The sharp crack of the leather belt echoed beneath the vaulted, hand-painted ceilings of the grand hall, followed by a white-hot burn across my back.
I bit my lower lip so hard I tasted blood. I refused to scream. I refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing my pain.
The final strike tore through the thin cotton of my dress. My strength gave out, and I collapsed forward onto the imported marble floor, palms slapping against the cold stone. My breath came in broken, shallow gasps. Pain burned through my spine, blurring the edges of the room. A single drop of blood from my split lip fell onto the flawless white marble.
Above me stood my husband, Nathaniel Cross.
He stood in the center of the Bel Air mansion he falsely believed belonged to him, adjusting the cuffs of his navy suit as if he had just finished a business meeting instead of beating his wife. His breathing was steady. His face held no panic, no guilt, no rage.
Only disgust.
