Every Thanksgiving, my husband, Salvatore, brings home a showgirl from one of his clubs.

He makes me kneel and serve them drinks. A lesson, he calls it, in how to please a man.

This was the eighth Thanksgiving, and this time, he brought back a girl poured into a tight leather dress.

"She doesn't have any decent jewelry," Salvatore announced. "Give her your heirloom diamond ring. Your grandmother's pearl earrings, too. And take off that silk choker for her."

He smirked. "And listen, she's young, doesn't know the rules. You'll have to show her the ropes. Especially how to handle a man in bed."

Every member of the Genovese family was watching, waiting for my humiliation. I didn't disappoint. I opened my mouth and asked Salvatore for a divorce.

Salvatore let out a sharp, ugly laugh, his eyes full of contempt.

"Francesca, you pull this same shit every time," he jeered. "Your act is pathetic. Even more dramatic than your performance in bed."

He leaned in. "You really want to divorce me? Fine. I'll give you five million in cash if you actually walk out that door."

The living room erupted in laughter. They all said I was playing hard to get, that I didn't know my place.

But they didn't know. This was the 88th time I had asked for a divorce, and it was the first time I truly meant it.

All eyes were on me. Even the new girl, Carmela, was covering her mouth to hide a smirk.

"Place your bets! I bet she's on her knees begging for forgiveness before she even reaches the door."

"I'll put five hundred grand on her staying!"

"I'm in for eight hundred thousand!"

The bet on whether I'd actually leave had become a Thanksgiving tradition. I was their cheapest toy, their favorite cheap thrill.

I just shook my head, a faint, bitter smile on my lips, cursing myself for being so spineless. It had taken me eight years to finally find the courage to leave Salvatore.

"I bet she leaves. Ten million dollars."

A deep, male voice cut through the noise. The others told him not to be a fool. I looked toward the sound but couldn't see who it was in the crowd.

"Salvatore, I'll have my lawyer send the divorce papers to your office. Be sure to sign them."

I had threatened divorce countless times, but this was the first time I’d ever mentioned papers.

Salvatore froze. His hand trembled, and brandy sloshed over the rim of his glass, staining the carpet.

I pretended not to notice. I reached up, unclasped the pearl earrings, and gently placed them in Carmela's palm.

"They're a bit heavy," I said softly. "Your ears might ache if you wear them too long."

"The ring and the choker Salvatore mentioned, I'll have the maid bring them to you."

"Before you, there were seven others. If there's anything you don't understand, just ask them. They live on the second floor. Your room is at the end of the hall."

In eight years of marriage, Salvatore had brought home enough women to form a small army. Tall, short, innocent, sultry—he had a whole collection. The rumor was he wanted to be a modern-day Henry VIII with eight wives.

Well, I wouldn't be one of them.

I untied the silk choker from my neck and stood up, heading for the door. I hadn't even made it out of the living room when a hand gripped my arm, yanking me back.

"Francesca, if you're leaving, you leave with nothing. Is there a single thing on your body that I didn't pay for?"

My bare feet felt like they were standing on razor blades. My breathing hitched.

"You want me to strip?"

Salvatore raised an eyebrow, his eyes raking over me.

"The day your father went bankrupt, didn't your mother strip you naked and serve you to me on a platter? You'll leave the same way you came."

His voice dripped with venom. "Or, you can get on your knees, lick up these five shots of vodka, and I'll forgive this little tantrum."

The crowd behind him howled with laughter.

Back then, shortly after Salvatore and I started dating, the Benedetto family went under. My father was set up by rivals at the docks and left in a vegetative state. My mother, terrified the powerful Genovese family would abandon us, drugged both me and Salvatore. Then she made sure the entire city knew about it, forcing his family to let him marry me.

And just like that, the boy I had loved—the boy I thought had loved me back—began to see me as nothing more than a scheming, disgusting whore.

Salvatore was forced to marry me. On our wedding night, he brought another woman home to humiliate me. They did everything in front of me. I was the one who had to open the lubricant. I was the one who had to kneel and clean up the mess on the sheets.

I lived like that for eight years.

Now, it was time to be free.

"I'll take them off."

Before anyone could react, I had unbuttoned my cashmere coat.

It was late fall, but the heat was cranked up in the living room. Still, I was standing by the door, and a cold draft slithered in through the cracks, raising goosebumps on my bare shoulders.

