The family dinners at the home of Marcus’s parents were always a trial. The long, lacquered table was set with ostentatious luxury, crystal goblets filled with tart red wine, and the tense, polished smiles of people who had been accumulating resentments for years. Anna always felt like an outsider here, an exhibit in a museum to be observed and silently judged.
Tonight’s occasion was a birthday celebration for Marcus’s father, Arthur, a severe man with a commanding presence and an unyielding gaze. He was the very embodiment of power and conservative values. Marcus’s mother, Eleanor, seemed soft and yielding by contrast, but beneath that gentle facade was a will of steel and a masterful ability to manipulate everyone around her.
The food was exquisite, but the atmosphere was suffocating. The conversation orbited entirely around Marcus—his successes at work, his prospects, his future plans. They spoke little of Anna, occasionally tossing a perfunctory compliment about her appearance or her quiet demeanor. She did her best to play her part, smiling and nodding in all the right places, a ghost at their feast.
Her husband, Marcus, was in his element. He was handsome, successful, and accustomed to universal admiration. Anna remembered, with a pang of sorrow, how she had once fallen in love with that image—his strength, his charisma. But over time, that strength had twisted into control, and his charisma had become a mask for tyranny.
Suddenly, the tense quiet was shattered by the sharp sound of breaking glass. Anna had clumsily knocked over her wine glass. Red wine bled across the pristine white tablecloth, a grotesque, spreading stain.
“Careful,” Marcus hissed, his eyes flashing with a cold fire. “Is it impossible for you not to be so clumsy?”
Anna felt a hot flush of shame creep up her neck. She tried to apologize, but the words caught in her throat.
“Marcus, darling, don’t start,” Eleanor attempted to smooth things over. “It can happen to anyone.”
No, Mother. It doesn’t happen to normal people,” Marcus snapped, his furious gaze still locked on Anna. “This is what happens when you’re distracted and careless.”
Anna lowered her head, the familiar sting of tears threatening to fall. She knew the drill. The best course of action was to be silent, to not provoke his anger further. But tonight was different. Tonight, she was ready.
The tension in the room stretched to a breaking point. Arthur watched the scene unfold in silence, as if it were a common, uninteresting play. Eleanor nervously fiddled with her napkin.
Without warning, Marcus shot up from his chair. He grabbed Anna’s arm, his grip like a vise. “Come on,” he snarled, pulling her towards the exit. “I need to have a word with you.”
Anna tried to pull away. “Marcus, let me go,” she pleaded softly.
“I said, let’s go!” he roared, and in that moment, his hand flew up.
The slap was sudden and hard. A sharp, explosive pain erupted on her cheek, and the world swam before her eyes. She staggered, barely catching herself on the back of a chair. The room fell into a dead silence. Arthur and Eleanor both looked away, their complicity a familiar, suffocating blanket. They never intervened. They never judged. They simply pretended nothing had happened.
But Anna’s reaction was not what they expected.
Instead of tears and fear, a slow, cold smile spread across her face. She straightened up, her posture regal, and looked Marcus directly in the eye.
“Is that all?” she asked, her voice calm and clear.
