A/N: So I saw "Django" and I loved it. Quentin's amazing. I hated Calvin, but his character was so well written and acted by Leo. I was watching it and thought up a storyline if Calvin had a wife [what would that be like?] that was against slavery and she helped Django and King. So here's the first chapter. There's language that was in the movie that I do not approve of, and I am only using it because of the film's language. Other than that, please review and let me know how you like it! Thanks!

ONE

"Gwen! Gwen, let Stephen or one of the girls do that. Get ready, darlin'. Now you're gonna to be late for Calvin. He's almost ready. You know how he is when you're late."

I bit my lip in frustration, rolling my eyes when I heard the annoying voice of my sister-in-law behind me. I wiped the table clean one more time with the rag from the kitchen, then reached over and grabbed the two champagne glasses off the cherry hardwood table. I swirled around to face my husband's sister, the forty-something Southern belle who's light brown hair was twirled fancily and her bright pink dress overwhelming. Her smile was faked and forced like always, the age lines and wrinkles proving me right.

I gave an obviously fake smile back, "Unlike you Lara, I can clean up after myself." I pushed past her, "Calvin can wait." Her face fell and she looked annoyed. I gave her a smug, fake smile.

"Racist bitch." I muttered under my breath as I went into the kitchen. I began walking into the kitchen were the girls were working, preparing Lara's dinner for her and her friends that she was going to have over the plantation while Calvin and I were at the Cleopatra Club.

"Hello, Madame Candie. The dinner will be ready for Miss Candie-Fitzwilly and her guests real soon, I swear." Cora greeted me, mixing a bowl of God knows what hastily, much like the rest of the girls in the kitchen. As always, they looked focused, anxious, and nervous. I smiled at her, and patted her shoulder, "Cora, it's okay. Calvin's upstairs."

Cora gave me a small smile of gratitude.

Since the arranged marriage of Calvin J. Candie and I, I felt like I was the only sane person in the household. He was almost nine years older than myself. When I was at the age of twenty, I had married Calvin. I was born and raised in the North, my family poverty-stricken, living in Boston, Massachusetts. I had no accent, which made Calvin—who's accent was really thick—and I an odd couple.

My father knew Calvin's father, but had died when I was about fourteen. My mother had arranged the marriage to the wealthy plantation owner in order to ensure that I'd be a wealthy girl. I was quite literally forced into the marriage. I was never given the option of marrying anyone else, and believe me I would rather be with anyone else.

Gwendolyn Candie. Didn't really roll off the tongue.

I didn't believe in slavery. I hated it. To harm or to sell or to whip or kill a human being just because of their skin color was despicable. I simply wasn't raised to believe that blacks were lower than myself. Calvin knew this, and was repulsed and scolded me irritadedly if I was friendly or didn't punish the slaves he kept on the plantation.

Calvin was so erratic and unpredictable, and not to mention violent, that it was challenging being married to him.

Calvin was an asshole.

We had a turbulent love-hate relationship. He never apologized for anything. He always pretended that he didn't know he was the reason why I cried when I did. He never was hesitant to hit me. He didn't do it that often, and he swore he never really hurt me, and he claimed he didn't want to. Yet, the beatings always showed bruises on my back or on my arms, and occasionally if he was really mad at me, a bloody nose. He only did it as punishment, when I'd say something about the slaves that he disagreed with or if one of the slaves did something that he thought deserved punishment and I didn't give one. Occasionally if we would get in a fight, he would lose his temper—and it wasn't hard for him to lose—and he'd swing. Our marriage was turbulent, and we were opposites. In spite of that, he loved me. And deep down, a little bit of me loved him, too. Just not the horrific things he did.

He was a friend and a foe at the same time. He was in my heart, but sometimes I just wanted to reach in and rip him right the hell out.

I hated having his hillbilly sister in the house. She lived with us after her husband died. Lara and I saw things totally differently, and I found her repulsive and troublesome. She didn't like me married to her little brother, and that I was a slut that wasn't worth his time. She had said on a variety of different occasions that Calvin needed a pretty Southern belle to make him happy, but Calvin would insist that I was what he wanted. She'd even arranged different friends of hers for him to be with, but he rejected her. We could not stand each other, and everyone on the Candie plantation—Candieland, as Calvin obnoxiously named it—knew it.

I raked a hand in my pale blond hair and stood against the counter next to Cora, leaning against it. "Do you need help making anything?" I asked, looking at her.

I knew Calvin would be infuriated if I helped the kitchen girls—he'd yelled at me before—but I wasn't really caring what he thought in the moment. Cora stopped stirring and was about to say something when the door of the kitchen flew open with a bang.

