Chapter 1

Latisha Judd stared at the wall clock as the hands clicked over to midnight. On the table, the dinner she'd prepared had gone cold again.

She carried the dishes to the kitchen and reheated them, just as she always did.

At ten minutes to one, the front door finally opened. Clifford Lambert was home.

His suit jacket was slung over his arm, and his handsome face was flushed with drink. He walked straight toward her.

Latisha stood, pouring him a bowl of nourishing soup she'd prepared to help with the inevitable hangover, but the moment she offered it to him, he swatted it away. The bowl shattered on the floor.

He seized her by the jaw and crushed his lips to hers. The reek of alcohol, mingled with the cloying scent of a woman's perfume, washed over her. Latisha shoved at his chest, but he didn't budge. Instead, he swept her into his arms and carried her straight to the bedroom.

He tossed her roughly onto the bed and came down on top of her without a single word.

Latisha bit her lip and endured it in silence, her gaze fixed on the potted plant in the corner of the room. There was no affection in this, only a brutal claiming.

He wrenched her face back towards him, his deep-set eyes boring into hers as his fingers traced the curve of her cheek. "Why don't you say something?"

Latisha stared back at him, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. He knew she couldn't speak.

She was a mute.

But he never tired of asking, as if the question itself were a kind of punishment. Latisha could never tell if he was trying to humiliate her or if he was simply lamenting the fact.

She took the hand on her cheek and turned her head, nuzzling against his palm like a kitten seeking its master's approval. It was the only way she knew how to respond to him in these moments.

A darkness swirled in his pupils, a storm gathering just beneath the surface. He captured her hand, pinning it above her head as he lowered his mouth to hers again.

...

When Latisha opened her eyes again, morning light was filtering through the windows. The space beside her was empty, but she could hear the sound of the shower running in the bathroom.

She gathered her clothes from the floor. As she was buttoning her blouse, a phone on the nightstand buzzed. It was Clifford's.

Latisha glanced at the blurred figure visible through the frosted glass of the bathroom door, then down at the screen.

Yesenia: You went back to her?

Yesenia: You do this every time. Do you have to run back to that mute just to piss me off?

Latisha's eyelashes fluttered.

The bathroom door opened, and Clifford emerged with a towel slung low around his hips. Steam rose from his skin, and his wet hair

dripped onto his chest, the water tracing a path down the hard lines of his abs.

She quickly looked away, fumbling with the last button on her blouse.

Clifford walked to the bed, picked up his phone, and shot a glance at her. "Did you see?"

A faint smile touched Latisha's lips as she shook her head.

On their wedding day, he had told her: Just be good. Don't fall in love with me. We'll

go on just like before, and I'll take care of you for the rest of my life.

He told her not to love him. So what if she saw the messages? It wasn't as if he cared whether she was jealous or hurt. The feelings of someone who doesn't matter are not worth considering. Her love, her emotions—they would only be burden to him. She was afraid he would cast her aside, just like everyone else.

She raised her hands, her fingers forming the words in sign language: *I'll go make breakfast.*

Dragging her aching body, Latisha left the bedroom and headed for the kitchen.

Clifford watched her slender form retreat before glancing back at his phone and deleting Yesenia's messages.

Latisha prepared breakfast and set the table, placing a bowl of hot cereal where he always sat. A few minutes later, Clifford came downstairs, dressed for the day.

The room was silent. He'd once told her that talking to her felt like talking to himself. Over time, he'd mostly stopped trying. The only sound a the table was the clinking of his spoon against the bowl.

"We're going to Lambert Manor later," he said suddenly.

at

Latisha's hand stilled, her spoon hovering over her own bowl.

*Okay,* she signed.

Clifford glanced at her. Her expression was, as always, one of placid obedience. Never argumentative, never emotional. She could endure the greatest humiliation and still offer a gentle smile.

Suddenly, the food in his bowl tasted bland. He dropped his spoon with a clatter that sounded jarringly loud in the quiet dining room.