Dean sat up on the bed and chuckled, watching her pull the blanket over herself.
“Obviously, I’d want to know the past of the woman I’m getting married to,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “You didn’t think I’d just enter a marriage blindly, without knowing who hurt you and why? Those scars on your chest... they remind me every day of what you must’ve endured. So, dear wife, I’m sorry if I had to dig into your past.”
Becca didn’t respond. She threw off the covers and marched into the bathroom without a word. Dean lay back down, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts heavy. He sighed, then finally rose and followed her.
He found her sitting silently on the toilet seat. Her eyes were distant, but her voice cut through the tension like a blade.
“And what did you find about me, dear husban
