I never told my in-laws that I am the daughter of the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. When I was seven months pregnant, they forced me to cook the entire Christmas dinner alone. My mother-in-law even made me eat standing up in the kitchen, claiming it was ‘good for the baby.’ When I tried to sit down, she pushed me so hard I began to miscarry. I reached for my phone to call the police, but my husband snatched it away and mocked me: ‘I’m a lawyer. You won’t win.’ I looked him straight in the eyes and said calmly: ‘Then call my father.’ He laughed as he dialed, unaware that his legal career was about to end.”

“No!” David snapped. “No ambulance. The neighbors will talk. I just made partner; I don’t need a domestic incident report.”

He looked at me. “Get up, Anna. Clean this. Then we’ll go to the ER if you keep bleeding.”

“ER?” I gasped. “David… I’m losing the baby! Call 911!”

“I said get up!” David yelled.

He grabbed my arm and yanked me.

Another gush of blood. The pain was blinding now.

I realized then, with a clarity that cut through the agony, that he didn’t care. He didn’t love me. He didn’t love our child. He loved his image. He loved his control.

To him I wasn’t a person. I was an accessory.

And my accessory was broken.

With a trembling hand I reached into my apron pocket. My phone. I needed my phone.

“I’m calling the police,” I sobbed.

David saw the screen light up. His eyes turned black.