Frank Yates knew that in the eyes of his wife, his image was set in stone. He was the live-in loser, the man who drove the car and cooked the meals, not a man of substance. Words were cheap, and after four years of being looked down upon, he knew that no amount of eloquent speech would change Cloud Lee’s mind. Only cold, hard facts—undeniable reality placed directly in front of her—would shatter her preconceived notions.
So, he remained silent.
His hands tightened on the leather steering wheel of the Mercedes, his knuckles whitening slightly. instead of arguing, he pressed down on the accelerator. Ahead, the traffic light at the intersection was counting down. The digital green numbers flickered: Nine... eight... seven...
The engine purred, a low growl of German engineering, as the car
