Chapter 3 The Aftermath

Chapter 3

Her legs trembled as she took her first step. Every inch of her ached - the dull throbbing between her thighs, the bruises blooming across her hips, the sting of torn skin. Last night's violence was painted across her body like shame, and now in the stark quiet of the morning, it was all she had left.

She bit her lip to stop a cry from slipping out as she shuffled toward the bathroom, one hand gripping the sheet tighter to her chest. The tiles beneath her feet felt like ice, and each step sent a jolt of pain through her spine. Her body - used, discarded - moved like it no longer belonged to her.

The bathroom was vast and cold. She leaned against the sink for support, her knuckles white from gripping the porcelain. Her reflection was haunting. Hair tangled, lips swollen, the dark shadows beneath her eyes even darker now.

She turned on the shower and let the steam fog up the mirrors before stepping in, hoping the heat would erase everything - the pain, the night, the way he had looked at her before walking out like she was nothing.

But water couldn't cleanse that kind of ache.

Not even close.

The days that followed blurred into each other.

In the Vasquez mansion, Aurora was not a wife. She was not a guest. She was barely even a person.

The servants, well-dressed and sharp-eyed, didn't bother hiding their disdain. They greeted her with cold silence or withering glares. Whispers trailed after her whenever she walked past. Her presence was an offense - her existence, an inconvenience.

She ate alone. Always.

Most times, no one told her when meals were served. She would find the dining room empty, with cold leftovers left for her like she was a stray dog. And still, she never complained.

The maids - most of them older than her - never helped her with anything. If something spilled, she cleaned it. If laundry piled up, it was her hands that scrubbed and folded. When the grand chandelier in the sitting room dulled, she was handed a cloth and pointed toward it.

Once, when she asked where the vacuum was, a younger servant girl had laughed, "You think you're too good for housework because you shared a bed with him?"

Aurora had said nothing.

She just picked up the mop and got to work.

Not because she wanted to.

Not because it was her place.

But because it was the only way to survive in that cold, grand, lifeless place.

Lucien didn't speak to her. Didn't even look at her. Days passed without a single word from him. He would walk past her like she was part of the wall. His footsteps echoed louder than his voice ever did.

Sometimes she would hear him on the phone, laughing - a sound she had never heard directed at her.

At night, she would lie in that same bed, on the same side, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he would ever return.

He didn't.

She slept alone.

And the space beside her stayed cold.