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.

Before I could even part my trembling lips, Julian’s fingers dug ruthlessly into my collarbone. “Pregnancy has really affected her balance. She’s just too shaken to speak right now,” he interrupted, answering for me just as he always did. “It’s her right forearm. Just get her an X-ray.”

The nurse nodded sympathetically, completely buying the performance. An orderly unlocked the brakes of my wheelchair and began pushing me down a long, white corridor. When we finally reached the heavy, imposing double doors of the radiology department, the orderly paused.

“Only the patient beyond this point, sir,” the orderly said politely. “Hospital policy.”

Julian’s jaw tightly clenched, a microscopic fracture in his perfect mask. He leaned down, pretending to kiss my forehead. His lips brushed my ear, the coldness of his breath sending violent shivers down my spine. *”I’m right outside,”* he whispered, a definitive promise of violence if I deviated from the script.