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your phone.”
When my husband h:it me, my parents saw the b:ruise — said nothing, and walked away. He smirked from his chair, beer in hand: “Polite little family you’ve got.”
“No.”
His eyes flickered. “Excuse me?”
“No,” I repeated.
The word landed between us like a match on gasoline.
Grant grabbed my wrist. His fingers dug into my skin. “You forget who pays for this house.”
I looked at his hand. “Actually, I don’t.”
His grip loosened.
