PART ONEChapter Seven: Public Shame
The next morning, Margret woke to the usual sunlight filtering through the blinds, but the house felt heavier than ever. The air was thick, suffocating, and filled with an invisible tension she could almost touch. Even the hum of the refrigerator sounded accusatory. She moved carefully through the kitchen, afraid of making any noise that might provoke David.
But it wasn't just the weight of the house; it was the knowledge that he was already turning her life inside out, slowly exposing her to a world that didn't yet know the truth—but would soon.
David had left early, as usual, his suit jacket crisp and his tie perfectly aligned. He glanced at her briefly from the doorway, but there was no warmth in his eyes. Only calculation. "I'm leaving early," he said. "Don't bother waiting up for me."
Margret nodded silently. She couldn't speak. Not today. Not when even her voice felt fragile, like glass ready to shatter. She stayed behind, picking up the day as if it were something tangible she could control.
She kept busy for the next few hours, cleaning, organizing, and preparing herself for the inevitable. Every notification on her phone made her flinch. Every glance outside the window felt like someone was watching, waiting to judge her.
By mid-morning, a subtle change came over the neighborhood. Friends who usually waved, neighbors who once smiled, now avoided her gaze. Margret could feel their eyes on her when she went outside, soft whispers carrying through the air. She couldn't hear the words, but she didn't need to. She knew they were talking about her. About David's accusations. About the "truth" he had told them.
It wasn't fair. It wasn't true. But fairness didn't matter anymore.
When she went to the grocery store, she noticed the cashier's hesitation. The way the woman's smile faltered when she saw her, the way she kept glancing around as if expecting someone else to know. Margret felt the blood rush to her face. She clenched her purse tightly, telling herself she was imagining it. She was not imagining it. She had been thrust into a spotlight she hadn't asked for.
Returning home, she tried to reach David. His phone went straight to voicemail. He was probably already at his office, running meetings, ensuring the world believed his version of events. Margret realized, with a sinking feeling, that he would never defend her publicly. Not now, not ever. He had always been careful about appearances. Now he would use her as a pawn to protect his own reputation.
She sank into the couch, burying her face in her hands. Every thought collided inside her like shards of glass—confusion, anger, fear. How could the man she had trusted, the man she had built a life with, accuse her of something so vile? How could he risk shattering their daughter's innocence for his own pride?
Lucia came home from school, her small footsteps tentative. She had been cheerful in the morning, but now her face was solemn, almost wary. She held her school bag close, as if it could shield her from what awaited inside the house.
"Hi, mama," she said softly.
Margret forced a smile. "Hi, my love. Did you have a good day?"
Lucia nodded slowly, then glanced at the living room door. "Daddy… is he mad at you?"
Margret's throat tightened. She shook her head, hiding the truth. "No, sweetheart. Everything's fine."
Lucia didn't look convinced, but she let it go, unzipping her bag and taking out her books.
Margret watched her daughter. She wanted to protect her from everything, shield her from the ugly, harsh world that had seeped into their lives. But she couldn't. Not anymore. The disease, David's rage, the whispers—everything was creeping closer. Even if she ran, Margret knew it would follow them.
David returned home that evening later than usual. Margret had prepared dinner, but she didn't set an extra plate for him. She didn't want to see him. Not tonight.
He came in, his suit disheveled slightly, his eyes cold. He didn't greet them. He didn't look at Margret. He moved past her, heading straight for the living room.
"I told people," he said casually, as if discussing the weather. "The family. A few colleagues. Our friends."
Margret froze. Her hands gripped the edge of the counter. "You… what?"
"They know," David said, sitting down. "And before you say anything, I made it clear it's because of you. You're the one who did this. You're the one who brought this shame on us. On me. On Lucia."
Margret felt her knees weaken. She sank to the floor. The chair behind her fell back with a sharp clatter. "David… I didn't—"
"You did," he interrupted sharply. "Don't deny it. Everyone believes you. And you know what? Maybe it's the only way they'll understand your place."
Her voice was barely a whisper. "My place…? What place is that? I've never cheated on you."
David's eyes were hard, almost inhuman. "You've done enough already. I won't let this stop at whispers in the neighborhood. If they need to see it to believe it, then so be it. You'll take your shame where everyone can witness it."
Margret could hardly breathe. The room was spinning. Her life—the life she had built—was being dismantled around her. And she had no defense, no ally, no escape.
Lucia had come closer, sensing the tension. "Mama…?" she asked, her small voice trembling. "Why is he saying those things?"
Margret pulled her into her lap, hugging her tightly. "It's not true, my love. It's not true. Mommy has never done anything wrong."
Lucia buried her face into Margret's chest. "But… what if everyone believes him?"
Margret pressed her lips to her daughter's hair. "We don't care what they believe, Lucia. All that matters is that we know the truth. That's what counts."
But even as she spoke, a part of her feared that the world would not be so forgiving. That people would choose the loudest accusation over the quietest truth.
David didn't intervene. He simply observed, his expression cold, calculating. Even the small innocence of his daughter was a tool he seemed to measure. Margret realized then that nothing in this house—nothing—was safe anymore.
That night, after Lucia had gone to bed, Margret sat alone in the living room. The shadows stretched across the walls, and the house felt emptier than ever. She thought about the whispers she had felt earlier in the day. Friends, neighbors, acquaintances—all now silently judging her. David's careful spreading of the story had already begun to work.
Her heart ached not just from humiliation, but from fear. Fear for herself. Fear for Lucia. Fear that the disease was not the only threat—they were both under siege from the man she had once trusted completely.
Margret didn't sleep. She didn't move from the couch. She sat, staring into the dark, imagining the gossip she would encounter tomorrow, the pointed looks, the questions she would never have the courage to answer.
Somewhere, in the recesses of her mind, she felt the first stirrings of anger. Not loud, not explosive—but sharp, controlled. She would survive this. Somehow. She had to. Not just for herself, but for Lucia.
She thought of her daughter's small face, of the trust in her eyes. She would not let it be tainted by David's lies.
The first wave of public shame had arrived.
Margret realized she was not ready. She could not protect herself from the world yet—but she would prepare. Quietly. Carefully. Patiently.
The cracks had become visible now. And Margret knew that to survive what was coming, she would need every ounce of strength she had. Every ounce.
And for the first time, she began to consider that survival might mean leaving the life she had known behind.