Chapter 4

Sarah sighed and put her phone down on the table, face down. She looked at her friends, who were staring at her with a mixture of shock and admiration.

"He's such a predictable child," Sarah said, shaking her head. "He thinks he can control everything with threats and demands." She knew exactly what he was doing. He was trying to manipulate her, to use his parents' influence to force her back into line.

"So what are you going to do?" Chloe asked.

"I'm going to finish my coffee," Sarah said calmly. To prove her point, she took a long, deliberate sip. "Then I'm going to go see a lawyer."

Mark's car screeched to a halt in front of the coffee shop less than ten minutes later. He must have been nearby. He stormed in, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on their table. His face was a mask of fury.

"What do you think you're doing?" he hissed, grabbing her arm. "I told you to come home."

Sarah didn't flinch. She looked down at his hand on her arm, then back up at his face. She said nothing. In the past, his anger would have terrified her. She would have stammered an apology, rushed to placate him. Now, she just felt a profound sense of detachment. His anger was his problem, not hers.

He seemed to expect her to crumble. When she remained silent, his anger faltered, replaced by a flicker of confusion. He loosened his grip. He tried a different tactic, his voice softening into a tone of pained condescension.

"Sarah, let's not make a scene. Come home. I'll have the maid make you your favorite tea."

The mention of the maid, of her "favorite tea," was another attempt to put her back in the box of the pampered, simple-minded wife. It was pathetic. She was starting to feel a dull ache in her temples.

"Mark, I'm not feeling well," she said, her voice flat. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

He stared at her. The woman in front of him was a stranger. The quiet, accommodating wife he had married would never have defied him so openly, so calmly, especially not in front of her friends. A genuine bewilderment crossed his face. He couldn't understand what had changed.

He tried one last, desperate ploy. He leaned in, his voice a low whisper meant only for her. "Come home, and we can go to that gallery opening you wanted to see this weekend. The one with the Italian painter."

It was an exhibition she had been talking about for months. A month ago, the offer would have been a dream come true. Now, it was just another empty promise from a man who didn't care about her passions, only about using them to control her.

"You said it was a waste of time," Sarah said, her voice quiet but sharp. She quoted him directly. "'Why would I want to spend a Saturday staring at pretentious splotches of paint?'"

Mark recoiled as if she had slapped him. He had no memory of saying it, but he knew from the look on her face that he had. He had no answer. He was completely out of moves. All his tricks, his anger, his fake generosity, his commands, had failed.

He stood there for a long moment, looking lost and powerless. Then, without another word, he turned and walked out of the coffee shop.