The first thing I tasted was the metallic tang of my own blood. The second was the cold, intoxicating flavor of impending victory.

I was kneeling on the imported Persian rug of our sprawling, mahogany-lined dining room. The grand chandelier above me cast a warm, golden light that felt entirely out of place in a room suffocating under the weight of sheer malice. Across the long expanse of the polished table sat my husband, Richard Vance. He was impeccably dressed in a custom-tailored charcoal suit, sipping a vintage Bordeaux with the casual, bored elegance of a man swatting a fly.