C4 Humiliated

Meera ~

Past

Lub dub… lub dub… lub dub…

Two hearts beating in the same rhythm—thunderous and intense. Blood surged through their veins like a raging downpour.

One heart burst with joy and pride at the beginning of a beautiful new life.

The other… ached with sorrow and quiet devastation.

"I can’t believe it’s finally happening," I said with a small, forced smile to my sister, who was glowing with utter happiness.

"I never imagined I’d find love so easily. I’m so blessed to have him," she beamed, her voice full of innocence and joy.

A pang of jealousy pierced my chest.

It’s so easy for some people to have everything—loving parents, beauty, love. Everything.

Someone once said, “Loving can hurt.”

Loving can make you lose yourself.

It’s a painful loop—vicious and unending.

And that’s exactly how I felt.

Like I was drowning in the sorrow of losing everything.

My life. My love. My soul. My everything.

I reached out and took my beloved sister’s hand—the sister I cherished more than anything—and placed it into the hands of the man who was supposed to be mine.

He didn’t even spare me a single glance.

***

Present

I woke up drenched in sweat, my eyes stinging with unshed tears.

The dream had returned.

Again.

The same memory—of my sister and my husband’s engagement.

And every time, it hurt just as badly.

So much that I wanted to die.

But instead—

I remembered how Charlotte looked that day.

Radiant. Glowing.

Her happiness was so vivid it seemed to shine off her skin.

They looked so happy together.

And I took that away from them.

I stole it—for my own selfish reasons—just to have him.

But now, even though I have his name, his home, his presence…

I have nothing.

Nothing but his coldness.

His indifference.

His hatred.

I made him like this. I turned him stone-hearted.

Wiping my tears, I glanced at the clock—5:00 AM.

It’s only been two days since the wedding, and I was already sleeping in the farthest room of the house.

The opposite wing.

My husband had given strict instructions to the housemaid:

I was not to cross his path.

He didn’t want to see me—or anything that belonged to me.

I got out of bed and went through my morning routine.

Then I put on my yoga pants and zipped up my sweat jacket over my sports bra.

I needed to run.

To let this buzz of anxiety leave my body.

To shed the heaviness in my chest.

To lose weight. To breathe.

Tying my Jordans, I stepped out of my room, hoping I wouldn’t run into anyone.

Later

“Can I make breakfast today? Please?” I asked the young maid I liked—Samantha.

She was the only one here who showed me any gentleness.

Probably in her mid-twenties, with soft, kind blue eyes.

Like me, she was new here.

Her eyes widened, and she quickly shook her head, pleading silently.

“Please, Sammy,” I pouted, trying to take the pan from her hands.

“Miss… if the headmistress finds out, she’ll make life hell for me.”

“No, she won’t. She’s out gardening right now. I won’t take long,” I reassured her gently.

After a moment of hesitation, she reluctantly handed me the pan.

Cooking is my escape.

My therapy.

It calms the voices in my head and silences the anxiety swirling in my chest.

I decided to make pancakes.

I flinched at the sudden sound of something shattering in the dining room.

My heart pounded, and I slowly walked toward the kitchen doorway.

My eyes widened in horror.

The plate of pancakes I’d sent for Abram was on the floor—shattered.

My throat tightened as my eyes welled up with tears.

“Who made these? Samantha.”

His voice.

“I asked—who fucking made these?”

His roar echoed through the house.

I froze as Samantha’s trembling voice spoke, “Madame… Madame made them.”

I silently cursed myself for trying to befriend her.

But it wasn’t her fault.

She was just honest.

Our eyes locked—his icy blue against my amber—and a smirk twisted his lips.

He walked toward me.

For every step he took forward, I took one back, until my back hit the wall.

He stood inches away, his hot breath fanning across my face.

I couldn’t meet his gaze.

He tipped my chin up, forcing me to look into his eyes.

They weren’t angry anymore.

They were calm. Too calm. Unsettling.

“You like cooking for me, Pigeon? You like doing housework?”

He asked quietly.

My eyes widened.

Pigeon.

The name he used to call me before… before everything fell apart.

My eyes filled with tears as he stared at me.

“Answer me, Pigeon,” he said again, bringing his face dangerously close.

His gaze dropped to my neck, then back to my eyes.

For a fleeting second, I wondered—Could there still be a soft spot in his heart for me?

I nodded, desperate to please him. To make him happy.

But before I could say a word, he twisted my arm behind my back.

A jolt of pain shot through me. Tears spilled down my cheeks.

But I didn’t scream.

Not a word.

“Fine,” he muttered coldly. “You’re the new maid of this house. From now on, you’ll do everything—cooking, cleaning, laundry. You like being a maid? Then be one.”

He released my arm, and I clutched the joint, soothing it as best I could.

How could I have thought—even for a moment—that he might still care?

“Martha!” he suddenly shouted.

The headmistress came rushing in, her heels clicking across the marble floor.

“Yes, sir?” she asked breathlessly.

“You all wanted time off, right? Don’t worry—your pay won’t be cut. You and the entire staff are on leave for two months. My wife will handle everything.”

My heart stopped.

Martha glanced at me and smirked.

She understood the humiliation he’d just laid upon me.

She nodded and exited.

And I stood there, swallowing the painful lump in my throat, trying to hold myself together.

Tears blurred my vision.

He humiliated me… in front of someone else.