Chapter 554: Chapter-554
For a long, suffocating moment, the matriarch just looked down at her. There was no pity in the old woman’s eyes. There was only the cold, detached disgust of a wealthy woman looking at a stain on her expensive rug.
"Look at you," the matriarch finally spoke. Her voice was no longer a warm purr, but a freezing, aristocratic hiss. "Sprawled out on the floor like a common street beggar. Have you absolutely no dignity?"
The third wife couldn’t speak. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, and every tiny movement sent blinding white pain shooting through her spine. She could only let out a ragged, choked gasp.
"Silence," the matriarch commanded softly. The word carried a terrifying, absolute authority.
The old woman slowly crouched down, her joints popping slightly. She reached out with a hand weighed down by massive gold and jade rings, and violently grabbed the girl by the jaw, forcing her head up.
The third wife whimpered, her blank eyes finally showing a flicker of sheer terror as the matriarch’s long, perfectly manicured fingernails dug painfully into her bruised cheeks.
"My son just had an incredibly stressful day managing the affairs of the entire empire," the matriarch whispered, bringing her face inches from the trembling girl’s. "He provides you with endless silk, flawless jade, and the absolute highest honor of being the Prime Minister’s wife. He lifted you out of a dead, orphaned household. And in return, all he requires is a quiet, obedient place to relieve his burdens."
The matriarch’s grip tightened, her eyes narrowing into reptilian slits.
"And you cannot even offer him that without sobbing and bleeding all over my floor?" she sneered. "You are completely useless. You do not even know how to be a proper wife."
This was the exact, horrific reality Heena had spoken of in the carriage. The matriarch wasn’t just hiding her son’s crimes; she genuinely believed this was the natural order. She believed it was a woman’s duty to be the silent punching bag for her husband’s ambitions.
The matriarch released the girl’s jaw with a violent shove, letting her head crack back against the hard wooden floorboards.
The old woman stood up, pulling a pristine white silk handkerchief from her sleeve. She meticulously wiped her fingers, as if touching her daughter-in-law had physically dirtied her.
"Tomorrow morning, when the maidservants enter this pavilion, you will be sitting up," the matriarch ordered, her tone turning entirely businesslike. "You will smile. You will tell them you fell down the stone steps in the dark. If you dare let a single rumor leak and stain my son’s flawless reputation... I will personally ensure that your uncle’s household faces a treason charge."
The matriarch dropped the soiled white handkerchief directly onto the third wife’s bleeding back.
"Now clean up this blood before it sets," the old woman said, turning her back and walking toward the door without an ounce of hesitation. "It is ruining the expensive cedarwood."
The doors closed, leaving the third wife completely alone in the dark, clutching a silk handkerchief, weeping silently into the cold wooden floor as she realized she was not just trapped by a monster, but by the very woman who had created him.
The matriarch didn’t even bother to close the heavy wooden doors of the Water Pavilion herself. She stood at the threshold, her cold eyes scanning the dark, empty bamboo grove outside.
She raised a single hand and snapped her fingers, her voice sharp and impatient.
"Chalo, Sanaya. ," the matriarch commanded into the shadows.
The matriarch stood at the threshold of the Water Pavilion, her eyes sweeping over the horrific scene with total indifference.
"Clean all of this up," the matriarch ordered smoothly, her tone as casual as if she were asking them to sweep up some spilled tea leaves. Without waiting for a response, she turned and disappeared into the night.
The two elderly nannies bowed respectfully to the empty doorway. When they straightened up and turned their gaze back to the twenty-year-old girl lying naked, trembling, and broken on the floor, their eyes were entirely dead.
There was no gasp of horror. There was no pity for the child bleeding on the cedarwood. As they looked at the mangled state of her body, only one thought crossed their minds:
’What a massive mess to clean up.’
They didn’t see a human being in agony; they saw a ruined mannequin that required immediate maintenance. They approached her slowly, clinically assessing the damage to figure out exactly what supplies were needed to put the Prime Minister’s favorite toy back together.
the pavilion, returning a few minutes later with a stack of rough linen cloths and a steaming bronze basin.
The water inside wasn’t clean. It was laced with a highly potent, medicinal astringent that carried the overwhelming, suffocatingly sweet scent of jasmine soap. The heavy floral perfume was explicitly designed to mask the metallic stench of blood and sweat, leaving absolutely no trace for anyone to question.
Without a word of comfort, Sanaya dipped the rough linen cloth into the hot basin, wrung it out, and began to wipe the girl’s battered skin.
They weren’t gentle. They wiped the open wounds and deep bruises with harsh, efficient strokes. The astringent burned like fire against her raw flesh. The third wife let out a ragged, suffocated groan, her body convulsing in sheer agony, but the nannies did not pause their hands for a single second.
They moved relentlessly downward. When they reached her thighs, they showed absolutely zero hesitation.
Grabbing the coarse, soaked cloth, they forcefully and invasively scrubbed her between her legs. They practically shoved the cloth inside, roughly wiping away all the seed and physical evidence the Prime Minister had left behind. The girl trembled violently, a choked, agonizing sob tearing from her throat as the stinging jasmine water burned her most sensitive, violated skin, but the old women simply ignored her cries, working until she was completely sanitized.
Once she was washed, they brought out a small ceramic bowl filled with a thick, white medicinal balm. It smelled incredibly sweet, like fresh lilies. They scooped out large handfuls of it, aggressively slathering it over her bruised torso, her back, and between her legs to immediately reduce the swelling.
Then came the dressing.
The girl couldn’t move; her shattered ribs made even breathing a torture. But the nannies didn’t care. They grabbed her by the arms and roughly hauled her upright. The third wife let out a piercing, broken scream, her vision blacking out from the pain, but the women just shoved her limp arms through the sleeves of a heavy, high-collared dark blue robe.
Sanaya grabbed a wooden comb. Ignoring the horrific, bleeding bald patches on the girl’s scalp where her hair had been violently ripped out, Sanaya mercilessly yanked the remaining hair back, tying it into a tight, elaborate bun and stabbing heavy gold pins into it to perfectly cover the injuries.
Next, they inspected her face.
Seeing the deep, bloody bite mark on the girl’s lower lip, the second nanny frowned in deep annoyance. She wrapped a cloth around her thumb and scrubbed the lip so hard that fresh blood immediately spilled out, violently flattening the torn skin before sealing it with a thick layer of the white balm.
Then, they began painting a flawlessly thick mask of liquid foundation over her pale, tear-stained face, burying every single bruise under a layer of artificial porcelain perfection.
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