Bleeding White: His Betrayal, Her Rise

years, didn' t look at me in the rearview mirror. I was just part of the scenery, a fixture in the life of h

wned it, her shoes kicked off on the expensive rug. Th

Oh, my g

culpture Mark had given me on our first anniversary. It was a swirling, interlocking form, mea

yes wide with feigned distress. "Sarah, I am so, so sorry. I

"It' s okay, Em. Don' t worry about it. It' s just a thing."

reassurances. He didn' t even look at the s

is very room. "This is us, Sarah," he had said, his voice soft with a love I

mind now, a bitter, ho

f the sculpture. He picked it up, and with a deliberate, violent motion, he smashed it on the floor. The

an object; he was pulverizing our past, grinding every g

ower and appearances. I was a possession, and the sculpture was a symbol of that possession. No

and a small broom. I walked back into the living room and knelt, beginning to sweep up the shards.

s of a broken sculpture. A tangible loss. But the other loss, the one no one could see, was a wound that would never