Rain streamed down my face, mixing with the blood at the edge of my mouth.
Six slaps.
I remembered every one.
The first came after I asked why his mistress, Vanessa Cole, was sitting at our dining table wearing my pearl earrings.
The second came when I told her to remove them.
The third, fourth, and fifth followed when my husband, Grant Whitmore, shouted that everything inside the house belonged to him.
The sixth sent me crashing against the marble console near the entrance.
Then Grant opened the door and threw my overnight bag into the storm.
“Get out, Claire,” he said, breathing heavily beneath the chandelier, his gold wedding band catching the light. “You should have learned your place.”
Behind him, Vanessa stood in my silk robe, smiling as though she had won something valuable.
