The second slap landed so hard my wedding ring cut the inside of my cheek. The third came before I could even taste the blood.
All because I had bought the wrong brand of coffee.
My husband, Ethan Caldwell, stood over me in our polished, magazine-perfect kitchen like he’d just won something. His mother, Diane Caldwell, lounged at the marble island in a silk robe, stirring tea she hadn’t bothered to make herself.
“Look at her,” Diane murmured. “Still staring like she doesn’t understand her place.”
Ethan grabbed my chin, forcing my face up. “When I talk to you, you answer.”
I met his eyes.
Calm.
Too calm.
“It was coffee,” I said.
His jaw tightened. “It was disrespect.”
The fourth slap echoed across the room.
Rain hammered against the tall windows. The chandelier sparkled overhead like nothing ugly could possibly exist beneath it.
Diane smiled into her cup. “A wife needs to be corrected early. Your father knew that.”
Ethan leaned in, his breath heavy with whiskey. “Tomorrow morning, I want a proper breakfast. No attitude. No cold looks. And stop acting like you’re better than this family.”
Better than this family.
I almost laughed.
