I was exactly eight months and two days pregnant when my millionaire husband raised his hand at me again.
The enormous imported Austrian crystal chandelier hanging far above us shook under the force of his shouting, scattering broken flashes of rainbow light across the icy marble foyer. I lowered myself to the polished floor, wrapping both trembling arms tightly around my swollen stomach, folding inward like a shield.
Stay with me, I begged silently to my unborn son. Please hold on. We are almost there.
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