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There I was, stuck in the biggest quandary of my life. To stay, tolerating this horrific attack on my psyche, or to flee, and possibly loose everything. Tough decision, considering the circumstances.

It started, as most things do, in the midst of a heated argument. I'd never admit it to him, but god, he was sexy when he was furious. I love how the tiny muscle in his jaw ticks when he clenches his teeth, his dark eyes blazing. I love how he stands so straight, his fists clenched, speaking in a deceptively collected tone. In truth, sometimes I prod just to get him started.

This was one of those times.

He had taken me out that night to dinner. The restaurant was magnificent, of course. Leave it to him to pick quality. He wore a fitted green cashmere turtleneck, dark jeans, his belt, and black boots. Very euro-trend especially paired with his tall, almost lanky form, and that shock of tousled black hair. He was quality, himself. I was on his arm, and proud to be there. My long, dark red hair was piled high on my head, and I had gone understated in the timeless 'little black dress', my heels high and pulling my calf muscles taunt, stretching my legs for seemingly miles.

Throughout dinner, I kept instigating glances from the men at the surrounding tables. When I would catch them admiring my full, soft ...

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