The food was exquisite, but the atmosphere was suffocating. The conversation orbited entirely around Marcus—his successes at work, his prospects, his future plans. They spoke little of Anna, occasionally tossing a perfunctory compliment about her appearance or her quiet demeanor. She did her best to play her part, smiling and nodding in all the right places, a ghost at their feast.

Her husband, Marcus, was in his element. He was handsome, successful, and accustomed to universal admiration. Anna remembered, with a pang of sorrow, how she had once fallen in love with that image—his strength, his charisma. But over time, that strength had twisted into control, and his charisma had become a mask for tyranny.