Page 243 of Ricardo

“I reached a breaking point,” she says. “I don’t even remember which fight it was. That’s the awful part. There were so many by then that I can’t remember what finally made me break. I only remember standing in that perfect house that he picked out for us and realizing I couldn’t marry him. I couldn’t stand next to him in church or at some country club or wherever our parents imagined it happening and promise my life to a man who made me afraid to breathe wrong.”

Her voice cracks.

“So I told him I was done.”

She swallows.

“He—” She snaps her mouth shut. Then she tries again. “He hit me.”

Every thought in my head sharpens to a point and aims right at Harrison fucking Winthrop.

Julia’s face crumples, but she keeps talking.

“He slapped me so hard I fell against the side table. I remember the sound more than the pain. Something broke. A glass, I think. Maybe a frame. I was on the floor, and I looked up at him, and he…”

She shakes her head.

“That was the strangest part. For one second, he looked almost gleeful. Then he changed. Just like that, a mask came down. Suddenly, he was all concern. He came down beside me and touched my face, and he was sorry. So sorry. He said he loved me. He said I scared him. He said I knew how important everything was, how much pressure he was under, how hard I made it when I pushed him.”

My blood turns to ice.

“He blamed you.”

She nods, crying now.

“He blamed me. And then he sent white roses.”

My jaw tightens until it hurts.

“White roses,” she repeats. “The next morning. So many of them. In a crystal vase. He always knew how to cover up his cruelty with beauty.”

Her hand grips mine suddenly.

“I knew better,” she says, the words urgent now, as if she needs me to believe this part. “I knew better than to believe him when he promised he would never do it again. I knew what men like that did. I had thrown charities for domestic violence awareness and sat in meetings while women talked about programs and emergency housing and warning signs. I knew all of it in theory, in my head.”

She presses her free hand against her chest.

“But knowing and being in it are different. I was terrified. I was terrified of him. Of what he would do if I tried to leave again. Of what he could ruin. Of how quickly he could make people believe I was unstable or ungrateful or hysterical.”

My thumb moves over her knuckles.

“I didn’t call my parents,” she says. “I couldn’t. They would have made it about reputation first. Maybe not forever, but first. And I couldn’t survive their first reaction.”

Her eyes lift to mine.

“So I called Dante.”

Her voice breaks on his name.

“He answered right away. I hadn’t spoken to him properly in so long because Harrison hated him. Hated that I had someone who knew me before all of that. Hated that Dante could make me laugh without trying. Hated that I trusted him.”

A tear falls onto our joined hands.

“I told him I needed help. I don’t even think I said much. I think I only said Harrison hit me, and Dante went quiet.”

That sounds like my son.

“I had never heard him that quiet,” she whispers. “He asked where I was. I told him. He said, ‘Stay where you are. Keep your phone on. I’m coming.’ And he did.”