They say you don’t marry a man; you marry his family. In my case, I married into a fortress, and I was the prisoner they forgot to lock up.
The atmosphere in the Blackwood Estate was always heavy, a dense fog of unspoken criticisms and rigid expectations that clung to the velvet drapes and the cold, polished marble floors. It was a Tuesday evening, the kind of evening that felt identical to every other in my three years of marriage to James. The dining room was silent, save for the scraping of silver against china.
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