On the first day of our marriage, my husband threw a greasy dishcloth in my face and said, “From now on, you’re my family’s maid.” I smiled, left my wedding ring on the table, and walked out with my suitcase.

“I understand.”

“If you publish my apartment address, my parents’ address, or anything that could endanger us, the interview is over.”

“Agreed.”

“And I want you to ask Mason for his side.”

“I was planning to.”

That evening, I spoke to Grant for nearly an hour.

He asked why I had left so quickly.

“Because I was lucky enough to see what marriage was going to become before I spent years teaching myself to tolerate it.”

“Do you consider what happened abuse?”

I thought for a moment.

“I consider it a warning.”

“What kind of warning?”

“That someone had stopped seeing me as an equal.”

The reporter contacted Mason.

Mason claimed the rag had been “a joke.”

He said my story had been exaggerated because I wanted an excuse to keep the money.

But then Grant asked why Mason had sent threatening messages.

No answer.

Why had Savannah gone to Tessa’s building?

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