I adjusted the collar of my high-necked sweater to cover the yellowing bruise near my collarbone.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard of my laptop.

The screen glowed in the quiet of the high-tech kitchen.

On the marble island, a glass bowl held fresh spinach leaves, damp and dark green.

Next to it sat a tub of low-fat cottage cheese, a carton of eggs, and a small pinch of sea salt.

I needed this post to look normal.

I needed my readers to think I was still the happy home cook they had followed for years.

“High-Protein Cottage Cheese and Spinach Crustless Quiche,” I typed into the blog editor.

It sounded wholesome.

It sounded like the kind of food prepared by a woman who had her life completely under control.

I clicked the button to upload the high-definition photo of the golden, baked dish.

In the image, the quiche looked perfect, with light steam rising from the fluffy eggs in a white ceramic dish.

No one looking at that photo would guess my hands had been shaking when I took it.

My ribs ached as I took a deep breath.

The confrontation from three nights ago still felt fresh in my muscles.

Julian had stood right by the pantry door, his fingers digging into my wrist until the bone felt like it would snap.

“You aren’t going anywhere, Clara,” he had whispered, his breath smelling of red wine.

But I had gone.

Now I was here, in this rented, secluded house at the edge of the suburban woods.

The smart-home console on the kitchen wall beeped, monitoring the perimeter.

I looked toward the dark window.

Rain tapped against the thick, double-paned glass.

I pulled my wool cardigan tighter around myself and tried to focus on the screen.

“Cottage cheese is the secret to the texture,” I wrote.

“It melts into the eggs, creating a rich, custard-like consistency without the need for heavy cream.”

I remembered Julian’s voice in my head.

“Your little website is a waste of time, Clara. Nobody cares about your healthy substitutes.”

He had said that while pouring himself a drink, his eyes cold and distant.