Like A Servant

Julian's mocking voice echoed behind them, the words "sister-in-law" hanging in the humid air like a lit match. The moment the syllables registered in Helena's ears, her face darkened with a pure, unadulterated rage that contorted her usually composed features. She didn't say another word outside. Instead, her fingers dug into Celia’s arm like a mechanical vice, her perfectly manicured nails biting deep into the soft flesh.

She violently dragged her daughter through the heavy mahogany doors and into the expansive, marble-floored hall of the Ashford villa. The sheer force of the momentum nearly sent Celia tripping over the threshold, but Helena offered no mercy. With a sharp, disgusted grunt, she coldly shoved Celia away.

Celia stumbled, her rubber-soled shoes screeching softly against the polished stone as she fought to keep her balance.

"Did that man just call you his sister-in-law?" Helena interrogated, her voice dropping to a harsh, venomous hiss that bounced off the high ceilings. "Is he Julian’s cousin?"

Celia steadied herself, her chest heaving slightly. There was no point in lying or spinning a web of deceit when the truth had just been shouted loud enough for the neighbors to hear. "Yes," she answered simply.

*Smack!*

The sound was a sharp, explosive crack that echoed through the vast hall. Helena had struck her across the face with every ounce of her strength. The brutal impact whipped Celia’s head violently to the side. Her vision blurred for a fraction of a second, and a loud, high-pitched buzzing immediately began ringing in her ears. A sharp taste of metallic copper bloomed in the corner of her mouth.

"Do you have absolutely no shame?!" Helena screamed, the veins in her neck bulging. She pointed a trembling, accusatory finger at Celia. "What the hell is wrong with you? Getting involved with your husband’s cousin on the very first day of your marriage! Are you completely stupid?"

Celia didn't move. The ringing in her ears made Helena's voice sound strangely distorted, but the pure hatred in her mother's tone was unmistakable.

Helena clenched her jaw, her eyes blazing with absolute disgust. "If you want to die, you should go kill yourself! I will gladly hand you the knife. But don't you dare drag the Ashford family down into the mud with you!"

Slowly, Celia raised her hand, her fingertips lightly brushing against her fiercely stinging cheek. The skin was already hot to the touch, rapidly swelling into an angry red welt. She slowly turned her head back to face her mother. Her eyes, usually kept lowered in humble submission, were now incredibly cold and completely deadened.

"Do you truly believe I initiated that kiss?" Celia asked, her voice eerily calm against her mother's hysterical outrage. "Did it even cross your mind to ask what actually happened out there?"

Helena scoffed, waving her hand dismissively as if the very idea of Celia being an innocent party was a disgusting joke.

It was a bitter, exhausting realization of a lifelong dynamic. No matter the context, no matter the situation, her mother instantly blamed her. Helena never cared for logic or basic reason when it came to her eldest daughter. She always chose violent insults and immediate physical punishment. If a vase shattered in the parlor, it was Celia’s clumsiness. If the family business took a hit, it was Celia’s bad luck infecting them. To Helena, Celia wasn't a daughter; she was a punching bag, a convenient receptacle for every frustration the Ashford family endured.

A soft, drippingly malicious voice suddenly chimed in from the top of the grand staircase.

"Anyone with a functioning brain would clearly choose a healthy, normal man over an impotent, disfigured piece of garbage."

Celia shifted her gaze upward. Portia was slowly descending the carpeted steps, her hand lightly tracing the ornate wooden banister. She was dressed in a pristine, flowing silk robe, looking the absolute picture of delicate innocence despite the poison spilling from her lips.

The moment Portia spoke, the venomous rage completely vanished from Helena’s face. She immediately rushed over to the bottom of the stairs, her expression transforming into a beaming, fawning smile.

"Portia, sweetheart!" Helena cooed, reaching out to gently grasp Portia’s hand as she stepped off the last stair. She handled her golden child as if she were made of the most fragile, expensive porcelain. "Are you feeling alright? You shouldn't be out of bed. Do you need me to get you some tea? Let me adjust the air conditioning for you."

"I'm fine, Mom. Just a little parched," Portia smiled innocently, leaning into Helena's suffocating affection. She then turned her attention back to Celia, her eyes glinting with a vicious amusement that completely contradicted her sweet, gentle tone.

