Chapter 1

My fiancé slapped me right in front of everyone, all to defend another woman.

I blocked him on everything before the day was out.

To everyone, it was unthinkable.

Joseph Shaw and I had been a pair since we were six. For eighteen years, I was just his shadow.

When he figured out I'd trashed all his stuff, he cornered me at my door.

"Is that really why?" he asked, voice full of confusion. "Because I slapped you?"

I held his gaze, my words clear and deliberate. "Yes. Just because you slapped me."

*****

When that slap landed, everything around me went dead silent.

Joseph Shaw's hand came down with a fierce rush of air, and the sharp crack made my head jerk violently to the side.

The coppery taste of blood filled my mouth, and I could hear a high, thin ringing that drowned out everything else.

I stumbled, grabbing onto the desk for support, my fingers trembling. My left cheek went numb, and then erupted in a searing heat.

When I looked up, I saw Joseph's hand still hanging in the air, his knuckles white with tension.

Joseph—my childhood sweetheart and my fiancé—was standing up for his secretary, Yvonne Foster, and had just slapped me in front of everyone.

Joseph realized what he'd done, and for a split second, his face went stiff. But then anger and impatience took over. "Lucille, can you just stop making a scene?"

A few low snickers cut through the office. The rest just watched in silence, enjoying the drama.

Yvonne's chestnut-brown curls gleamed with a honeyed sheen under the light.

She leaned against Joseph, her red lips pulling into a mocking smirk. "Joe, don't be so harsh. See how frightened she is? She's almost in tears."

Joseph's jaw clenched, the fire still burning in his eyes. "Lucille, this is a place of business, not your personal playground. Can you knock it off?" His voice cut through the air, sharp and cold.

More snickers rippled through the office.

I felt something wet at the corner of my mouth, not even sure if it was blood or tears.

I had endured his temper for eighteen years. I just never knew a slap from him could hurt this much.

Shame, humiliation, and fury churned inside me as I dug my nails deep into my palms.

I didn't care what Joseph had to say next. I was done listening.

As I grabbed my bag and rushed out the glass doors, I caught someone whispering behind me, "Oh my god, if I were her, I'd never show my face here again."

I had no idea where to go, but I couldn't stand the thought of going back to work. No way was I sticking around to face everyone there.

Joseph had never been a patient man with me, but this was the first time he had ever hit me.

In fact, it was the first time in my entire life that anyone had ever slapped me.

*****

I was six when my family moved into our new home. The day we moved in, Joseph was squatting in the hallway, playing with his toy cars.

Sunlight slanted in from the window at the end of the corridor, stretching his shadow out so long that it just touched my toes.

We lived next door to each other, and our families shared a small garden.

My mother always said that Joseph and I were like two young trees growing up side by side, destined to walk life's path together one day.

But Joseph was the kind of tree that shot up tall and straight from the start, always ahead of me, so for years, it felt like I was always the one trying to catch up.

Even so, we shared a truly carefree childhood—times when it was just the two of us.

I remembered one bitterly cold winter in second grade, when a boy named Humbert Chapman sitting behind me stuck his chewed gum in my ponytail. The whole class burst into mocking laughter, and I felt completely alone.

I burst into tears, but my homeroom teacher just brushed it off, saying, "Boys mess with you because you're pretty. He's just trying to get your attention. Don't cry."

But her words made me feel even worse than the gum in my hair.

That day after school, I cried the whole way home.

When Joseph's father, Edward Shaw, found out, he called Joseph over while he was still doing his homework. "Joseph," he said, "go have a word with that boy from the second-grade class tomorrow."

The next day, during recess, Joseph kicked open the back door of our classroom. That image stayed with me for fifteen years.

He stomped straight to Humbert's desk, his fist slamming down on it with a loud thud.

"Listen up," Joseph said, grabbing Humbert by the collar, his voice still carrying a kid's softness. "Lucille is my sister. Try bullying her again, and I'll beat you up."

As he left, he gave me a reassuring pat on the head with a smile.

From then on, I followed Joseph around like a shadow, and no matter how he tried, he just couldn't shake me.