Under her thumb

Suzanne’s heart raced as she felt a wave of cold panic surge through her. Her body trembled, but her mind was in a haze. The weight of the situation pressed down on her like a suffocating blanket.

Charles’s eyes locked onto hers, the malicious glint in them clear. He approached her with slow, deliberate steps, and Suzanne’s body instinctively recoiled, but she had nowhere to retreat. The bedframe pressed into her back, the coldness of the sheets beneath her offering no comfort.

"Do you think you can defy me?" he asked, his voice low, menacing. "You’ve forgotten your place, Suzanne. Let me remind you."

She opened her mouth to speak, to fight back with whatever strength she had left, but her words caught in her throat. His hand was already at her back, pulling the fabric of her dress down, exposing her skin.

“No, please,” she whispered, her voice cracking. The plea hung in the air, weak and desperate, but Charles didn’t listen. 

With a swift movement, he raised his belt, the leather cold against the heated air of the room. Suzanne closed her eyes tightly, her body bracing for the sting. The first lash landed across her back with a sickening crack, and the pain tore through her like fire. She gasped, her breath catching in her throat.

Another lash followed, then another, each one landing with a brutal precision. Suzanne gritted her teeth, trying to stifle the sounds of pain that rose in her throat. The sharpness of the strikes blurred her thoughts, each one melding into the next. How many? How many had he already given her?

She couldn't keep track. The pain was a constant, unyielding presence, one that sapped her strength until she no longer had the energy to even cry out. Her skin felt raw, the welts rising as if they would never fade. Her body felt detached from her mind, as if it were simply a vessel for his cruelty.

When Charles finally paused, she was shaking, her body limp with exhaustion. He stood over her, looking down at her with disdain. The silence in the room felt heavy, suffocating.

He walked to the door without a word, his anger still burning in his every step. Suzanne remained where she was, her mind a jumble of pain, humiliation, and a deep, searing rage. But she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Her entire body had been drained of strength. She had been reduced to nothing more than an object to be used, and she hated herself for feeling so powerless.

As Charles left the room, the door clicked shut behind him, and Suzanne was left alone in the suffocating silence. 

The morning light filtered through the curtains, its soft warmth doing little to soothe Suzanne's aching body. She had barely slept, the pain from the lashes still burning across her back. Every movement felt like a struggle, but eventually, she drifted into a restless sleep, hoping for a moment of peace.

Suddenly, the door flung open with a loud bang, and Suzanne’s eyes shot open in panic.

"Get up, Suzanne!" Beatrice’s voice was sharp, cruel. "What are you doing still in bed? Lazy, that’s what you are! You couldn’t even bear a child, and now you’re wasting time laying around. Get up and do your morning duties!"

Suzanne’s head spun. She wasn’t ready for this. She wasn’t ready to face the day, her body screaming in pain. But Beatrice didn’t care. She stood there, hands on her hips, eyes narrowing with disgust.

Suzanne tried to sit up, but the ache in her back made her gasp. She winced, biting her lip to stop the tears from coming. Her voice was hoarse when she spoke. “I... I’m trying to get up.”

Beatrice crossed her arms and scowled. “Trying? Is that what you call it? I’m not interested in your excuses. Get up, now.”

Her words stung, but Suzanne forced herself to move. She pushed herself up slowly, gritting her teeth. The pain was unbearable, but she couldn’t stay there, couldn’t show any more weakness. Not with Beatrice standing over her, watching her every move with disdain.

“I’m not going to wait around all day,” Beatrice snapped, turning her back and heading for the door. “You want to be of any use to this family, you need to start acting like it.”

Suzanne’s chest tightened as she watched Beatrice leave. The door clicked shut behind her, and for a moment, Suzanne allowed herself a breath. She felt the weight of the words pressing down on her chest, but there was no time to dwell. She needed to move. She needed to pretend she was fine.

She slowly pushed herself out of bed, each step painful, but there was no other choice. Beatrice expected her to be up and ready, and Suzanne had learned long ago that to defy her was to invite more cruelty.

