My Husband Thinks I Burned Down the Warehouse

I woke to sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings. Then reality crashed back—the Wagner penthouse, Harrison's prison of glass and steel where I'd spent the night locked in a guest room.

My stomach twisted with familiar agony, the cancer's daily greeting. I'd missed my medication dose, and now I was paying the price. Sweat beaded on my forehead as I curled into myself, trying to ride out the wave of pain.

The door opened without a knock. Valeria glided in, carrying a tray with a meager breakfast—toast, black coffee, and a small bowl of fruit. Her red silk robe clung to her curves, her dark hair artfully tousled. She looked like she'd just stepped from Harrison's bed.

"Good morning, Clara." Her voice dripped with false sweetness as she set the tray on the nightstand. "I thought you might be hungry."

I struggled to sit up, wiping sweat from my brow. "Thank you."

Valeria's eyes narrowed as she noticed my discomfort. She leaned closer, her perfume suffocating me. "You look terrible," she whispered, her mask of concern slipping to reveal cruel satisfaction. "Harrison was quite... vigorous last night."

My heart stuttered painfully in my chest. "I don't need to hear this."

"Oh, but you do." Her fingers brushed my cheek, and I flinched. "He's only keeping you here to torture you, you know. To make you pay for what you did to Lillie."

"I didn't—" I began, but she cut me off with a laugh.

"Save it. We both know the truth." Her gaze dropped to where my hand clutched my stomach. "Are you pregnant? Or just rotting from the inside out?"

I turned away, unable to answer. How could I tell her about the cancer eating away at me when she'd only twist it into another weapon?

---

"Get up," Harrison's voice cut through the room hours later. He stood in the doorway, immaculate in a charcoal suit, keys dangling from his fingers. "You want money? You can work for it."

I followed him to a small linen closet where a maid's uniform hung—plain gray dress, white apron, sensible shoes. My cheeks burned with humiliation as I took it.

"Change," he ordered, turning his back. "You start now."

When I emerged in the uniform that hung loose on my too-thin frame, Harrison was waiting with a list of chores. "Thomas Blackwood is coming for a meeting in an hour. Have the living room spotless by then."

Thomas Blackwood—Harrison's longtime business rival and former friend. The man who had stood beside Harrison at our wedding.

I began with the floors, kneeling despite the pain in my abdomen. Each movement sent waves of nausea through me, but I forced myself to continue. By the time Thomas arrived, I was scrubbing the kitchen tiles, my hair falling from its hastily pinned bun.

Harrison's voice carried from the living room. "Clara, fresh coffee."

I rose shakily, carrying the silver coffee service into the living room where Thomas sat across from Harrison. His eyes widened slightly when he saw me.

"Clara?" he said, recognition and confusion mingling in his voice.

Harrison's expression darkened. "The help doesn't respond to customers, Thomas."

Thomas's gaze shifted between us, something unreadable in his eyes. "I see."

I set the coffee down with trembling hands and retreated to my cleaning, aware of their eyes following me as I scrubbed the already-clean floors.

---

The master bathroom gleamed with marble and gold fixtures—a shrine to wealth that mocked my current state. I had just finished polishing the sink when a violent wave of nausea hit me.

I barely made it to the toilet before my body convulsed. Blood splattered the white porcelain as I emptied what little breakfast I'd managed earlier.

Sweat poured down my face as I knelt on the cold marble, trying to catch my breath. The room spun around me, black spots dancing at the edges of my vision.

I heard footsteps approaching and frantically wiped my mouth, flushing away the evidence of my illness. I splashed water on my face and straightened my uniform just as Harrison appeared in the doorway.

His eyes narrowed at my pale, sweating face. "What are you doing in here?"

"Cleaning," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper.

He stepped closer, nostrils flaring slightly. "Are you high?"

"What?"

"Your eyes are bloodshot. You're sweating." His lip curled in disgust. "What are you on?"

I could have told him the truth—that the blood was from my stomach cancer, that the sweat was from pain and exertion. But his eyes held such contempt, such certainty that I was worthless.

"I'm fine," I said instead, turning away.

His hand gripped my shoulder, spinning me back to face him. "If you're using in my house, you're out. Understand?"

I nodded, biting back words that might have saved me but would never be believed. In his eyes, I was already a monster. What was one more sin to add to my list?