her that silence is her best accessory tonight. We wouldn't want her to start rambling about her struggles in front of the Cabinet members."
August looked at me then. His eyes were unreadable.
"She knows her place, Mother. Don't worry about her tongue."
He turned away to speak to a group of people, leaving me standing in the center of the circle.
The humiliation was a pressing the air out of my lungs. I could feel their eyes raking over me, dissecting my hair, my skin, my very existence.
"Is it true?" Sara whispered loudly, leaning toward Shaila.
"That she’s the reason the real Harrington bride is in a grave?"
"Who else?" Shaila sneered, her voice rising so the surrounding guests could hear.
"But look at her now. Wearing dress like she’s a saint. It’s a pity the dress can't hide the rot inside."
I felt the whirlpool spinning. I needed air. I turned to walk toward the terrace, my movements stiff and frantic.
That’s when I heard a tiny, sickening rip.
The ribbon that held the back of the gown together hadn't been stitched; it had been basted with a thread designed to snap under the slightest tension of a quick movement.
As I turned, the entire back of the bodice gave way.
The cold air hit my bare skin, but it was the sudden, vacuum-like silence of the room that froze my blood.
The gossip stopped. The music seemed to fade into a dull hum. I felt the fabric dropping, revealing not just my skin, but the fading marks on my back—the history of my secret suffering.
A collective, sharp gasp rippled through the hall.
"Oh my God!" Sara shrieked, though her voice was full of delighted malice.
"Look at her back! What on earth... is she diseased? Look at those welts!"
"It looks like a map of a dungeon," Shaila laughed, her hand over her mouth.
"How barbaric! August, what have you brought into this house? She looks like a common criminal who's been lashed!"
The laughter started then. Low at first, then rising like a tide. I stood in the center of the ballroom, clutching the front of the dress to my chest in a desperate, futile attempt to save my modesty.
My eyes were wide and stinging. I was a laughingstock. A freak show. I was exactly what they wanted me to be: an embarrassment that August could never forgive.
I looked for him. I searched for August in the sea of mocking faces.
He was standing ten feet away. He wasn't laughing. But he wasn't moving either.
He stood with his wine glass in his hand, watching me with an expression that was worse than anger.
"Disgusting," Tricey whispered, her voice carrying clearly through the silence.
"Truly, a gutter girl through and through. Look at the marks of her upbringing."
---
- Writer
