Chapter 1 - THE FIRST TIME HE RAISED HIS HANDMy husband tried to punch me less than four hours after we cut our wedding cake.
That sentence still sounds impossible.
The suite was full of white roses, champagne glasses, and gold ribbon from gifts neither of us had opened.
I was barefoot in a white satin nightgown.
Thatcher still wore his dress shirt and black trousers, though his tie hung loose and three buttons were open.
His parents stood inside our bedroom.
That should have been my first indication that nothing about the conversation was normal.
Loretta held a leather document folder.
Harlon stood beside the dresser.
Thatcher had been drinking steadily since the reception.
Loretta placed the folder on the bed.
“Sign tonight,” she said. “Then everyone starts tomorrow clean.”
I opened it.
A postnuptial agreement.
Confidentiality provisions.
Financial-control provisions.
A clause requiring written consent before I could remove more than a specified amount from our joint investment accounts.
Another provision attempted to define several assets Thatcher expected to acquire through his family as exclusively his.
I looked up.
“I already signed a prenup.”
Harlon answered.
“This corrects deficiencies.”
“According to whom?”
“My counsel.”
“I’m not signing anything without my lawyer.”
Thatcher’s expression changed.
“Claire.”
“No.”
He took my upper arm.
Hard.
I looked at his fingers.
“Let go.”
Instead, he jerked me toward him.
“You’re purchased property.”
For a moment I genuinely thought I had misunderstood.
“What?”
“My father paid for this wedding. My family opened every door you walked through this year. Stop pretending you came into this marriage as my equal.”
Loretta did not look shocked.
Neither did Harlon.
That frightened me more than Thatcher’s grip.
I pulled my arm back.
He blocked the bedroom door.
“Move.”
“Sign.”
“No.”
His hand landed on my shoulder.
Then his fist came toward my face.
Training took over before fear could.
I turned.
His fist missed my cheek and crashed into the padded headboard.
He cursed.
For the first time that night, something in me became perfectly calm.
Thatcher lunged again.
I knocked his reaching arm aside.
Planted my feet.
And drove a front kick into the side of his face.
The contact was clean.
Too clean.
His head snapped sideways.
He stumbled backward into the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed, lost his balance, and went down hard against the carpet.
Loretta screamed.
Harlon rushed toward him.
Thatcher tried to rise and immediately sat back down, disoriented.
Loretta turned on me.
“You attacked my son!”
I looked at the bruising already forming beneath my satin strap where Thatcher had grabbed me.
“He tried to hit me.”
“He’s been drinking.”
“That doesn’t make his fist imaginary.”
Harlon reached for the documents.
I got there first.
“No.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You have no idea what family you just married into.”
I folded the agreement against my chest.
“No.”
I looked at Thatcher on the floor.
May you like
“I’m starting to.”
Then I called 911 myself.
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