Before I met Dom, when I’d go to sleep imagining a life where I had someone to share my bed, I’d picture myself cuddled cutely into the man’s side. His arm would be around my shoulders. I’d sleep with my head on his shoulder and my mouth closed, not drooling on his chest at all. But no. My sleep habits haven’t suddenly changed, so I’m still face down, probably snoring. And the mafia kingpin who drugged me into marriage doesn’t pull me into his side. He doesn’t spoon me with his arm around my waist. Nope. He starfishes his body over mine. Smashing me into the damn mattress. And like everything
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