He sla:pped me so hard my lip bl.ed, all because I asked him where he’d been last night. Early this morning, I quietly prepared a lavish Southern feast and set out silver cutlery.
He struck me so hard my lip split and bled, simply because I asked where he had been the night before. Early the next morning, I calmly prepared an extravagant Southern breakfast and laid out the silver cutlery. “What a good wife,” he gloated, sitting proudly at the head of the table. But the color drained from his face when the kitchen door opened and someone walked in.
He hit me so hard my lip tore against my teeth. All because I had asked my husband, Caleb Whitmore, where he had been the previous night.
For three seconds, the kitchen was silent except for the rain tapping against the windows and the faint hiss of bacon grease cooling in the cast-iron skillet. Caleb stood above me in his crisp white shirt, his wedding ring gleaming like a warning.
“Don’t question me in my own house,” he said.
My hand lifted slowly to my mouth. Blood stained my fingertips. I stared at it, then looked at him.
His smile returned when I did not scream.
That had always been his favorite part—my silence. To Caleb, silence meant fear. It meant submission. It meant he had married a polite Southern girl with manners, a pretty face, and no backbone.
He had forgotten I was raised by a judge.
He had forgotten I had spent ten years investigating corporate fraud before I ever took his last name.
And he had never discovered that for the last six months, every lie he told had been documented, copied, recorded, and stored in three different places.
Caleb turned toward the hallway mirror, adjusting his cufflinks as though he had not just struck his wife.
“You’ll make breakfast,” he said. “My mother’s coming by. Don’t embarrass me.”
Babyshower planning
I tasted blood and smiled behind my hand.
“Of course,” I whispered.
That satisfied him. He believed he had won.
