Through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, I saw it: the perfect picture of domestic bliss. Alric, Seraphina and my son were sitting at the candlelit dining table, laughing like a real family.
They looked like a magazine ad for the perfect life.
To be fair, Alric did seem like the ideal husband to outsiders.
Ever since I married him, I never had to work a day. I could shop from home, indulge when I pleased. My parents and little brother moved into a mansion. They drove luxury cars with his name on the papers.
But there’s a wise saying: "marrying well is like swallowing a needle—the pain is silent and sharp and only the one who swallows it knows the sting."
In front of my mother-in-law, I would always act in such meticulous manner to look obedient and polite. At home, I was constantly on my feet, caring for our sickly child, barely getting a moment’s rest.
Those luxury clothes and handbags Alric bought me? I never even had a chance to wear them.
Just then, my mom picked up a phone call in the middle of dinner. Her eyes shot toward the window and when she saw me, she bolted outside.
She slapped me. Hard. My cheek flared with pain.