Shotgun Wedding

Diana's POV

"Gordon, please, you’re going to kill us both!" I cried, clutching the seatbelt as the car swerved dangerously across lanes.

My plea was useless. Gordon’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, his eyes locked on the road with the kind of mad focus that chilled me. The tires screeched, the car tilted as he pulled an insane manoeuvre. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might tear from my chest.

Sirens wailed behind us.

"Oh, shit," Gordon muttered, glancing at the rearview mirror. His lips twisted into a cruel smile. "Looks like whatever you ate this morning is about to come right out, along with that bastard you tied around my neck."

His words stabbed me deeper than the reckless driving. He didn’t even bother looking at me. Just spitting venom.

It had been less than an hour since we signed the marriage certificate, and already, I was regretting every second. I knew Gordon didn’t care for me. I’d expected ridicule, coldness, maybe the same humiliation he used to rain on me in school. But this? This was cruelty on a level I hadn’t prepared for.

The speedometer climbed. The world outside blurred. I screamed, sobbing uncontrollably, but Gordon acted as though I wasn’t even in the car. Behind the wheel, he looked possessed, like Tom from the old Tom and Jerry cartoons, riding that toy train full-speed into disaster. Only this wasn’t funny.

The sirens grew louder. Blue and red lights flashed ahead. A barricade of police cars blocked the road. Gordon cursed and slammed the brakes, jerking us violently forward. My head nearly hit the dashboard.

He turned to me, his gaze hard and hateful. "Now you’re going to act like you’re in pain. Whatever I say, you nod and agree. Disobey me, and I swear I’ll send you and that bastard in your womb six feet under, and make it look like a tragic accident."

His threat landed heavier than the seatbelt pressing into my chest. I nodded quickly, too terrified to breathe.

A uniformed officer approached, peering into the car. "Sir, do you realise you were speeding?"

"I’m sorry, officer." Gordon’s voice slid into smooth charm. "I’m Gordon Smith, son of Mr. Matthew Smith. This is my wife; we just got married. She’s pregnant, and she’s been having pains. I was rushing her to the hospital."

The officer’s eyes shifted to me. My face was puffy, my eyes swollen from crying. My stomach cramped lightly, stress, fear, maybe both. I clutched it with trembling hands and leaned against the door. Then the nausea overwhelmed me. I stumbled out, bent over, and vomited onto the pavement. There was no need to pretend; I wasn't feeling okay.

The officer’s sternness softened. "Ma’am, are you alright?"

I couldn’t answer. My throat burned, my body shook. Gordon stepped in smoothly, closing my door with a practised snap. "See? I need to get her to the hospital right away, officer."

The man nodded, sympathy winning over suspicion. "Of course, Mr. Smith. Go ahead."

Back on the road, Gordon hissed through his teeth. "You’d better not vomit in my car. And God, I wish you’d lose that bastard already."

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, tears burning my eyes. What did I do to deserve this hate? I thought bitterly. A month ago, when he touched me, there hadn’t been this much venom. Cruelty, yes. But not this burning hatred. Now it was as though my very existence offended him.

Minutes later, the car screeched to a halt. "Get out," Gordon snapped.

I lifted my head, disoriented. The road stretched ahead, lined with tall coconut trees swaying gently in the heat. There was no house in sight.

"I said get out," he repeated, voice sharp enough to slice.

My hands fumbled with the door handle. I stepped out, clutching my small bag. Gordon popped the trunk, retrieved my bag, and hurled it onto the dirt. Without another word, he slid back behind the wheel.

"You know where the house is. Walk." He spun the car around and sped off, leaving a trail of dust behind.

I stood frozen, watching the spot where the car vanished. The silence pressed down, broken only by rustling palm fronds and the far-off hum of traffic. My legs trembled. The Smith estate wasn’t far, recalling from my visit yesterday, but it was at least a thirty-minute walk under the blazing sun.

There was no choice. I picked up my bag, slipped off my heels, and began walking barefoot on the scorching asphalt. Sweat poured down my face, my neat hair clinging damply to my neck. With each step, my shoulders sagged lower. The heat seemed to strip away more than strength; it stripped away dignity.

