ella

York blizzard. I was eighteen again. The biting wind whipped my face as I st

all fingers turning blue. My father, Arturo-a mere Associate accountant-

the howling wind. "My w

nnabel, out in the storm to remind us of our place. Thirty agonizing minutes passed before the heavy gates finally groaned open. My father's jaw was clenched in silent humiliation, but he sw

t armchair like a queen on a throne, her ruby-encrusted cane resting against her knee. She was busy fawning over her legitimate g

the snow, but I saw the immediate flash o

s of cheap seduction. Mark my words, she'll spread her legs for some rival street thug an

hands trembling. "Mother, ple

"You have no right to speak in this room, Annabel. You carry the di

y!" Abby cried out, he

plush seat. "Shut your

t do you expect from an Associate's litter?" Bette mocked, her Botox-stiffened face twisting into an ugly smirk. "Arturo is

ates vanished. I pulled Abby behind me, my posture straightening. I didn't

through the tension. "I was under the impression tha

caught off guar

here. Yet you, a wife married into this family, take it upon yourself to lecture Hobbs blood be

had aimed straight for Hertha's

tory glare toward her daughter-in-law. "Know your place, Bette," H

h opening and closing like a suffocating fis

tha, I found the Matriarch studying me. The disgust in her ey