I did not scream when Ethan’s palm cracked across my cheek. I simply felt the sharp, metallic tang of blood on my tongue and watched him smile at his mistress as if I were nothing more than a stage prop in his grand performance of masculinity. We were at his high-profile charity gala in downtown Dallas, surrounded by the city’s elite, and in that moment, I became the punchline of my own marriage. Brielle Dawson, the woman he shamelessly introduced as his “marketing consultant,” leaned into him, her crimson dress a vivid wound against the tuxedoed crowd. Ethan’s arm tightened…
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