Mason walked in after I was already on the floor. For a fraction of a second, I thought he was going to call an ambulance. Three years ago, when we met at a wedding in Austin, Texas, he had sworn he would never let anyone hurt me.
Instead, he crouched down, grabbed my chin, and forced me to look at him.
“Danielle, you always provoke my mother. How hard was it to just keep your mouth shut?”
“I need a hospital,” I pleaded. “I can’t feel my foot.”
Mason stared at the swelling rapidly bulging under my pajama pants. Then he stood up and wiped his hands on his pants, as if touching me disgusted him.
“We’ll deal with it tomorrow. Tonight, you’re going to learn a lesson.”
It was just past eight in the evening. Rain poured over the quiet streets of our gated subdivision in suburban Atlanta. My purse, my phone, my driver’s license, and my credit cards were locked in the front office, where they kept them “to stop me from doing anything foolish.” For months, they had monitored my calls, taken control of my salary, and forbidden me from visiting my parents.
