Strict bed rest for my high-risk pregnancy didn’t stop my husband from dragging me out of bed by my ankles, letting my head bounce painfully off the floorboards. “Stop milking this pregnancy and make my guests some drinks,” he roared, kicking me in the back while his mistress cheered from the doorway. I lay bruised and cramping, terrified for my unborn twins, but I kept my face deadpan. I slowly reached for my phone, not to call an ambulance, but to authorize the hostile takeover of his entire venture capital firm. By the time his party ended, he wouldn’t even have a house to host his guests in.
The first thing I heard was my skull hitting the floorboards. The second was my husband laughing like he had dropped a wineglass, not his pregnant wife. “Up,” Adrian snarled, his fingers locked around my ankles. My nightgown twisted around my hips as he dragged me from the bed the doctor had ordered me not…