Your Slap, Your Funeral

Synopsis

My sister Emily was eight months pregnant when she bumped into her husband's mistress during a prenatal checkup. When she got home, instead of an apology, all she got was a vase smashed in her face. "Didn't I tell you not to go see Chloe? Can't you hear me?" Edward Harris, her husband, shouted. He slammed the door and sped off to that woman's apartment. When Emily called me, her voice was trembling. I didn't say a word. I hung up and dialed another number. "Freeze all of Harris Group's loans today," I said. "Mr. Sinclair, but it will—" "Do it."