Before sunrise, I filled the house with the smell of fried chicken, biscuits, ham, shrimp and grits, and peach cobbler. My bruised lip throbbed every time I smiled, but I kept cooking. Marcus loved a traditional Southern breakfast, especially when it made him feel powerful.
When he came downstairs with his mother, Celeste, both of them admired the feast like royalty inspecting loyal servants. Marcus smirked and called me a “good wife.” Celeste praised discipline and obedience. Neither noticed how calm I was.
I poured Marcus his coffee exactly the way he liked it and invited them to sit. He thought he had won. He thought I had accepted my place. Then his phone started buzzing nonstop—his lawyer, his bank, and several unknown numbers.
Before he could answer, the house speakers came alive. His own voice echoed through the dining room, mocking me, bragging about stealing my company, and insulting my family. For the first time that morning, Marcus looked afraid-
