ELEANOR SINCLAIR
The restaurant she sat waiting in was a soft buzz of clinking glasses and hushed tones.
It was the kind of place Damian always chose as long as he wanted the meeting-someplace upscale but unostentatious, with soft lighting that cast a touch of intrigue and mystery over all who sat under it. I sat alone at our usual window seat, my hands tracing the edge of the silky white tablecloth in need of something to do while I waited, and my gaze cutting to the door every couple of seconds, just to make sure I did not miss him.
Times were the best when he wasn't hitting me.
It was what our marriage was sometimes. It could go from being sweet and enchanting to being a warzone, and I did all I could to make sure that I didn't displease him. Was that not the only reason we had fig
