I never told my in-laws that I was the Chief Justice’s daughter. When I was seven months pregnant, they forced me to cook the entire Christmas dinner myself. My mother-in-law even forced me to eat standing in the kitchen, saying it was “good for the baby.” When I tried to sit down, she pushed me so hard that I started having a miscarriage. I grabbed the phone to call the police, but my husband snatched it away and said contemptuously, “I’m a lawyer. You won’t win.” I looked h… En voir plus

“Just add a little sauce, honey,” she said, turning to Mark. “I’m sorry, but she’s a little nervous about the pregnancy hormones.”

Mark laughed uneasily. “Don’t worry, buddy. Women, right?”

I felt a tear well up in my eyes. I went back to the kitchen.

I was William Thorne’s daughter. I grew up in a library filled with first-edition law books.

I had attended debutante balls in Washington, D.C., and played chess with Supreme Court justices in my living room.

But David didn’t know that. Sylvia didn’t know that.

When I met David, he was a rebel. He wanted to escape the suffocating pressure of my father’s legacy.

I wanted to be loved for who I was, not for my last name. So I told David I had distanced myself from my family. I told him my father was a retired office worker in Florida.