My Husband Locked Me in an Oven for His Mistress

"Bernard, please let her out. She's been pampered her whole life. How could she endure something like this? She didn't do anything wrong. It's all my fault. I'm just a housekeeper's daughter. Even if I collapsed from heatstroke in that kind of temperature, it would only be what I deserved..."

My blood surged violently.

Minutes after I'd smashed through that glass, she had already turned and strolled back to the bedroom, pausing on her way to have a servant bring her half a chilled watermelon.

I was the one who'd been baking in the sun for hours, on the verge of heatstroke!

My eyes burned crimson as I fixed them on her. I was about to speak when Bernard slammed his fist against the glass window.

His voice turned ice-cold. "Go turn the temperature up another ten degrees. She's not the pampered little princess who can't take the heat? Fine. Today I'll personally make sure every ounce of suffering Ivy endured gets paid back."

He stroked Ivy's hair with such tenderness it was almost spilling out of his eyes.

"I know you've been wronged. You were kind enough to help her with prenatal care, and she nearly killed you for it. Go on, Ivy. Adjust it yourself. I dare her to say a single word against it."

When Ivy came back, the red thermometer on the iron wall already read 140°F.

She had cranked it up a full twenty degrees.

The roasting chamber became instant hell. My entire body felt like it was being deep-fried alive.

My dress was soaked through with sweat, clinging to the high swell of my belly.

The frantic kicking inside me was my baby's desperate plea for help.

For my child, I dragged words out of a throat that felt like it was smoldering. My voice was barely a rasp. "I was wrong. Bernard, I know I was wrong..."

The instant I spoke, Ivy's father cut in, his booming voice drowning out my plea. "Mr. Farley, your wife's got quite the figure. Even with that belly she's all curves. A man could just stare and stare..."

My raw, broken voice was swallowed whole.

His gaze was locked on me, brazen and excited, not bothering to hide a thing.

That look made my skin crawl. I pressed my arms over my body and shrank toward the corner.

But after so long in the searing heat, the moment I lifted my foot, the sole peeled clean away from the flesh beneath it. Blood welled instantly from the raw, separated skin.

The piercing pain buckled my leg. I staggered, and my other foot, stripped of its skin, slammed down flat against the scorching iron floor.

The agony that shot up through my skull ripped a shrill wail from my throat.

Bernard clearly heard me. His brow creased. He shot a warning glance at Irvin Winfield, then stood and walked to the small window.

He saw it on the iron floor: a complete layer of sole-skin, and the bright red smear of blood beside it. Something stabbed through his chest.

He was about to speak when Ivy appeared at his side, biting her lip, looking frail.

"Sharon, just apologize to Bernard. Even if you don't mean it, it's fine. You know his temper. If you don't apologize, he'll never let you out..."

Every organ inside me was churning. The heat was cooking me alive. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.

Watching me struggle, Ivy's lips curled. Then she raised her hand and slapped herself twice across the face, crying and clawing at the door, begging to be let in to share my punishment.

"Bernard, if she won't apologize, then let me go in there with her! I can't stand watching her suffer like this. Just say it's all my fault. It's my fault for getting heatstroke. My fault for ending up in the ICU!"

Seeing Ivy act so selflessly, whatever softness had flickered in Bernard's chest vanished like smoke.

He glared at me with pure venom, his voice thick with disgust.

"Sharon Fox, you are a complete disappointment. You used to have at least a shred of shame. Now you're utterly shameless. You hurt Ivy and you don't feel an ounce of remorse. She's kind enough to want to suffer alongside you, and you don't deserve it."