As she reached for her clothes, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her face was pale, her eyes bloodshot from the lack of sleep, the strain of the previous night still visible. She swallowed hard, trying to steady her breath.

The back of her dress was tight, the welts from the lashes angry and raw beneath the fabric. But she had no choice. She had to wear it, had to go downstairs and pretend that everything was fine. That she wasn’t falling apart inside.

Her hands trembled as she finished dressing, trying not to let the pain show. It didn’t matter if she was hurting. She had to survive this day, just like the others. Because in this house, there was no room for weakness.

She took one last look in the mirror before walking to the door, steeling herself for what came next.

---

Suzanne forced herself to take steady steps as she entered the grand dining room. The soft clink of the dishes in her hands was the only sound in the otherwise silent room. Beatrice sat at the head of the table, her gaze sharp and expectant as always.

Suzanne placed the plate in front of her mother-in-law with a careful, practiced motion, but Beatrice didn’t thank her. Instead, her eyes immediately went to Suzanne’s arms and the hem of her dress.

“What are these?” Beatrice’s voice cut through the quiet, her gaze lingering on the marks that were still visible, though they were partially hidden by the sleeves of Suzanne’s dress.

Suzanne felt a flush of humiliation spread across her chest, but she kept her expression neutral, doing her best not to show how much Beatrice’s words stung. "Marks, from... the night before," Suzanne said quietly, her voice trembling but resolute.

Beatrice scoffed, inspecting Suzanne's arms with a sneer. "Really? So this is how you plan to present yourself? Walking around with such a disgrace all over your body?” She leaned back in her chair, her voice dripping with disdain. “You look like you’ve been through a battle, and we’re in the middle of a house of gossip. Do you understand how much attention you're drawing?”

Suzanne’s heart raced. She wanted to fight back, to scream that it was none of her business, but Beatrice’s cold, condescending tone silenced her before she could speak.

“I suggest you start covering up that useless body of yours, Suzanne,” Beatrice continued, eyes narrowing as she watched Suzanne’s every movement. “I do not want any more gossip from the maids about what a pathetic wife you are. You need to start behaving like a proper woman. If you had acted like a good wife last night, you wouldn’t look like this. Do you understand me?”

Suzanne’s breath caught in her throat. The words were a sharp blade, each one cutting deeper than the last. She wanted to lash out, to defend herself, but the weight of her mother-in-law’s authority and the crushing exhaustion from the previous night kept her frozen in place.

“I—" Suzanne’s voice faltered, but she didn’t know how to respond. Her mind screamed with words she couldn’t bring herself to say.

Beatrice’s gaze softened with a feigned pity, but it was just another mask, another layer of cruelty veiled under false concern. “Perhaps if you focused more on your duties, Suzanne, you wouldn’t have to hide from people. You could finally give Charles an heir and make yourself useful to this family.”

Suzanne stood there, her hands still trembling from the emotional onslaught, her stomach twisting with anger and frustration. 

She nodded silently, lowering her head, as Beatrice began to eat her meal, completely unaware of the storm of emotion swirling inside Suzanne. 

Beatrice set down her fork with a delicate clink, wiping her mouth with a napkin before she looked up at Suzanne, her eyes sharp and calculating.

"You look pitiful," Beatrice remarked coldly, as though Suzanne’s presence was beneath her. "And while I’m sure you’re wallowing in your failures, you still have duties to perform. I’m attending a function tonight, and I expect you to accompany me."

Suzanne's stomach sank. The thought of being in a crowded room, surrounded by people who might notice the marks on her skin, felt suffocating. She was still raw from the pain, her body aching, but Beatrice’s orders left no room for argument.

"Get yourself dressed, Suzanne. I won’t tolerate delays," Beatrice snapped, her voice rising with authority. "You will be the picture of composure, no matter what your body says. I have no interest in the gossip of the servants, and I won’t tolerate your shame ruining my reputation."

Suzanne stood there, frozen for a moment, she wanted to protest, to make some excuse, but she knew better. 

"Yes, Mother," Suzanne replied softly, her voice barely a whisper as she turned to leave.