"I know you've been wronged. You were kind enough to help her with prenatal care, and she nearly killed you for it. Go on, Ivy. Adjust it yourself. I dare her to say a single word against it."
When Ivy came back, the red thermometer on the iron wall already read 140°F.
She had cranked it up a full twenty degrees.
The roasting chamber became instant hell. My entire body felt like it was being deep-fried alive.
My dress was soaked through with sweat, clinging to the high swell of my belly.
The frantic kicking inside me was my baby's desperate plea for help.
For my child, I dragged words out of a throat that felt like it was smoldering. My voice was barely a rasp. "I was wrong. Bernard, I know I was wrong..."
The instant I spoke, Ivy's father cut in, his booming voice drowning out my plea. "Mr. Farley, your wife's got quite the figure. Even with that belly she's all curves. A man could just stare and stare..."
My raw, broken voice was swallowed whole.
His gaze was locked on me, brazen and excited, not bothering to hide a thing.
That look made my skin crawl. I pressed my arms over my body and shrank toward the corner.