“Honey, it’s not like that,” he said hurriedly, stepping toward her. “I was trying to calm her down. She leaned in first.”
Each word felt like a hammer to my ribs.
This was the man who once shielded me from raised voices, who used to stand between me and the world whenever I was afraid. Now he had thrown me in front of the fire without hesitation.
My chest burned, the air refusing to go in properly, like my lungs had forgotten their job.
Delilah sneered as she closed the distance. Her hand shot into my hair, jerking my head back so hard stars exploded behind my eyes.
“No—he’s my husband!” I blurted out, desperate, foolish hope driving the words from my mouth. Maybe if he saw her hurting me, he’d finally tell the truth.
Instead, Delilah laughed. It wasn’t a sound of humor. It was sharp and ugly.
“You’ve really lost your mind,” she said. “That man is Harold. And he belongs to me.”
The door slammed open again.
Lucinda rushed in, eyes flashing. She used to call me her daughter. She used to hug me when I cried.
Relief surged through me. This time, she would make things right.
“What is going on here?” she demanded.