Chapter 1

Five slaps. I remembered every one.

Every time Francesca hit me, Marco laughed.

His bodyguards pinned me in place. I couldn’t even dodge.

When it was over, Marco handed her a bottle of water. “Feel better?”

I stood there, motionless. My face hurt, but my mind had never been clearer.

That night, I didn’t go home. I made three phone calls.

The next day, he showed up at my door with a bouquet of roses.

The board members were pounding on the table, shouting at him.

“Your wife revoked the patent license. The production lines are all down, and the company is about to collapse!”

Those five slaps were going to cost him everything.

…

The first slap landed on my left cheek.

Francesca had small hands, but she hit hard.

My head snapped to the side. Before I could steady myself, the second one came.

Right cheek.

The crack of it echoed in the conference room.

I heard Marco laugh.

Third slap.

Left cheek.

From behind, a bodyguard’s hand clamped down on my shoulder.

I couldn’t move.

Fourth slap.

Right cheek.

After that one, Francesca flexed her wrist, as if to shake out the sting.

Marco sat at the conference table, one leg crossed over the other, and took a photo with his phone.

Of me.

The fifth slap.

Then she stopped.

By the time she was finished, Francesca was breathing hard.

Marco picked up a bottle of Evian from the table and handed it to her.

“Feel better now?”

His voice was gentle.

Francesca took the water and looked at me.

I will never forget that look.

It wasn’t hatred. It wasn’t disgust.

It was pity.

She pitied me.

The bodyguard let go, and I staggered a step.

Marco pulled a tissue from the box on the table and gave it to Francesca.

“Did you hurt your hand? Let me see.”

He took her hand and examined it carefully.

I just stood there.

My face throbbed, the angry red prints of her hand layered one on top of the other.

Two department managers were in the room with us. Both stared at the polished surface of the table, too afraid to look at me.

No one said a word.

Only then did Marco turn to me.

“Astrid, don’t go through Francesca’s things again.”

His tone was flat, as if he were scolding a child for a minor transgression.

“You hear me?”

I heard him.

The central air hummed, its cold draft blowing right at me.

I tasted blood. My lip was split.

I didn’t wipe it away.

I looked at Marco for ten full seconds.

He grew impatient, his brow furrowing.

“That’s enough. Go home. Don’t stand here and make a scene.”

A scene.

He said I was making a scene.

I turned and walked out.

When I passed Francesca, she didn’t move.

I had to walk around her.

I pushed open the conference room door. A janitor was passing in the hall.

She saw my face and froze.

I didn’t stop.

I stepped into the elevator, and the doors slid shut.

In the mirrored wall, I saw my own reflection.

The left side of my face was swollen. The right was a blotchy red. A thin line of blood traced the corner of my mouth.

I was Astrid Rhodes, twenty-eight years old.

I had been married to Marco Marino for three years.

And only today did I realize that in his eyes, I was worth less than a dog.

If a dog got beaten, its owner would at least try to stop it.

The elevator reached the lobby.

The doors opened.

I walked out of the building and onto the sidewalk of Sixth Avenue.

The September wind hit my face, and the cut on my lip stung sharply.

I didn’t cry.

Not once through the entire ordeal had I shed a tear.

Of course it hurt.

I just refused to cry for him.