I reached behind my back and unzipped my dress. The thin chiffon slipped past my waist, and the outline of my body was slowly revealed to the stunned room.

"Oh my God!" one of the women gasped, covering her eyes.

But the men's eyes lit up.

Only Salvatore's gaze darkened. His lips pressed into a thin, hard line. The fingers digging into the flesh of the girl beside him sank deeper, betraying the turmoil inside him.

The dress pooled at my feet, leaving me nearly naked before them all.

Salvatore shoved Carmela aside and threw a wool blanket over my shoulders.

"Francesca, you've got a death wish!" he roared.

"Everybody, close your goddamn eyes! If one word of what you saw today gets out, I'll cut all of your throats!"

"Now get out! All of you!"

Salvatore rarely lost his temper like that in public, especially not with family members. They were all old associates; they knew when to leave. The seven other girls scurried upstairs. Only Carmela remained, frozen in place.

"Are you satisfied, Salvatore? Can you let me go now?"

I looked up at him, tears welling in my eyes but refusing to fall. I had cried too many tears for Salvatore. I wasn't going to cry for him anymore.

"Francesca, stop playing these games with me. It’s disgusting," he hissed, still not believing me. "Don't you dare bring shame on the Genovese family."

I took a deep breath. "Salvatore, I'm serious this time. I want a divorce."

He looked at me as if I'd told the world's greatest joke. He grabbed the back of my neck, forcing my head down.

"You dare divorce me? Can you afford your father's medical bills? Do you have any fucking income? Francesca, how do you think you've been living this life? Without me, how are you gonna make money? Selling yourself?"

He sneered. "And who's going to pay top dollar for a divorced woman like you?"

"You and your mother are the same. A pair of whores who only know how to use their bodies. You make me sick."

"Francesca," he spat, "you're the one who destroyed us."

The drugging incident. No matter how many times I explained I was a victim too, he would never believe me.

Seeing my silence, Salvatore's scowl deepened. He dragged me over to Carmela, forced me to my knees, and pushed my head down toward the table.

"Pour her a drink. You've been doing this for eight years. You should be an expert by now."

For eight years, I hadn't just served Salvatore; I had to take care of those seven other women. I did things I was forced to do, things I volunteered for, things that made me despise myself.

But now, all I wanted was for it to end.

I knelt, poured the wine into the glass at Carmela's feet, then picked it up with my teeth to offer it to her.

Perhaps my obedience bored him. He dragged me furiously into his office and, in front of me, started tearing off Carmela’s clothes.

I'd seen this scene a hundred times. Sometimes he even made me stay and coach them. As usual, I tore open a condom wrapper and held it out.

But this time, Salvatore slapped it away.

"Not this time."

My hand faltered. I pulled it back.

Salvatore had always said that any woman who tried to get pregnant with his child deserved to die.

Maybe Carmela was the one to change his mind.

I didn't look at him, which only seemed to make him angrier. He shoved me into a large walk-in closet and locked the door.

The noises they made that night were loud. I was trapped in that cramped space, forced to listen to it all.

Sometime in the haze, a shrill ringing from my phone woke me.

"Is this Miss Benedetto? Your mother has been shot. She's in emergency surgery right now. Please come to Sacred Heart Hospital immediately."

My heart seized in my chest.

"Salvatore!"

I started pounding on the closet door, trying to drown out the sounds from the bed.

Salvatore, wrapped in a robe with a collar full of love bites, finally opened the door. The woman clung to him, not moving an inch.

"What is it?"

"My mother's been shot. Please, can you take me to the hospital?" I begged him from my knees, tears streaming down my face, terrified he'd refuse just to spite me.

"Francesca, are you serious? Do you even think before you lie? It's three in the morning, and it's snowing. Your mother lives in the safest gated community in the city. What happened? Did a drone strike hit the place?"

Carmela snickered, pointing to the black sky and the blizzard outside.

Salvatore laughed along with her, not even bothering to look at me. "Francesca, you'd even stoop to this just for a little attention?"

Carmela purred, "What's wrong? Was I louder than you? You want to join in?"

I practically crawled out of his bedroom. The villa was on lockdown. In desperation, I grabbed a chair and smashed a window, climbing out into the storm.

Sharp glass tore my hand open, blood streaming down my arm.

It was too late and snowing too hard to find a cab. I just ran through the blizzard, my own blood mixing with the melting snow and dripping from my fingertips.

Beep, beep. A black Cadillac pulled up beside me.

"Get in."