Barely three days after our wedding, just because i served lunch a little late, my husband flipped the dining table with a kick and yelled, ‘A woman needs to be hit to learn her place!’ i chuckled and fired back, ‘Well then, the gloves are off!’
Exactly seventy-two hours after we signed our marriage certificate, my husband’s perfect gentleman mask slipped.
That Tuesday evening, I arrived home nearly an hour late due to torrential rain and gridlock traffic. I walked into the sunlit condo i had relentlessly ground myself to the bone to purchase years before meeting him, and immediately rushed into the kitchen.
Julian possessed a draconian obsession with strict meal times. Yet, when i carried the steaming platters of slow-cooked pot roast to the dining table, the atmosphere felt like the suffocating pressure of a deep-sea trench.
Julian was sprawled on the sofa, endlessly scrolling on his phone, radiating glacial hostility.