"Celia," Portia said softly, faking a tone of deep, sisterly understanding. "I know this whole arrangement isn't ideal. I can totally understand your feelings. But you need to think of the family. You have to show a little restraint. Do it for us, please?"

Behind that sweet, sickly facade, Portia was deeply amused. When she had looked out her bedroom window and seen the car, she had been shocked. It was absolutely hilarious to her that a normal, functioning man would actually want to kiss her ugly, pathetic sister. The sheer absurdity of it made her want to laugh out loud right there in the hall, but she thoroughly enjoyed playing the sensible, caring sibling in front of their mother.

Helena turned her head back toward Celia, and in a fraction of a second, the maternal warmth was entirely gone. Her eyes turned back to shards of ice.

"Listen to your sister," Helena demanded, glaring fiercely. "Since you have married into the Sterling family, you will fulfill your duty to them. Don’t you dare give the Ashfords a bad name. We only made this arrangement because we care about your future!"

Because they cared?

Celia lowered her eyes, staring blankly at the polished marble floor. Beneath her stoic exterior, a deep, boiling disdain was meticulously hidden. They cared so much that they practically threw her into the bed of a man rumored to be a monstrous, disfigured tyrant just to save their precious Portia. They cared so much that Helena didn't even let her speak before striking her hard enough to draw blood.

As Celia stared at her own distorted reflection in the marble, something fundamental inside her simply snapped. The last desperate, pathetic thread of need for her mother's approval violently severed. She was completely done. She was done playing the humble servant, done swallowing their endless abuse, and done taking the hits for a family that viewed her as dirt beneath their designer shoes.

When Celia slowly lifted her head, the submissive doormat facade had completely vanished.

"You know," Celia began, her voice calm, flat, and terrifyingly steady. It didn't tremble with unshed tears or shake with anger. It was a cold, calculated sound that seemed to lower the temperature of the entire hall. "Your little speech just reminded me of something important."

Helena narrowed her eyes, immediately confused by the sudden absence of fear in her daughter's posture. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm saying," Celia continued, locking her dull but unyielding gaze onto Helena, "that if you or your precious daughter do something to piss me off, I might just do something incredibly stupid in front of the Sterlings."

She casually crossed her arms, completely ignoring the throbbing pain radiating from her cheek. "I’ll casually mention how you treat me. Or maybe I’ll throw a massive, embarrassing tantrum at a public banquet. Now, I am not entirely sure if that would provoke the powerful Sterling family to completely destroy the Ashfords..." Celia tilted her head slightly, a dark, hollow look in her eyes. "But I highly recommend you don't tempt me to find out. Got it?"

A heavy, suffocating silence crashed down on the hall.

Portia's delicate smile instantly wiped clean from her face. She stared at Celia, genuinely shocked by this unprecedented defiance. This was the girl who had spent her entire life as a submissive punching bag, the girl who would normally be crying and begging for forgiveness by now.

"What on earth do you mean by that?" Portia demanded, her voice losing its sweet, melodic pitch, replaced by a harsh, ugly frown.

Celia didn't flinch. Her gaze remained entirely unyielding as she looked straight at her sister. "I meant exactly what you heard."

She wasn't bluffing. Being forced into this nightmarish marriage had stripped her of her last vulnerability. They had already done their absolute worst to her by selling her to a crippled, rumored sadist. What more could Helena possibly take away? The fear was gone. The lingering, childish hope for maternal love was entirely dead.

Infuriated by the sudden, sharp pushback from the woman she was entirely used to relentlessly bossing around, Portia glared. Her chest heaved with indignation. She couldn't stand the sight of Celia looking at her without an ounce of respect or paralyzing fear. She immediately turned to her mother, pulling her ultimate trump card.

"Mom!" Portia whined, her face twisting into an expression of victimized outrage. "Did you hear how she just threatened us? Are you going to let her speak to me like that?"

Helena had heard the unmistakable threat loud and clear. Her heart had skipped a beat at the mention of the Sterlings' wrath, but her ingrained arrogance quickly overrode her brief panic. She had spent two decades breaking Celia down. She arrogantly assumed that this was just a brief, pathetic flare-up of rebellion, and that Celia would ultimately cave and apologize exactly as she always had.

Helena squared her shoulders, pulling herself up to her full height. She put on her most strict, authoritative maternal airs, her eyes blazing with an unyielding command.

"Celia!" Helena shouted loudly, her voice echoing violently off the expensive marble walls. "Apologize to your sister right now!"