Chapter 1

"My dad's hanging by a thread. He needs 200,000 dollars for an operation, and you're telling me you won't sell the house and the car?" my husband, Michael Clark, yelled at me.

He jabbed a finger right in my face and called me a cold-blooded monster.

I calmly reminded him, "Remember that 70,000 dollars for my dad's surgery? I paid for every penny of that. All by myself."

He exploded. "How is that the same? That was just 70,000 dollars. We're talking 200,000 dollars here!"

I nodded. "You're right. It's not the same.

"Last time, I paid for everything, and you paid zero. So, we'll do it again. You find the 200,000 dollars. I'll chip in zero."

He grabbed the ashtray and hurled it straight at my head.

The heavy glass ashtray made a sharp whistling sound as it flew right past my ear.

It smashed into the white wall behind me with a sickening crack, exploding into a million pieces.

Shiny slivers of glass sprayed everywhere, like a nasty shower of hail.

A black smear scarred the white wall, as if marking the exact moment our marriage broke apart.

My heart was hammering, trying to beat its way out of my chest. But my hands were rock steady.

I didn't scream.

I instantly scrambled to the other side of the living room, putting as much space between us as I possibly could.

Michael's eyes were bloodshot. He was panting, his chest heaving. He looked like a pissed-off animal ready to attack.

He jabbed his finger at me, his voice all warped with rage. "You're gonna dodge me? Ivy Lynch, are you dead set on destroying my entire family?"

My ears were ringing. I could still feel the whiff of air on my skin from that ashtray. A bone-deep chill went through me.

My mind flashed to our wedding. He stood right in front of my parents, held my hands, and swore to them. "Mr. and Mrs. Lynch, I promise you. I will spend the rest of my life taking care of Ivy. I will never hurt her."

I could still hear those vows in my head. And now, he was violent towards me over money.

That black smear on the wall snuffed out the very last spark of love I had left for him.

My face was blank. I wasn't crying, and I wasn't backing down like I usually did. He must have thought I was just scared.

He took a step closer, shoving his hand out at me. "Give me the keys to the house and the car. I'm calling a realtor. Now."

His fingers were inches from my face.

I jerked back to dodge his hand and unlocked my phone.

I stared right at him and calmly dialed 911.

The second it connected, I spoke in a cool, steady voice I barely recognized as my own. "Yes, I need to report domestic violence. My address is..."

Michael froze.

The fury on his face stiffened, then melted into pure, wide-eyed panic.

"Are you insane, Ivy? You called the cops? Are you trying to ruin me?" he hissed, his voice low and frantic, like a dog that just got its tail stomped on.

I ignored him and switched my phone to video. I hit record and aimed the camera right at him, making sure to capture the wrecked wall and the field of broken glass behind him.

"You're the one who got violent, Michael." I stared at his panicking face on my phone screen and said, one word at a time, "You're the one who destroyed this home."

The sirens were on us in minutes.

Two cops walked in. They took in the wreckage in the living room. Then they looked at me, cool as a cucumber, and Michael, who was a sweaty, fumbling wreck. Their faces went serious immediately.

I laid out everything step by step—how he wanted me to sell the house and car I owned before we got married, how I countered with the 100-to-zero split, and how he ended up hurling the ashtray at me.

I didn't make anything up or add any drama. I didn't have to.

The facts were brutal enough.

Michael tried to talk his way out of it, claiming he just got "upset" and "accidentally" knocked the ashtray over. His story was total bullshit, and it evaporated the second they looked from my cold stare to the ugly mark on the wall.

The cops tore him a new one. They gave him a formal warning and wrote up a report, getting every last detail.

"You don't solve things with your fists," one of them said, staring Michael down. "You crossed a huge line tonight, Mr. Clark. If that ashtray had actually hit your wife, we'd be cuffing you for felony assault right now."

Michael just sucked up to them, nodding and stammering, his face bright red. "Yes, officer. I get it, officer."

I had never seen him look so pathetic.

It was the first time I'd ever seen the "big man" look small and weak. He was nothing in front of the real authority.

After the cops left, the room went dead silent.

Michael just deflated. He sank into the sofa like his bones had melted.

After a long silence, he finally looked up, his eyes full of venom as he glared at me. He tried to sound tough, but it was just a weak bluff. "Ivy, you just wait," he threatened. "This isn't over."

I gave him a cold, hard look. A thought started booming in my head.

He was right. It wasn't over.

The game just began.