By the time the grand gates loomed before me, I was drenched, exhausted, and barefoot. I pressed the intercom bell.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" a man’s voice demanded.

"My name is Diana Wilson. I was here yesterday to see Mr. Matthew Smith. Gordon Smith… dropped me off. I’m his wife."

Silence. Then: "Hold on. I’ll confirm."

I waited, swaying on my feet. I must have looked pitiful: hair plastered to my face, shoes dangling from my hand, feet coated in dust. The carefully styled bride was gone; what remained was a sweaty, broken girl who looked like she’d crawled out of the earth.

At last, the gates opened. I dragged myself up the long driveway, past the manicured roundabout and pristine lawns, to the front porch of the mansion.

The door opened to reveal a young maid. She looked me over from head to toe, her expression blank but her eyes assessing.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" she asked curtly.

"I’m Diana Wilson. Gordon’s wife," I said, trying to sound steady.

Her eyes narrowed, sweeping over my dishevelled state again. "Stay here." She shut the door in my face.

Minutes passed before it reopened. This time, an elegant older woman stepped into view. She wore silk, her dark hair coiled neatly, her posture radiating authority. Her eyes landed on me, and in that instant, I knew I had walked into the lion’s den.

"So," she drawled, "you’re the woman my husband spoke of yesterday. The pregnant one." She looked me up and down, lips curling. "I can’t believe my husband forced my son to marry… trash like you."

Heat flared in my cheeks. I lowered my eyes.

"Did you not shower before arriving?" she asked, her voice sharp.

I glanced down at myself, dusty feet, sweat-streaked face, clinging clothes. Shame burned hotter than the sun had.

"Yuck." She snapped her fingers. "Camila!"

The maid appeared instantly.

"Take this thing to the workers’ shower room. Scrub her. Disinfect her. She looks like she’s carrying every germ in the city."

"Yes, ma’am," Camila said.

"Not through the house," Mrs. Smith barked. "Take her round back. And throw that… thing she’s holding into the bin."

My heart lurched. My bag.

Camila led me silently around the side of the house to the workers’ bungalow. Inside, she handed me soap and shampoo. I stared at the mirror, at the pitiful wreck staring back, and nearly didn’t recognise myself. Then I stripped and showered, scrubbing away sweat and dirt, trying to wash off the humiliation, though it clung deeper than skin.

When I emerged, wrapped in a towel, Camila was gone. My bag was gone, too.

"Camila?" I called, panic rising.

She returned holding a folded bundle of cloth.

"My bag?"

“I’m sorry. It’s in the bin. Mrs. Smith’s orders.”

“What?” My voice cracked.

"That bag had my certificates! My books! My clothes, and a photo of my mum!" My chest tightened as if the air had been punched out of me. That photo was irreplaceable.

Camila’s face softened, but her voice stayed neutral. "I’m sorry." She held out the folded bundle.

It was a maid’s uniform.

I dressed quickly, no underwear, no dignity, just the rough fabric against my skin. But I wasn’t ready to surrender. "Where’s the bin?"

She hesitated, then pointed.

I ran. The incinerator loomed at the back, smoke curling skyward. A worker in protective gear was shoving my bag into the fire.

“No!” I screamed, rushing forward.

"Ma’am, stay back, you’ll hurt yourself," the man warned.

But it was too late. Flames devoured the bag, the books, the photo, the last pieces of my past life. Ash floated upward, scattering like my dreams.

I stumbled back to the bungalow, hollow. Camila led me wordlessly to the main house again, where Mrs. Smith reclined on the balcony, sipping something cold.

She didn’t even look at me as she spoke. "Listen carefully. From eight in the morning until five in the evening, you’ll work with the staff to keep this house spotless. From now on, lunch preparation will be your duty. Do you understand?"

Her tone was casual, as though she were giving instructions about furniture, not a human being.

I stood there in the scratchy uniform, hands clasped behind me, swallowing hard. My identity, my dignity, my history, all burned. And now, on my first day as Gordon’s wife, I wasn’t welcomed into his home.

I’d been demoted to his servant.