My maid of honor, Lena, had gone pale.
Derek noticed the blood and rolled his eyes.
“Jesus, Claire. It was a joke.”
That sentence frightened me more than the impact.
Because I had heard versions of it for eighteen months.
When he punched a hole beside my head during an argument, he had called it “losing his temper.”
When he squeezed my wrist until bruises appeared, he said I was “too sensitive.”
When he took my phone because I had refused to answer him immediately, he said married couples shouldn’t have secrets.
And three nights before our wedding, when he whispered, “Once we’re married, you’ll stop acting like you can just walk away,” I had finally understood what I was marrying.
So I had prepared.
Not enough to cancel the wedding—not yet. Derek had access to my apartment, my schedule, my family, and enough charm to convince everyone I was unstable.
