He fixed a broken cabinet in the little apartment himself.
He once drove four hours in a thunderstorm because my flight had been diverted.
He complained about wealthy people who “thought money made them better.”
I thought I had finally found someone who valued character.
By our wedding night, I was about to learn how catastrophically wrong I had been.
Lorraine folded her arms.
“In our family, women take care of the home.”
“Then I suggest the women who live here continue doing that.”
Derek gave a low whistle.
Lorraine’s face tightened.
“You need to watch your attitude.”
“No. You need to stop walking into my room and assigning me chores.”
“Our room,” Owen said from behind her.
I turned.
My husband was standing in the doorway with his tie hanging loose around his neck and a glass of bourbon in one hand.
He had been drinking since the reception.
Still, I expected him to laugh, tell his mother she was being ridiculous, and close the door.
Instead, he looked at the clothes on the bed.
“Mom asked you to help. What’s the problem?”
“The problem is that your mother walked in here on our wedding night and ordered me to wash your family’s clothes.”
“So?”
I stared at him.
“So?”
Lorraine made an exaggerated sigh.
“This is exactly what I warned you about. Girls who grow up without proper families don’t understand respect.”
Owen knew my parents were d.e.a.d.
He knew the subject still hurt.
He said nothing.
That hurt more than Lorraine’s insult.
I picked up the pile of shirts and dropped them onto the floor.
“No.”
Derek laughed.
Lorraine looked horrified.
And Owen’s entire expression changed.
“Pick those up.”
“I’m going to bed.”
“Cass.”
There was something in his voice I had never heard before.
Not annoyance.
Authority.
The ugly kind.
I moved toward the bathroom.
He stepped in front of me.
“I said pick them up.”
“And I said no.”
His hand closed around my wrist.
Hard.
My champagne glass slipped from my fingers and shattered against the hardwood.
For a second, everyone froze.
I looked down at his hand.
“Owen. Release me.”
“You embarrassed my mother.”
“She embarrassed herself.”
His grip tightened.
Then Lorraine said quietly:
“Your wife needs to learn what happens when she disrespects her husband.”
That sentence changed something in his face.
Maybe he had always been this man and simply needed permission to show me.
He shoved me backward.
My hip struck the dresser.
Pain shot up my side.
“Owen!”
He lifted one finger inches from my face.
“You are not going to come into my family and start acting like you’re better than everyone.”
There it was.
The accusation I had spent years trying to avoid.
And the irony almost made me laugh.
He had no idea.
He thought I had nothing.
And he hated me anyway for refusing to behave like I was beneath him.
When I reached for the door, he blocked me again.
“Apologize.”
“To whom?”
“My mother.”
“For what?”
“For being disrespectful.”
I looked at Lorraine.
