"Viola, I'd finally made up my mind to make this marriage work. Why would you do this to me?"
Before I could answer, he crushed his mouth against mine in a kiss that was more punishment than passion.
I froze. For a moment, I forgot to push him away.
Three years of marriage, and Morton had never once touched me willingly.
On our wedding night, I'd come out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel and slipped my arms around him from behind. He'd flinched away in disgust and told me to keep my distance.
Later, I tried wearing lingerie and sliding under his covers. He didn't even glance at me. He just rolled over, putting his back to me, and fell asleep.
No matter how hard I tried to please him, he was unmoved. A stone wall would have been warmer.
It wasn't until last year, at a gala where he'd drunk himself blind, that he mistook me for Zara.
That night, he pressed me into the mattress and didn't stop until dawn.
The memory of my clothes being torn hit me like a slap.
By the time I came back to my senses, I'd already struck Morton hard across the face.
He went rigid. The shock in his eyes curdled into white-hot rage.