Javier's chair scraped sharply against the marble floor.
"Sit down, Clara."
I didn't move.
He leaned forward, lowering his voice into that familiar, dangerous whisper he used whenever he wanted to frighten me without attracting attention.
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"You're making a terrible mistake."
A drop of wine slid from my hair onto the white tablecloth. I watched it spread through the fabric, a dark red stain that grew wider with every second.
"No, Javier," I said. "I think I've finally stopped making one."
Mercedes placed her champagne glass down with exaggerated care.
"Honestly, Clara. Calling security because your husband lost his temper? Have you no sense of proportion?"
I looked at her.
For three years, I'd been trying to earn that woman's approval.
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