I should have known better.
The wedding was small by Sterling standards, which meant only three hundred people and a reception that cost more than a modest house.
Arthur Sterling did not smile once during the ceremony.
He shook my hand at the reception and said, “Welcome to the family, Nora. I hope you understand what you have gotten yourself into.”
I thought he was being dramatic.
I was wrong.
The first dinner at the Sterling Estate in Greenwich happened three days after we returned from our honeymoon in Italy.
I returned after dark, still jet-lagged and disoriented. The mansion was ablaze with light, looking more like a fortress than a home.
In the formal dining room, the table was set with a spread fit for royalty. China so delicate it looked like it might dissolve if you breathed on it. Crystal glasses that caught the light like tiny prisons. Silver so polished you could see your reflection.
But no one was eating.
At the head of the table sat Arthur. He did not need to raise his voice to command the room. His silence was heavy enough to choke the air out of your lungs.