The first sound of my marriage was not music. It was my own nose cracking against the marble floor while my father laughed above me.
Twenty minutes before that, the ballroom had looked like a dream someone rich enough had ordered from heaven. Crystal chandeliers. White roses hanging from gold arches. Champagne towers glowing under warm lights. My new husband, Daniel Whitmore, stood beside me with his hand at my waist, looking at me like I was the only person breathing.
Then my father walked over.
Frank Hale had worn the same smug smile all night, the one that made waiters move faster and relatives lower their eyes. My mother, Patricia, floated behind him in silver silk, pretending elegance could hide greed.
“Lena,” Dad said, gripping my elbow hard enough to bruise. “Your husband can afford it.”
Daniel’s smile faded. “Afford what?”
Dad ignored him and leaned close to me. His whiskey breath burned my cheek. “Thirty thousand. Down payment on the Cadillac Escalade.
