Married to the Tyrant in a Wheelchair

Three days passed. Augustina existed in the massive manor like a ghost.

She stayed within her boundaries. She never once caught a glimpse of Charles Moses. The second night, exhaustion claimed her in the bathtub. She woke with a start hours later, not in the cold porcelain tub, but tangled in the silk sheets of her bed, a faint scent of cedarwood lingering in the air. She had dismissed it as a strange dream, until now.

On the morning of the fourth day, a cold, miserable drizzle fell over Los Angeles.

Augustina walked down to the cavernous first-floor dining room at exactly eight o'clock. She sat at the very end of the long mahogany table.

A maid named Brenda Boggs marched into the room. She wore thick-soled orthopedic shoes that squeaked against the floorboards.

Brenda carried a silver tray. She slammed it down onto the table right in front of Augustina. The silverware rattled loudly.

Augustina lifted the silver cloche.

Underneath sat a bowl of cold oatmeal. A thick, rubbery skin had formed over the top.

Next to it were two slices of burnt, blackened toast and a cup of lukewarm, bitter black coffee with no cream.

Augustina slowly lifted her eyes. She stared quietly at Brenda.

The corners of Brenda's mouth twitched downward. Her eyes dragged over Augustina's cheap cotton dress with undisguised disgust.

Growing up in The Warrens had taught Augustina how to read micro-expressions perfectly.

Brenda looked at her like she was trash. A pathetic throwaway bride that even a crippled monster didn't want to touch.

Augustina didn't yell. She didn't throw the bowl.

She picked up the heavy silver spoon. She tapped it gently against the hardened crust of the oatmeal.

"Did the kitchen go bankrupt?" Augustina asked, her voice perfectly level. "Or can the manor no longer afford the gas bill to heat the stove?"

Brenda let out a short, fake laugh. She crossed her arms, her tone dripping with arrogance.

"The head chef only prepares hot meals for the Master," Brenda replied. "For a temporary guest like you, this is more than enough."

Temporary guest.

That was the label the staff had given her.

Augustina dropped the spoon.

Clink.

The sharp sound echoed off the high ceiling.

She stood up. Brenda was taller in her thick-soled shoes, but the sudden shift in Augustina's aura sucked the air out of the room.

Augustina took a slow step forward. Her eyes were dead and cold.

"I can skip a meal," Augustina said softly. "But I do not eat pig slop."

Brenda flinched at the intensity in her eyes. She stumbled back a half-step, her hip bumping into a dining chair.

Humiliated by her own reaction, Brenda's face flushed red. She muttered a filthy curse word under her breath, specifically referencing the whores in The Warrens.

Augustina's eyes darkened. Her hand shot out, gripping the edge of the mahogany table. Her knuckles turned stark white.

She didn't strike the maid.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a tiny red light blinking in the shadows near the ceiling molding. A security camera.

Someone was watching. Let's see how the master of the house reacts to this little show, she thought, her lips curving into a barely perceptible, icy smirk.

Augustina leaned in, her face inches from Brenda's ear.

"This is your first and last warning," Augustina whispered, her voice a lethal hiss. "If my coffee is cold tomorrow morning, I will force you to swallow the glass pot whole."

She pulled back, turned around, and walked out of the dining room without looking back. She made sure her posture was perfectly straight, knowing the silent red eye of the camera followed her every move.

Brenda stood frozen, her face pale, but her eyes burned with malicious calculation.