Both times, I was expected to smile and move on.

Not this time.

“She’s coming at noon,” Graham said. “You’re going to set the table and apologize.”

I stared at him. “For what?”

“For disrespect. For treating her like she’s a scammer.”

I threw the sheet aside and stood up. “If she doesn’t want to be treated like one, she should stop asking for money she never plans to return.”

His expression darkened. He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell stale coffee and last night’s whiskey.

“You don’t talk to my family like that in my house.”

I met his gaze. “It’s our house. And I pay half the mortgage.”

That’s when he shoved me.

Not hard enough to knock me down.

But hard enough to make the dresser hit the back of my legs.

Hard enough to change everything.

The room went silent.

We both froze.

There was no apology in his eyes—only calculation. He knew exactly what he had done. And he knew it couldn’t be undone with charm or excuses.

He straightened his shirt as if that could erase it.

“At noon,” he said quietly, “you’ll fix this.”

Then he walked out.

I stood there, breathing slowly, one hand gripping the dresser.

Then I picked up my phone.

And for the first time, I called for help.

By 11:40, the dining room was set exactly how he wanted.

At noon sharp, the doorbell rang.

I raised my voice deliberately. “Come in!”