Leila
Lucas sat beside me at the dinner table, his arm slung casually over the back of my chair as he chatted with his uncle—about quarterly profits, the new golf course downtown, last weekend's horse races, a yacht he was thinking of buying. His laughter was easy, practiced, like he'd spent years perfecting the cadence of a man who had nothing to hide. I stared at the crystal chandelier above, its light refracting into a thousand tiny prisms, and my head buzzed with static. What was he playing at?
Around us, the relatives watched like hawks. They'd all heard the rumors—the screaming matches, the nights I'd spent locked in the guest room, the way Lucas had taken to sleeping in his office. Tonight, though, we were a picture of marital bliss. Lucas refilled my wine glass without asking,
