Slowly, I raised my head.
White frosting coated my hair, lashes, and the front of my silk wedding gown. A thin line of blood trickled from my nostril.
The laughter faded.
My maid of honor, Lena, had gone pale.
Derek saw the blood and rolled his eyes.
“Jesus, Claire. It was a joke.”
That sentence frightened me more than what he had just done.
Because I’d heard versions of it for eighteen months.
When he punched a hole beside my head during an argument, he 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 didn’t answer him fast enough, he said married couples shouldn’t keep secrets.
And three nights before the wedding, when he whispered, “Once we’re married, you’ll stop acting like you can just walk away,” I finally understood the man I was about to marry.
