WARNING: PHYSICAL AND SEXUAL ABUSE MENTIONED
Seraphine remembered how her late husband's face would alight with warmth for his guests, only to harden into scorn the moment his gaze fell upon her. She never knew whether his cruelty was born of a foul temper or something far more deliberate; some deep, festering hatred he reserved solely for her.
She stood beside Lord Halveth as one might stand beside a master: silent, obedient, waiting to be commanded. He lounged in his chair with careless arrogance, legs splayed, voice loud and incessant as he boasted of his triumphs. Among them, he laughed about how he had tamed her. Seraphine endured it all, fists clenched tightly at her sides, swallowing what little pride remained to her.
The ache in her feet grew sharper with each passing moment. Time dragged on, stretching thin and cruel, while he continued his endless tales. Seraphine remained standing, the world beginning to tilt as dizziness crept into her limbs. Since the day they were wed, he had displayed her not as a wife but as ornamentation, set in place whenever guests arrived, a silent adornment meant to flatter his vanity.
She was paraded like decor in her own home, polished and positioned for approval, expected to endure without movement or complaint. Her presence served only to reflect his power, her stillness another proof of his dominion.
She watched the men laugh freely, unburdened, and felt a sharp, quiet envy each time they arrived without their wives trailing behind them in obedient silence. They were allowed to exist unobserved, unclaimed, while she stood on display, tethered to her husband's will.
Her gaze drifted to the servant stationed by the door, his hands empty, posture relaxed, as though his presence or absence would make no difference at all. Time could swallow him whole and Lord Halveth would not notice; he had already claimed something far more personal than a butler.
He had claimed her.
At last, she dared to steal a glance at Edwin Halveth; measured, cautious, her steps whispering against the floorboards as she began to move, each footfall placed with reverent care, as though silence itself might spare her. Yet even so, he sensed it. He always did.
"Where do you think you're going?"
The words struck her spine like a hunter's shot. Slowly, she turned. His guests had fallen silent, their eyes fastening upon her as if she were quarry cornered for sport.
"I only wished to sit, my lord," she said evenly. "My feet have grown weary. I will remain close, should you require me."
His brow furrowed in displeasure. "Did I give you leave to do so?"
Seraphine swallowed the surge of rage rising in her throat, pressing it down until it burned. In the privacy of her thoughts, she imagined her fists meeting his face, imagined the sudden stillness that would follow. More than once, she had indulged the forbidden dream; of Edwin Halveth laid cold and silent, unable to command or humiliate her ever again.
Perhaps that was the moment when imagining Lord Halveth's death ceased to feel like a crime and began to feel like a quiet, necessary mercy.
"My lord," she murmured, voice unsteady. "My feet tremble from exhaustion. I have done nothing but stand the entire day."
Her expression softened into something almost childlike; an instinctive plea, as though appealing to mercy she knew he did not possess.
"I warned you to mind your weight," he replied coldly. "Perhaps then you would not tire so easily."
Silence was her only refuge. Seraphine lowered her head, her legs quivering beneath her skirts, yet she endured; standing, unmoving until the sun sank and dusk swallowed the room whole. The moment the final guest departed, tears welled in her eyes, long restrained pain finally demanding release.
She had held it all in; the aching limbs, the quiet humiliations, the slow erosion of herself.
She was given no time to weep. A slap came like thunder breaking the sky, sharp and blinding, lightning striking her cheek in a single, violent breath.
"How dare you shame me before my guests?" Lord Halveth roared, his voice heavy with wrath, like an old lion roused to fury.
"I am sorry, my lord," she whispered, her voice trembling as a storm gathered in her chest. "I never meant to."
Her tears fell faster now, burning paths down her face, her fingers clawing at one another as the air thickened with menace and cold, the night outside echoing the tempest that raged within her.
For days that blurred into months, her nights followed the same cruel pattern. She knew what would come; she had memorized every step of it, every breath she was allowed before pain followed.
Lord Halveth's fists struck like a raging tide; swift, merciless, driving the air from her lungs. A blow to her stomach doubled her over, coughs tearing from her throat, and before she could draw breath, another crash landed against her chest, sending her to the floor.
He seized her by the throat, dragging her close until her face hovered inches from his. His eyes burned with unspoken threats, promises he no longer needed to voice. Since the day she became his wife, no night had passed without her fighting simply to remain alive. Had she fled before her family forced her into that carriage, she might have been free.
"I am the master of this house," he growled, his voice low and warped with possession. "And you are my wife. Your duty is obedience."
His mouth twisted into something perverse. His eyes lowered scanning her tense body. "You know the cost of defiance."
Her body trembled in answer, tears spilling despite her will. She knew precisely what he meant. This was another night to be endured, another night survived.
The cruelty was never confined to words or bruises alone. It stripped her of sleep, of peace, of dignity. Each time he dragged her to bed, she emerged broken anew, bearing wounds no one was meant to see, suffering silently in the dark.
And still, she endured. Because survival, for Seraphine Halveth, had long ceased to mean living.
Lord Halveth was restless that night, his impatience sharp and unrestrained. Without warning, he bent and seized Seraphine, his hands locking around her legs as he hoisted her over his shoulder. She struggled, her weakened fists striking his back in frantic protest, but months of submission had hollowed her strength. Against him, her resistance was little more than breath against stone.
"Sooner or later," he said coldly, tightening his grip. "You will learn to submit."
His hold grew more punishing, denying her even the illusion of escape. When the bedroom doors opened, terror flooded her veins, icy and absolute. She knew this pattern too well; if she allowed the night to claim her, it would not release her easily. Because though the purpose of living had long since faded into numbness, a small, unyielding ember still smoldered within her; fragile, yet defiant, and enough to keep her from surrendering herself to the dark entirely.
Lord Halveth's reputation was a whispered curse. His former wives had suffered beneath his cruelty, left broken and ill, their recoveries cut cruelly short. Their lives had ended quietly, as though erased.
Seraphine refused to share their fate.
The moment he forced her onto the mattress, she fought back. Her legs lashed upward, frantic and desperate, striving to keep distance between them. Her hands searched wildly along the bedside for anything sharp, anything that might grant her a moment's mercy; but there was nothing save a candelabra, its flames still burning.
She seized it without hesitation and hurled it at him. Fire scattered, and his roar of fury shattered the room.
Seraphine ran.
She fled through the corridors, breath tearing from her lungs, the halls stretching endlessly before her as though the house itself conspired to trap her. Behind her came his pursuit; heavy, enraged, relentless, echoing through the darkness as the night closed in around them.
Not long after, Lord Halveth collapsed to the floor. Seraphine froze, shock rooting her to the spot. Her hands shook uncontrollably.
Did I… just kill him?
A cold terror surged through her veins, making her knees weak as she watched him struggle for breath. His hands clawed at the fabric beneath his chest, futile attempts to hold on as life slowly drained from him.
She bent forward, knees scraping against the icy tiles, and traced the fading movement in his eyes.
Until it stopped.
It did not take long for the grim truth to settle: her scum of a husband was dead. And yet, no relief came, no triumph; only a hollow numbness. She did not know whether to fear the consequences or to relish the end of her torment.
But her resolve hardened. Rising, she regarded him with a cold, unflinching gaze. Her eyes swept the room, calculating. A slow, controlled sigh escaped her lips as she approached the coffee table beside his body. She seized a vase and brought it down upon his head, shattering it with brutal finality.
Under her breath, she murmured, a grim satisfaction lighting her eyes. "I shall see you in hell, my lord."