Spencer looked from them to me.
Then he lowered his voice.
“Hannah, put your phone away.”
I continued holding it.
“I’ve already called 911.”
Gertrude’s smile disappeared.
“You did what?”
“I called the police.”
Spencer stared at me.
“You called the police on your husband?”
“I called because you threw wine in my face and threatened me.”
He leaned closer.
“You’re going to regret this.”
One of the security guards immediately stepped between us.
“Sir, please remain where you are.”
Spencer backed away, furious.
I could hear my own heartbeat, but beneath the fear, I felt an unfamiliar sense of freedom.
For years, I had allowed Spencer to convince me that every disagreement was my fault.
If he insulted me, I was too sensitive.
If he shouted, I had provoked him.
If his mother humiliated me, I was expected to forgive her because family was important.
Whenever I objected, Spencer reminded me how fortunate I was to be married to him.
