PART 2

Spencer’s chair scraped sharply against the marble floor as he shifted.

“Sit down, Hannah,” he commanded.

I didn’t move an inch.

He leaned forward, lowering his voice into that familiar, dangerous whisper he used whenever he wanted to frighten me without attracting public attention.

“You’re making a terrible mistake right now,” he warned.

A dark red drop of wine slid from my hair onto the white tablecloth, spreading through the fabric with every second.

“No, Spencer,” I said.

“I think I’ve finally stopped making one.”

Gertrude placed her champagne glass down with exaggerated care.

“Honestly, Hannah, calling security because your husband lost his temper?

Have you no sense of proportion?”

I looked at her directly.

For three years, I had been trying to earn that woman’s approval by remembering her birthday, organizing her medical appointments, paying for repairs to her apartment, and swallowing insults at every family gathering.

Now she was looking at me as though I were an inconvenience that could be removed with a single signature.

“Your son threw wine in my face,” I said clearly.

“And you laughed.”

Her expression tightened instantly.