I never told my husband’s family that I am the Chief Justice’s daughter. When I was seven months pregnant, they f0rced me to prepare the entire Christmas dinner by myself. My mother-in-law even ordered me to eat standing in the kitchen, insisting it was “healthy for the baby.” When I tried to sit down, she pushed me so vi/0len/tly that I started to mis/carry. I reached for my phone to call the police, but my husband ripped it from my hand and sneered, “I’m a lawyer. You’ll never win.” I met his gaze and replied calmly, “Then call my father.” He laughed while dialing, unaware his legal career was seconds from collapse.

“Rebecca.”

The name was fired like a warning shot. The voice, sharp and pitched high enough to rattle the crystal, sliced through the open archway from the formal dining room. “Why is the table still lacking the cranberry relish? Aaron cannot abide dry meat.”

Judith Blake did not speak so much as she broadcasted her infinite displeasures to the drywall itself. I dragged a shaking hand across my forehead, drying my damp fingers on an apron heavily stained with pan drippings, and forced my voice to remain steady. I called back that I was bringing it immediately, biting my lip to stifle a groan as my knees violently trembled beneath my own weight.

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