As I turned to walk away, Derek’s hand caught my elbow.

His grip was too firm, a silent warning wrapped in a husband’s touch.

“Let me help you with that, darling,” Derek whispered.

He guided me toward the hallway, away from the chatter of the other guests.

The air in the hallway was cooler, smelling faintly of the polished wood floor.

“What are you doing?” Derek hissed, his face inches from mine.

His breath smelled of scotch and nervous sweat.

“I’m hosting our guests, Derek,” I said softly.

“You’re making things up,” he said, his eyes flashing with anger.

“I told them the truth,” I said.

“You told them I was right behind you,” he whispered.

“You were,” I said.

“You know what people will think if you keep talking like that,” he said.

“They will think we had an accident on an icy porch,” I said.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Monica,” he said.

His fingers dug into my arm, right over the hidden bruises.

I didn’t flinch.

“The guests are waiting, Derek,” I said, looking down at his hand.

“And Richard is watching us right now.”