He Married My Nightmare

Darkness is the only hue that colors this place. My legs feel hollow; the pant legs rest on the cold floor like two tattered rags. With every movement, a searing pain radiates from the broken wounds. This is the secret chamber deep within the Bertrand family's ancestral house. The damp air is thick with a musty scent that invades my nostrils. I curl into a corner, clutching a cold iron bowl against my chest. Inside the bowl, a dark red, mushy substance emits a rank, metallic stench. It is dog food. This marks the third month of my imprisonment. Every morning at dawn, the servant passes a bowl through the narrow ventilation shaft without a word or a glance, as if I were truly a dog. The walls are thin. Distant sounds from outside faintly seep in. Today, the footsteps outside are unusually frequent. Idle chatter between two maids drifts into my ears. "Have you heard? Next week is Mr. Fraser and Miss Sylvia's wedding." "Of course! To please Miss Sylvia, Mr. Fraser has rented the entire cross-sea bridge to set off fireworks." "OMG, what extravagance. Back then, Mr. Fraser never put this much effort into Kate Bertrand." "That's not the same at all; Miss Sylvia is the true heiress of the Bertrand Family. Kate Bertrand is merely a counterfeit, a usurper who stole her place." Counterfeit. Their voices pierced my heart like sharp needles. I was once the cherished princess of the Bertrand Family, the one Theodore Fraser himself promised to protect for life. But now, I have lost my legs, my identity, my everything. All because Sylvia has returned—the true heiress who was switched at birth. She used the vilest means to strip me of everything. A faint light seeped through the ventilation shaft. I followed the light and saw my hands, stained with grime. Dirt was embedded beneath my nails, my skin cracked like ancient bark. These hands had once played the finest pianos and worn the "pigeon egg" diamond ring Theodore Fraser had given me; now, they could only grasp the dog food in the bowl. A suffocating pain gripped my chest. Theodore Fraser. His name was like a rusty knife, repeatedly slicing into my heart. He was getting married—to Sylvia Bertrand, the woman who had severed my legs and locked me in the secret chamber. Fireworks. He was actually going to set off a grand display of fireworks for her. I remember, on my fifteenth birthday, I begged him for fireworks too. He ruffled my hair then, smiling as he said, "You want them, so from now on, I'll set off fireworks for you every year." But now, his promise has been given to someone else. And here I am, trapped in this pitch-black secret chamber, forced to listen to others talk about his wedding. A wave of nausea churned in my stomach. I pushed the iron bowl aside and started to cough violently. The pain in my broken leg intensified once more, cold sweat soaking through my thin clothes. I curled up tighter, like a wounded animal. Theodore Fraser, do you know? Your fiancée is treating me like a dog, imprisoning me in hell. Do you know? I am still alive, enduring torment like purgatory day and night, hidden from your sight. The footsteps outside gradually faded away. The secret chamber fell into deathly silence once more, broken only by my breath and the occasional sob. I raised my head, gazing at the faint glimmer of light filtering through the vent, my heart consumed by endless despair.