At 8 months pregnant, my wealthy husband cruelly injured my arm because I was too exhausted for a client dinner. “Tell the doctors you slipped, or you’ll never hold this baby,” he hissed, playing the perfectly worried partner in the ER. He silenced me for hours. But when the Radiology doors finally closed, the technician saw my chart and whispered, “Clara?” My husband had spent 2 years isolating me. He had no idea the man about to read my X-ray was my fiercely protective older brother.

Julian didn’t flinch. He didn’t drop to the floor to help me. He simply stood over my shivering, sobbing form, casually adjusting his lapels. He looked at the unnatural angle of my forearm, checked his silver Rolex, and delivered the chilling script I was to memorize.

“You tripped on the hem of your gown while coming down the grand staircase,” he instructed, his tone utterly devoid of humanity. “You put your arm out to catch yourself. Get up. We are going to the hospital.”

Ten minutes later, I was trapped in the passenger seat of his luxury SUV. The leather seats felt like ice. I bit down on my own lip until I tasted copper, desperately trying not to sob out loud and agitate him further. Julian reached over, gripping my uninjured left hand tightly, playing the role of the devoted, terrified husband for the dashcam. The glowing red sign of the Emergency Room illuminated the rainy windshield. He leaned over, his expensive sandalwood cologne masking the scent of my cold sweat. What horrific, unspeakable lengths would he go to if the medical staff started asking the wrong questions?