I tasted blood where my teeth had cut the inside of my cheek.
I turned slowly and looked at my husband, Eric.
He was standing beside the kitchen island, one hand braced against the marble counter, his expression tight with irritation—not at his mother, not at the woman who had just struck his wife in front of a room full of people, but at me, as though I had created the inconvenience.
“If you want to discipline someone,” he said coldly, “have your own child.”
That was bad enough.
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