On the first morning after our wedding, my husband sla:pped me while his whole family watched. They expected tears, sh:ame, and silence. Instead, I looked at him coldly and left without a word.

The Greenwich morning light caught the beveled edge of the crystal juice
pitchers, casting sharp, blinding rainbows across the long walnut breakfast
table. The air in the dining room was heavy, smelling of freshly roasted
espresso, expensive floral arrangements, and the suffocating, unwritten rules of
generational wealth.

I had slept exactly three hours. The night before, I had stood at an altar and
smiled through a wedding reception that cost more than the entire net worth of
the Ohio neighborhood where I grew up. Yet, I came downstairs precisely at eight
o’clock, wearing a modest, impeccably tailored cream dress designed to project
nothing but soft, malleable innocence. I poured the coffee myself. I did this
because Victoria Harrington, sitting at the head of the table like a reigning
monarch, had made a pointed, passive-aggressive comment the evening prior about
“new brides needing to understand their place within the ecosystem of the
house.”