When they met, Aracely had been filing paperwork at a nonprofit health clinic in Oak Cliff, and Damson had come through for a public donation event.

He’d been charming then — warm, attentive, telling her he was tired of fake, wealthy women and loved her simplicity.

She had believed him.

But after the wedding, the small corrections began, one at a time. Talk less at dinners.

Don’t mention growing up poor.

That accent makes people uncomfortable. Five years of it, each remark filed down a little smoother than the last, so that she almost stopped noticing how much they cut.