He struck me with such force that my lip burst against my teeth. The violence was my reward for simply asking my husband, Gavin Holden, where he had vanished to the previous night.
The kitchen fell into a heavy silence for three seconds. The only sounds were the rain tapping against the windowpanes and the faint, rhythmic hiss of bacon grease cooling in the cast iron skillet.
Gavin loomed over me in his crisp white dress shirt. His wedding band caught the light, gleaming like a polished threat.
“Do not ever question me in my own home,” he commanded with a voice as cold as ice.
My hand traveled slowly to my mouth. I saw the bright smear of blood on my fingers and looked from it to him.
A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face when he realized I was not going to scream. That was his favorite part of our dynamic because he viewed my silence as a manifestation of fear and obedience.
He had convinced himself he had married a docile Southern girl who possessed good manners, a pretty face, and absolutely no backbone. He had clearly forgotten that I was raised by a strict municipal judge who taught me to notice everything.
He had also forgotten that I spent an entire decade working as a forensic accountant for a major corporate fraud firm long before I ever took his last name. He never suspected that for the past six months, every lie he told had been meticulously documented, copied, and stored in three secure locations.
Gavin turned toward the hallway mirror to straighten his cufflinks as if he hadn’t just assaulted his wife.
“You will prepare breakfast,” he said without looking back. “My mother is coming over later this morning, so do not embarrass me.”
I tasted the metallic tang of blood in my mouth and allowed myself to smile behind my hand.
“Of course, I will have it ready,” I whispered softly.
That small show of submission pleased him immensely. He truly believed he had won the encounter.
By seven o’clock that morning, the house was filled with the intoxicating scent of butter, brown sugar, peppered gravy, buttermilk biscuits, fried chicken, candied yams, collard greens, peach preserves, and strong roasted coffee. I meticulously laid out the antique silver cutlery that his mother, Orla, worshipped more than the Sunday liturgy.
I polished every crystal glass until it sparkled and placed fresh magnolias in the center of the table. Gavin strolled downstairs shortly after, freshly shaved and looking incredibly smug.
His mother, Orla, arrived ten minutes later draped in pearls and heavy perfume. She glanced at my swollen, bruised lip and remarked with a sneer, “A wife should really know when to stop talking.”
Gavin chuckled at her comment, clearly enjoying the display of dominance. I poured their coffee with perfectly steady hands.
