DEBORAH'S POV
Victoria's guest bedroom smelled like lavender and white lies. She'd put fresh sheets on the bed and filled a vase with white roses, trying to make everything pretty and peaceful. Like beauty could fix the mess my life had become. Like flowers could cover up the fact that my husband had hit me and then walked out to go chase after his first flame.
The bruise on my cheek had faded to a sickly yellow-green, but I could still feel the echo of his hand. Still hear the sound it had made when skin met skin. Still see the look in his eyes afterward. Not regret. Not horror. Just cold satisfaction, like I'd finally gotten what I deserved.
"Debbie, lunch is ready," Victoria called from downstairs.
