My husband slammed my hand onto the burning stove because the steak was “overcooked.” As I collapsed in agony, my mother-in-law stepped over me, laughing, “She needs to learn her place.” My father-in-law just turned up the TV. They thought I was reaching for a bandage. I smiled through the tears and whispered, “enjoy your last few minutes of peace.” then, the siren lights flashed outside…
state-of-the-art security system gleamed on the wall, its master code known only to me.
On the marble island—the very spot where my hand had been crushed against the stove—sat a heavy brass plaque. It belonged to the new legal nonprofit I had founded with the settlement money I had extracted from Arthur’s desperate attempts at bribery.
