PART 1:

The first time I saw the scars hidden beneath my wife’s wedding dress, the music from our reception was still playing downstairs.

By sunrise, the man who caused them would be taken away in handcuffs.

Claire stood in the bridal suite under the soft chandelier light, trembling as I unfastened the tiny pearl buttons along her gown. A moment earlier, she had been smiling. Then the ivory fabric slipped from her shoulders, and I went still.

Faded scars crossed her back, waist, and ribs.

Some were thin.

Some were rough.

All of them were old.

“Who did this to you?” I whispered.

Her face collapsed.

“My stepfather.”

The answer barely came out.

“He said nobody would ever believe me,” she continued. “My mother chose him every time. When I threatened to call the police, he said he would ruin me.”