The next morning, he handed me a designer makeup kit and said, “My mother’s coming for lunch. Cover that up and smile.”
The first thing I tasted was blood. The second was betrayal.
My husband, Ethan Whitmore, stood over me in our bedroom with his sleeves rolled up and his breathing perfectly steady, as if he had merely dropped a glass instead of striking his wife.
Moonlight spilled through the tall windows of our Connecticut home, slicing his face into light and shadow. One half looked familiar. The other looked like a stranger.
“You embarrassed me,” he said calmly.
I pressed trembling fingers against my cheek. “Because I said no?”
