Shotgun Wedding

Diana's POV

Camila squinted at me the moment she opened the door. "Where did you spend the night? You look like crap."

I tried to smile, but my lips barely moved. "I didn’t sleep."

Her grin widened like she had just confirmed a suspicion. "And what are you doing here at this hour?" she asked, still smiling.

I ignored the expression on her face. I didn’t have the energy to figure it out. "Do you have a spare uniform? I need to wash the one I wore yesterday… and this dress."

Her smile vanished. "Wait. You’re Mr Gordon’s wife. Why on earth do you need a worker’s uniform?" She folded her arms, narrowing her eyes. "Don’t tell me you’re joining us to work again today?"

"Camila, marriage is just a label. A tag to wear," I whispered. "It doesn’t mean anything."

She tilted her head, frown deepening. "Really? Then where did you sleep last night?"

"Why do you ask?" I muttered, dodging the question.

"You’ve got threads from a rice sack stuck in your hair," she said bluntly. "Did you sleep in the storage room?"

My eyes widened. I rushed forward, clapping a hand over her mouth. I glanced left and right to make sure no one was around, my heart thudding with panic. "Please," I begged, lowering my voice. "No one must know."

When I let go, she stared at me, realisation dawning. "So that’s what you meant by ‘marriage is just a tag.'" She exhaled heavily. "Mr Gordon is still being himself, huh? For a moment, I thought he had changed when he brought you here. But…" She shook her head, pity flashing in her eyes. "Girl, of all the men in this world, why him?"

I took the fresh uniform she pulled from her wardrobe, my voice small. "It has nothing to do with his wealth. Something beyond me happened, and that’s how I ended up here."

She eyed my belly. "Oh dear Lord, don’t tell me you’re creating a mini version of him inside you. One Gordon is already too much for the world."

Despite the ache in my chest, I forced a reply. "People aren’t born with character. The world shapes them. Exposure, circumstance… all that."

She sighed and softened. "Take a shower. And listen, if he ever forces you into the store room again, just come here. It’s not healthy for you or that little one to sleep on the floor."

For the first time that morning, I felt something close to gratitude. "Thank you, Camila."

After bathing, I washed the dress and the uniform from yesterday, wringing the clothes with trembling hands. I had just finished emptying the bucket when I turned and froze.

Mrs Smith stood at the edge of the yard, her eyes cold and calculating.

"Good morning, Mrs Smith," I greeted quickly, my stomach twisting.

She looked me up and down, then spoke with crisp authority. "You stay in Camila’s room until ten. That should be enough rest. Come to the main house at ten-thirty. I’ll assign your tasks."

Without another word, she turned and walked away, heels clicking on the stones.

I exhaled shakily. That wasn’t a concern. She wasn’t giving me rest for my sake; she was ensuring her husband never saw how she truly treated me.

At ten-thirty, I stood before her in the main house. As expected, Mr Smith was nowhere to be found. Mrs Smith’s tone was brisk and sharp as she rattled off a list of chores, polishing, scrubbing, cooking, each with strict time limits.

Halfway through her commands, Gordon strolled in, his cologne preceding him. He kissed his mother’s cheek and informed her casually, "I’m going into town." He didn’t even glance at me. Not a single word.

He brushed past me like I was invisible.

That became my life. Days blurred into weeks. I was a slave in everything but name, with Camila as my only comfort. She slipped me food when she could, loaned me clothes, and whispered encouragement when my strength faltered. But every night, Gordon sent me back to the store room, or worse. His cruelty was relentless.

And still, no one knew.

A month passed.

I was in the kitchen, sweat dripping down my temples as I worked over the stove. Supper had to be finished before six, before Mr Smith returned. Mrs Smith had banned anyone from helping me. Alone, I chopped and stirred, exhaustion weighing heavily on my bones.

Today should have been my graduation day. My classmates were probably tossing caps into the air, celebrating their future. I had no future. No ceremony. Just a knife in my hand and a pot simmering on the stove.

I hadn’t seen a doctor once since learning of my pregnancy. Gordon lied to his father, telling him he took me for check-ups. I said nothing. I couldn’t.

Suddenly, the kitchen spun. My vision swam, my legs threatening to give way. I sat quickly, clutching the counter until the dizziness eased. This wasn’t new, I had learned to endure it, to lie flat or rest until it passed.

But when I stood again, knife in hand, everything blurred. The room dimmed. My knees buckled.

The crash of falling utensils rang in my ears as darkness swallowed me.

I woke to the steady beep of machines. My left arm throbbed, wrapped in thick bandages. The pungent smell of antiseptic filled my nose.

Panic shot through me. The baby.

A doctor entered, clipboard in hand. She checked my vitals before meeting my desperate gaze.

"When was your last antenatal check?" she asked.

My lips trembled. "I… I never had one."

Her face softened with pity. "Hmm."

I gripped the sheet, my chest tightening. "Please. Is my baby okay?" Tears blurred my eyes.

The doctor hesitated, then sighed. "I’m sorry. Your pregnancy was very delicate, and your body was already weakened and malnourished. You lost the baby before we got you here. You also suffered burns to your hand from hot oil."

The words sliced through me like knives.

"No…" I shook my head violently, clutching my stomach. "No, please, not my baby."

But her lips stayed pressed in a sorrowful line.

A sound tore from my throat, half scream, half sob. I shoved my fist into my mouth to muffle it, rocking on the bed as hot tears poured down my face. My bandaged hand pressed against my empty belly, desperate for a heartbeat that was no longer there.

The door banged open. I barely registered the commotion until a heavy hand grabbed my arm.

"There she is," Mrs Smith’s sharp voice declared. "She cooked that meal. Officer, arrest her."

I blinked at her, stunned. What?

"She’s faking illness," Mrs Smith added coldly. "There’s nothing wrong with her."

The officer glanced uncertainly at the doctor.

"We’re still running tests," the doctor said, frowning. "I can’t give results yet."

That didn’t matter. The officer yanked me upright, cuffing my wrists together.

"Wait.......what are you......?” My words broke into sobs. I was still in a hospital gown, my body weak, my womb aching with loss.

He dragged me down the hall, ignoring my protests. The cold bite of metal cut into my skin. Nurses and patients stared, whispering, but no one intervened.

The ride in the police car was a blur. My tears had dried, leaving me hollow, numb.

At the station, the officer barked orders. "Put her in a cell. No visitors allowed. She’s under investigation for attempted murder."

Attempted… murder? My mind reeled. What are they talking about? Whose murder? What did I supposedly do?

No one explained.

The cell door clanged shut behind me. I sank onto the hard cot, shivering in my hospital gown, bandaged hand throbbing.

The doctor’s voice echoed in my mind: I’m sorry, you lost the baby. Mrs. Smith’s orders followed like a poison whisper: Officer, arrest her.

The grief was too much. My knees buckled, and I fell to the cold floor, pressing my forehead against it.

A cry ripped from my throat, raw, broken, unrestrained.

It was the sound of a mother mourning, of a girl condemned, of a soul breaking into pieces.