"Hey!" Stephen's frightening voice bellowed as he entered the kitchen, "You girls get the fuck back to work!"

The girls instantly went back to work, and Cora buried her face in the bowl she was mixing, avoiding all eye contact with Stephen and I. Stephen scared everyone, including myself. I couldn't stand him—just like the majority of the plantation—and always jumped out of my skin when he yelled. He was Calvin's favorite, and they always joked around and confided in each other.

I glared at him, "Stephen, I was talking to Cora."

"Calvin wants ya upstairs." Stephen said, feebly walking into the kitchen.

He was tall, taller than myself, and old. Stephen walked with a cane and wobbled when he sauntered around. He swore constantly, and was the head slave in the house, but seemed more like a good friend of Calvin's. Before I could reply, I heard a loud yell from upstairs.

"NOW WHERE IS MY BEAUTIFUL WIFE?"

Calvin's scream was so loud, the whole plantation heard it.

His thick Southern accent hit my eardrums, and instantly I knew I better get upstairs to get ready. Going out with Calvin and hanging off his arm had its fun, but I was often humiliated and annoyed at him for what he said or what he did. Whether it was saying the word nigger all the time or discussing the plantation and his slaves, he always managed to humiliate me with the language he used.

I rushed past Stephen who gruffly muttered "told ya so" as I exited the kitchen, flinging the door behind me. I walked out into the massive foyer and upstairs, my bare feet quickly climbing up the stairs. I raced across the hallway of the upstairs, which had more rooms than I could count, until I stopped at me and Calvin's bedroom. I opened the door.

I quickly stood in front of the oval mirror near the massive bed and began stripping, taking off my dress until I was in my underwear and bra. I sprinted to the closet, savagely rummaging in it to find the dress I was going to wear to the Cleopatra Club tonight. I grabbed a dark green, low-cut dress out of the closet and slammed the closet shut, walking back over to the oval mirror.

Our bedroom was beautiful and lovely, and cozy, with a massive bed and window looking out to the plantation. The window was open and the candle holder held about five candles that were lit, dancing in the summer night. The night was thick with heat, the humidity high in the Mississippi summer.

"Darling, you goin' like that tonight?"

I looked up at the mirror to see Calvin by the door, smiling deviantly at my reflection, blowing out rings of smoke, holding his long white cigarette holder in his hand. He eyed my almost naked body up and down, a grin curling on his lips.

"I think I'd be the most envied man in the Club if ya did."

He walked to me and stood behind me. He was taller than me by at least seven inches, so he leaned down a little and kissed my cheek. I smiled a little, "You know I'm not." I was leaning into him and pressing my head to his chest affectionately.

"You weren't helpin' those niggers in the kitchen, were you?" He asked icily, kissing my ear. I swallowed hard, and shook my head no. He smirked and said, "Good, good." He smelt like smoke, cologne and whiskey, and I loved that smell. I turned my head and looked up at Calvin, and he pressed his lips to mine.

He snaked his arms around my bare hips, hooking his thumbs around the tips of my underwear. His cigarette hung out of his mouth. He pulled at my underwear teasingly, looking down at me in the mirror, his reflection studying mine. His fingers disappeared under the lining. I squirmed a little.

"Calvin, stop." I murmured, breaking out of his arms and breaking out of the kiss.

I would be lying if I said I wasn't afraid of him. I was, and he knew I was. Being married to Calvin Candie was like walking on broken glass your whole life. One misstep and you're in deep shit. Really deep shit.

His blue eyes looked irritated. He wasn't teasing anymore, and he rolled his eyes at me as I put on my dress. I looked in the mirror and tossed my hair around until the blond hair was flowing past my breasts in waves. I straightened up in the mirror, and bit my lip when I noticed the bruise from Calvin on my arm from a few nights ago. I noted mentally I'd have to cover it up before we left the plantation for the Cleopatra Club.

"Aw, Gwen. I can't give my wife a little bit a love?" He said in my ear, blowing rings of smoke out.

"Not tonight." I replied, giving him an annoyed glance. He narrowed his eyes at me, but his small smile didn't disappear. I knew that look of annoyance.

"Fine. Get your fancy lil' ass movin', sweetheart. We're gonna be late." He said, irritated, giving me a quick smack on my behind.

I jumped a little, and watched him as he walked out of the bedroom and out to the foyer, hearing his footsteps clunk down the staircase. I sighed a sigh of relief once he left the room. I was married to the Master of the house.

And a monster.