Desiree was perched on his lap in a strapless dress, the marks on her neck telling me everything I needed to know about last night.
When he saw me, Conrad slid a transfer agreement across the desk. His tone left no room for argument. "Sign it."
"You made Desiree fall yesterday—her hand was covered in red marks—and you couldn't even bring back what I asked for, so our wedding night was ruined. Don't you think you owe us an apology?"
I took a long breath and looked at the man in front of me as though I were seeing him for the very first time.
I picked up the transfer agreement, tore it to pieces in front of him, and dropped the shreds into the trash. My voice was steady. "The distillery is what my parents left me. You have no right to take it."
He pulled out his phone without a flicker of concern.
The next second, stories broke—safety hazards, tainted ingredients, one accusation after another raining down on the distillery.
Conrad raised an eyebrow and tapped the desk in a lazy, uneven rhythm. "Tracey, the distillery's gone either way. You're my wife—that alone is enough to keep you fed."
"If you enjoy working here that much, I'll let you keep showing up."
I met his contemptuous gaze.