Chapter 57 57. Stages Of Humiliation!
Tina’s POV
But it was the plan. Every detail, every step, every whispered conversation in dark corners; it had all led to this moment. I had known exactly what I was doing. I had convinced myself that it was necessary, that Saintilia would be fine, that Emilio would treat her well, that I was doing her a favor by giving her a future with a wealthy man.
Lies. All of it. Lies I had told myself to silence the voice that had been screaming at me for weeks.
I cast one final glance at Saintilia before forcing myself to move. I could not stand there, could not watch, could not bear to see Emilio lift her into his arms and carry her away like a hunter's prize. So I retreated into the routine of domestic tasks, grabbing plates and piling them into a bucket with trembling hands, moving through the kitchen like a ghost, trying to convince myself that this was just another evening.
But the silence that followed Emilio's departure was deafening.
The house felt different. Emptier. The walls that had once echoed with Saintilia's voice, her laughter, her defiant proclamations, now stood silent and cold. I stood in the kitchen, the bucket of dishes forgotten at my feet, and listened to the quiet that had settled over everything.
She was gone.
Where was he taking her? He had not told me anything, and yet I had been a willing participant, not knowing what the outcome would be.
The realization hit me like a physical blow. I had sent her away. I had handed her over to a man I was falling for. How foolish of me. His eyes held no warmth toward me, and his smile never reached his soul. I had traded her life for my comfort, her freedom for my security.
What have I done?
The question echoed through my mind, growing louder with each passing second. I stumbled to the table and sank into a chair, my legs no longer able to support my weight. The food we had eaten still sat on the plates, the wine still lingered in the cups, and Saintilia's chair sat empty, a silent accusation.
Did I betray her? Absolutely not. Whatever happened was the price of her stubbornness.
The tears came before I could stop them. They were not the delicate tears of a woman in mourning, but the violent, ugly sobs of someone confronting the worst version of themselves. I pressed my hands over my mouth, trying to stifle the sounds, but they escaped anyway, filling the empty house with my shame.
I had told myself that Emilio would be good to her, that she would understand. Perhaps she would fall in love with him and thank me someday. But the truth was simpler and more terrible: this was all for myself. I had done this because I was tired of living in someone else's house, tired of scraping by on the charity of a dead man's kindness.
The night stretched on, endless and unforgiving. I could not sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Saintilia's face, peaceful in unconsciousness, unaware of the betrayal that had been woven around her. And I saw her as she would be tomorrow, waking in a strange place, bound and alone, realizing that the person she trusted most in the world had handed her to a man she did not want.
The tears did not stop. They flowed until my eyes were swollen and my throat was raw. I sat at that table until the first gray light of dawn crept through the window, staining the floor with the promise of a new day.
But there was no comfort in the light. Only the sinking certainty that I would have to live with this for the rest of my life; or at least until Saintilia found her way back if she ever did.
I had what I wanted. The house was mine now. No one could take it away from me. But as I sat in the silence of a home that no longer felt like home, I wondered if the cost had been too high.
And somewhere in the deepest part of my soul, where the voice of conscience still whispered, I knew the answer.
Saintilia’s POV
He began to undress me, his hands impersonal and clinical, as if he were handling a child rather than a woman he had violated. I wanted to cover myself, to shield my body from his gaze, but he had already seen everything. Only he knew what he did to me while I was unconscious. At this point my arms refused to obey me anyway. So all I could do is just sit there, limp, and exposed, while he poured water over my skin.
The cloth dragged across my body with rough efficiency. He was not gentle and there was no tenderness in his touch, no care but neither was he deliberately cruel. He was simply efficient, as if performing a necessary task. The water was lukewarm, neither comforting nor harsh, and it ran down my body in rivulets, carrying away the evidence of what he had done to me.
My head was screaming in protest, I wanted to fight. I wanted to tear the cloth from his hands and strike him, to claw at his face and make him feel even a fraction of the violation I felt. But my voice was trapped somewhere in my throat, and my body remained limp and unresponsive, a traitor to my will.
"You see?" he said as he washed my arms, his voice conversational, almost pleasant. "I can be kind. I can take care of you. But you must learn to behave."
The word kind struck me. I wanted to spit in his face, to curse him, to tell him that this was not kindness but ownership. He was not caring for me; only treating me as his property. But the words would not come.
He finished the bath and lifted me to my feet again, supporting my weight as he guided me back into the main room. He dressed me in a simple cotton dress, one I recognized from my own wardrobe. The fabric was soft against my skin, a small mercy in the midst of my torment, but the familiarity of it made my stomach turn. How strange, I thought, that he had gone through my belongings, selecting clothing as if this were a normal courtship. The thought made my skin crawl.
He led me back to the room where I had woken and sat me on a small table in the opposite corner. My body slumped, unable to hold itself upright. He pushed my chair, leaning me against the wall for support, then placed a plate of rice and beans, ornated with a piece of fried fish before me. The smell of the food reached my nostrils, and my stomach growled despite my revulsion. I hated my body for its betrayal, for its basic needs that persisted even in the face of my degradation.
Continue………..