My Husband Locked Me in an Oven for His Mistress

"Fine. Since that's how you want it, I'll discipline you on behalf of your dead father today!"

He waved his hand and gave the order. "Go. Raise the temperature another nine degrees. A hundred and fifty-eight. I don't care how stubborn you think you are. You don't apologize, you don't come out."

The moment the words left his mouth, the other maids in the house came running over, begging on my behalf.

"Sir, please spare her this once. She's eight months pregnant. The temperature in there is already so high, it could be fatal for the baby."

Bernard's brow furrowed. He glanced at me through the small window.

A few seconds of silence. He was about to nod when Ivy let out a sharp cry and collapsed to the floor.

Bernard rushed to scoop her into his arms. "Ivy, what's wrong? Tell me where it hurts. I'll take you to the hospital."

Ivy shook her head, eyes brimming with tears. "It's just my own weak body that landed me in the ICU. It had nothing to do with her. Everyone's already pleading for her, so please, just let her go. I'm fine..."

Before she could finish, her whole body curled in on itself, gasping for air in great heaving gulps, as though she were about to go into shock.

The "okay" that had been sitting in Bernard's throat never made it out. His voice turned cold and sharp.

"You do something wrong, you face the consequences. Do as I said."

The maids stole a glance at the horror inside the roasting chamber and tried to plead again, but Bernard's icy glare stopped them dead.

"Ivy had her sunbathe for the baby's sake. Instead of being grateful, she smashed the glass and hurt someone. She still hasn't shown an ounce of remorse. She deserves to suffer. Anyone who begs for her again can pack their bags and get out."

He paused, then added, "Go. Adjust the temperature. And have an ambulance waiting outside."

After that, none of the maids dared say another word.

Mamie Winfield exchanged a look with Ivy, then hurried off to adjust the thermostat.

When she came back, the temperature inside the chamber had climbed to a hundred and fifty-eight degrees.

She had added a full eighteen degrees instead of nine.

The sudden blast of heat hit like a wall. My legs gave out. My whole body shook as I collapsed onto the scalding metal floor.

The instant my feet left their position, one sole lost a sheet of flesh to the iron plate. The other ripped away a layer of dried scab.

When my body hit the surface, the skin that touched the metal sizzled. It swelled red immediately, blood seeping through, as though I were being seared alive.

Pain tore through every inch of me, bone-deep, relentless. Blood oozed from everywhere at once.

To protect the baby, I forced myself past the agony and twisted my body so my back faced down.

Every movement peeled another strip of flesh from whatever part of me pressed against the scorching iron.

By the time I'd gotten into position, there was almost no unburned skin left on my body.

And the baby inside me had gone completely still.

The people outside who had been watching and snickering fell silent as they took in the carnage through the window.

Feeling my child's life slip away, I screamed with everything I had. "Bernard Farley! My baby is dead! You killed him with your own hands! When I get out of here, my brother will slaughter every last one of you! You all deserve to die!"

The color drained from Bernard's face.

In the silence, he walked to the small window, as though he needed to see my condition for himself.

When he saw me drenched in blood, not a single patch of intact skin left, his pupils contracted.

He opened his mouth to order someone to bring the key, but Ivy stepped forward and caught his hand.

"How could you say something like that?" Ivy's voice was soft, wounded. "You know how much your brother put him through. All those years of being undermined and humiliated. Your brother's been dead for ages, and you're still using his name to threaten him. How could you twist the knife like that?"