On the morning after our wedding, my husband slapped me in front of his family—expecting me to break, but I left in silence, setting a chain of consequences in motion.

to sign anything I hadn’t read twice,” I said.

“And you read the Harringtons better than they read you.”

After the call ended, I sat alone in my office while night pressed against the windows. Manhattan glowed below, indifferent and alive. Somewhere across the city, Ryan was probably pacing, assigning blame to me, to his mother, to the pressure, to everyone continue reading …