I looked at the people gathered around us.
Five minutes earlier, they had been smiling while Daniel pressed my hand toward fire. Now no one met my eyes.
One of Daniel’s associates, Martin Hale, set his drink down so carefully that the ice did not clink.
His wife stared at the outdoor security camera.
She had noticed the green light too.
Daniel noticed her noticing it.
He moved toward the back door.
I stepped into his path.
“Don’t touch the system.”
His face hardened.
“This is my house.”
The words landed between us with years of weight.
His house.
His money.
His guests.
His rules.
He had repeated those phrases through our entire marriage until they became the walls of a prison I had helped decorate.
I used to answer softly.
I used to apologize.
I used to believe that peace was something I could earn by making myself smaller.
That woman had been standing over the grill moments ago.
She was gone now.
Daniel came close enough that I smelled bourbon on his breath.
“Move.”
“No.”
His eyes narrowed.
Behind us, Evelyn scoffed.
“Claire, stop acting dramatic. Daniel barely touched you.”
The entire backyard went silent.
I turned and held up my hand.