Chapter 1: The Family Skeleton

In old times, among the sprawling mansions and manicured lawns of wealthy American households, there was a kind of woman the staff whispered about—a half-bed wife, hidden away like a family skeleton. She was easier to manage than a mistress but ranked even below the live-in maids—the ones everyone gossiped about for sneaking into the master's room, a quiet secret among the servants and city rumor mills alike.

This practice thrived behind the tall gates of families like the Carters, where appearances mattered more than affection and secrets could be hidden as neatly as silverware in a velvet drawer. There was a hush around these arrangements, an unspoken understanding among staff and kin alike—every role had its rules, every secret its cost.

When I was fifteen, I was sold to the Carter residence to become a half-bed wife.

I remember the drive up to the estate—a winding, tree-lined road that cut through frostbitten fields, the mansion looming ahead like some silent judge. Even the air felt heavy with expectations and secrets, and my heart hammered in my chest as the Carter gates closed behind me.

On the first and fifteenth of every month, my face veiled with gauze and my body bare, I would be led into the young master's bedroom. Time and again, the young master would try to remove the gauze from my face, but each time I stopped him.

I’d lie stiff and silent, the moonlight slipping across the pale comforter, feeling like some ghost haunting her own body. Every time he reached for the veil, my fingers clamped down, panic sparking in my chest.

"Please, Mr. Carter... don't. If you do, you'll die..."

My voice was barely more than a whisper, but my fear made it fierce. He just thought I was shy. He never knew that if a half-bed wife revealed her face, she truly would die.

He’d smile in that easy, crooked way of his, teasing me, and I’d feel the secret pound in my ribs like a second heart. Some things couldn’t be spoken—not in this house.

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That night, I turned my head to look at the man's handsome, upright profile beside me. I shifted slightly, feeling as if my bones might fall apart. Before I could catch my breath, the bell outside the master bedroom—a relic from some forgotten era—clanged once, sharp and final. That was my cue: time to disappear.

I flinched at the sound, every muscle snapping to attention. The bell was old, a tarnished silver thing hanging outside the master bedroom—Mrs. Carter’s way of keeping the household punctual, even for secrets like me. It was the signal: time for me to leave.

Outside, the wind and snow had only just stopped. The cold wind howled against the glass-paned windows.

I could see the snowbanks piled up outside the window, the porch light glowing gold on the drifts. The air inside was warm, thick with the scent of cedar and old linens, but outside, winter still ruled. The wind rattled the windowpanes, a banshee cry in the empty hallways.

Reluctantly, I left the warmth of the bed, hurriedly gathering my clothes to cover the patches of tender skin, and only then stepped out.

I shivered as the cold air hit me, goosebumps rising on my arms. I tugged my threadbare sweater tight around me, every step on the hardwood floor echoing my dread. My socks were thin, no match for the drafty old mansion at night.

Mrs. Quinn, the lady of the house's attendant, had been waiting for a while. Her face, always stern, looked even harsher in the wind and snow. She reached out and pinched my cheek, her grip cruel.

Her knuckles were bony, her perfume sharp and cloying. I tried not to wince, but my eyes watered from the sting.

She hissed, "Thought you’d worm your way into his bed for good? Not in this house, sweetheart. Every chance you get, you cling to the young master like this. If Mrs. Carter finds out, you'd better watch yourself."

The venom in her voice was sharp as the wind. In the Carter household, gossip moved faster than the snowstorms. Mrs. Quinn made sure of that. I could feel her judgment in every word, her eyes daring me to step out of line.

Mrs. Carter... Of course, she knew. I was the one she had chosen and sent to the young master's room.

But such words, I dared not utter. I could only obediently follow Mrs. Quinn to the backyard, where I was made to kneel in the deepest snow.

Kneel.

This was the rule after serving the young master each time.

My jeans stuck to my knees, ice biting through the fabric, while the porch light cast long, lonely shadows across the snow. I knelt there, teeth chattering, breath curling in front of me like smoke. The ground beneath was hard as iron, and the world seemed muffled by the cold and shame.

The melting snow quickly soaked through my jeans, the chill seeping into my bones. I shivered uncontrollably.

Every second out there felt like forever. My knees ached, my hands turned numb, but I dared not wipe the tears from my face, not with Mrs. Quinn watching.

Mrs. Quinn sneered, "A vixen, using your looks to seduce men, all warm and cozy in bed—let's see how you handle the cold."

Her words bit harder than the wind. I kept my head down, eyes on the snow, willing myself not to cry. I could feel the other servants watching from the kitchen window, their faces half-lit by the stove’s glow.

How could I dare talk back? I could only grit my teeth and tremble. If I spoke up, the punishment would only get worse.

I’d seen what happened to girls who fought back—sent packing in the middle of the night, their suitcases tossed onto the snowy porch. I couldn’t risk it. So I stayed quiet, counting the seconds until morning.

I don't know how long I endured the wind and snow, but finally dawn broke.

The first hint of sunrise painted the snow pink and gold, and the mansion stirred to life—coffee brewing, the faint hum of the housekeeper’s radio. I was still kneeling, half-frozen, when I heard movement at the back door.

Through my numb ears, I vaguely heard Mrs. Quinn's fawning voice: "...Mr. Carter, ma'am is only..."

Her tone changed completely when she spoke to the young master—syrupy, almost sweet, as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. I shrank further into myself.

A flash of navy-blue suit passed through the corridor, then disappeared around an archway. Through the winding passageways, I met those gentle eyes.

I caught a glimpse of his profile, dark hair tousled, suit pressed sharp as ever. Our eyes met for a fleeting moment. My stomach twisted with hope and dread.

Scenes from last night's entanglement rushed through my mind. My ears burned red, but a faint hope rose in my chest.

I wanted to believe he’d see me—truly see me, beneath the gauze and the shame. Maybe he’d say something, call off Mrs. Quinn, offer a hand or a word. I waited, hope flickering.

If the young master remembered me, might I be spared such torment?

But reality was harsh. Those eyes didn't linger for even a moment before turning away. Henry Carter, the young master, surrounded by his attendants, walked straight into the main house.

He didn’t pause. Not a word, not a glance back. The hope in my chest withered, replaced by the old familiar ache.

My heart grew cold, as if submerged in icy water. A part of me wanted to scream, but I bit down hard, tasting copper on my tongue.

Yes. I was only a half-bed wife. A servant, a maid, an object. Not someone the young master would ever hold in his heart.

The truth of it settled around me heavier than the snow, as final as a locked door.