The morning I left the Whitmores, the sky over Greenwich looked like wet ash.
Everything outside their mansion was immaculate.
The trimmed hedges.
The stone driveway.
The iron gates.
The white roses my mother-in-law clipped with such delicate precision that you would think she was arranging a magazine cover instead of maintaining a battlefield.
Diane Whitmore always believed appearances could erase reality.
A polished foyer could hide a cruel home.
Fresh flowers could distract from rotten people.
An expensive last name could excuse almost anything.
For three years, I lived under that roof as Evan Whitmore’s wife.
For three years, I learned that wealth could make abuse quieter, but never softer.
When I married Evan, I told myself the tension with his parents would ease once we found our own place.
That was the promise.
Temporary.
Just for a few months while renovations were done on a condo Richard claimed he was “helping us acquire.”
