The gesture was small, but Ivan noticed it.
So did everyone else.
For years, Ivan had depended on the discomfort of witnesses.
He knew most people would rather look away than interfere in a marriage.
He knew embarrassment could keep decent people silent almost as effectively as fear.
But the overturned grill had removed any room for polite interpretation.
They had heard me say the chicken was not finished.
They had seen him seize my wrist.
They had heard me scream.
Now they were looking at the injury he had caused.
Ivan glanced from face to face as though searching for someone willing to laugh again.
No one did.
“They’re watching,” I said quietly.
His jaw tightened.
“You embarrassed yourself,” he replied.
Even then, he could not admit what he had done.
He needed the story to remain about my reaction, not his violence.
He pointed toward the shattered glasses and the food scattered across the patio.
