His brows knitted together.
“What do you mean you already ate? What about Mom and me?”
I retrieved a spotless white dinner plate and set it at his place.
“Ask your mother. She’s managing your entire salary now. I’m sure she can arrange something.”
His face tightened with anger.
“I’m your husband! You’re supposed to make sure there’s food in this house!”
“And you told me I was responsible for my own expenses,” I replied. “I’m simply respecting your decision.”
Ryan ordered almost $300 of steakhouse food, including delivery and tip. At checkout, a red decline appeared. He tried again; the result was identical.
“Madison, unlock my credit card!”
I marked my page and shut the book.
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