My husband slammed me into the refrigerator, his knee crashing into my face until I heard the crack. Blood poured down my lips as I reached for my phone, but my mother-in-law ripped it away. “Stop overreacting,” she sneered. “It’s just a scratch.” “Drama queen,” my father-in-law muttered. They thought they’d silenced me. What they didn’t know was: in that moment, I wasn’t breaking—I was planning their end.
The Miller kitchen was a masterpiece of modern design, a sterile expanse of white marble and stainless steel that gleamed under the recessed lighting. It was beautiful, expensive, and utterly devoid of warmth. To Rachel Miller, it felt less like a heart of the home and more like an operating theater where she was perpetually…
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