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!’

PART 1
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.

“Dinner’s ready, honey,” I called out softly.

Instead of a word of thanks, Julian shot up. A terrifying, unfamiliar spark of unhinged rage danced in his eyes. He marched toward the dining area and, without a single warning syllable, drove the sole of his dress shoe directly into the heavy oak table.

Crash!