Not a hysterical cackle. Not a wail. A single, sharp, bitterly amused exhale. A laugh that acknowledged the absurdity of the theater I was trapped in.

That sound was all it took. Evelyn sprang from her velvet armchair, trembling with theatrical indignation. “She has desecrated the sanctity of this lineage!

She disrespects me in my own sanctuary!”

And Daniel, like a well-trained hound, had come running to bite.

Now his palm print burned like a brand across my left cheek. The coppery scent of the blood on my palm reached my nose.

“Go upstairs and pack whatever cheap clothes you came into this marriage with,” Evelyn commanded, dropping the fragile-victim act entirely. Her eyes were hard, triumphant stones.