His thumb pressed into the bruise he had left three nights earlier.
“Smile,” he murmured.
“I am smiling.”
“You looked at the bartender during my toast.”
“He asked whether I wanted water.”
Grant’s grip tightened.
“You made me look foolish.”
Lily spun toward Anna, radiant in lace, and mouthed, Did you see that?
Anna nodded.
Grant released her wrist only to press his palm against her back.
The gesture looked loving.
The pressure told her where to walk.
For three years, Anna had learned how abuse hid inside ordinary movements.
A hand at her waist became a warning.
A joke about clumsiness explained bruises no one wanted to see.
The worst part was not Grant’s lies.