For ten years of my life, I’ve been Carter’s puppet. Whenever we walked in a room, my eyes were supposed to be either on the ground or on him, or he’d grab my arm until it bruised, saying through his gritted teeth that he wouldn’t walk with a whore on his arm. All that because I dared to look another way or because he thought I looked at another man. Since the day I turned eight and I was promised to Carter, he was a nonstop presence in our house, already acting like I was his.
