Fuck. I’m in deeper than I thought.
36
CORA
Ikneel on the floor of my bedroom in Dom’s penthouse, surrounded by shoeboxes I’ve retrieved from my storage unit. My hands tremble slightly as I remove the lid from the first one.
“There you are,” I whisper, staring down at years of carefully hidden evidence.
For the first time in my life, I feel... light. Free. The weight that’s pressed on my chest since I was six years old has lifted, replaced by such unfamiliar hope.
I pull out the first diary, bound in faded blue fabric, my childish handwriting marking the dates. Age twelve. The first time he broke my wrist— “an accident” we told the doctor. I flip through yellowed pages, my fingers tracing words written in purple gel pen.
Daddy said he was sorry. He cried after. Said it wouldn’t happen again if I just listened better.
Behind the diaries sits a stack of photographs. In each one, I’m smiling the perfect political daughter smile, but now I can catalog exactly what each smile was hiding—a bruised rib in this Christmas photo, a split lip covered with makeup at my sixteenth birthday.
I’ve been documenting everything. Secretly. Even when I had no plan to use it.
“What are you doing, beautiful?” Ryder’s voice comes from the doorway.
I look up at him. “Building a case.”
He sits beside me on the floor, his shoulder warm against mine as he picks up one of the diaries. “You kept all this?”
“I never knew why I was saving it. I just... knew I needed to.” I pull out more evidence—medical records, I’d stolen copies of, and photos of my bruises I’d taken in secret. “Part of me never thought I’d use it.”
“What changed?” Ryder’s voice is gentle.
I lean against him, allowing myself the comfort of his solid presence. “I have something to fight for now. And people who’ll fight with me.”
Ryder kisses my temple, and I close my eyes, savoring the tenderness.
In my father’s house, I was constantly braced for impact, muscles tensed, waiting for the next blow. Here, with Ryder’s arm around me and knowing Dom and Liam are here too, I feel my body finally relaxing into itself.
“I never thought I could feel this,” I admit. “Safe. Happy.”
“These are incredible,” Ryder says, carefully lifting a hospital discharge form. “You’ve been documenting everything.”
I nod, but uncertainty creeps in as I sort through more papers. “But will it be enough? My father has spent nineteen years crafting his public persona. The caring single dad who raised his daughter while building his political career.”
Ryder’s face hardens. “That’s bullshit.”
“It’s what people believe.” My hands shake as I rifle through another box. “The press loves him. The ‘family values’ candidate with the perfect daughter. Who’s going to believe me over him?”
“Anyone who sees this evidence.” Ryder squeezes my shoulder. “Anyone who hears your story.”
I pull out more items—report cards with his angry scribbles in the margins about disappointments, photos where his grip on my shoulder left fingerprint bruises. Each piece feels simultaneously powerful and inadequate.
“What if they say I fabricated it all? What if they think I’m just trying to sabotage his campaign?” The questions that have haunted me for years spill out. “He’s so careful. Always closed doors, always had explanations ready.”
At the bottom of the third box, I find something I’d almost forgotten—an old cassette tape recorder. My breath catches.
“What’s that?” Ryder asks.
My fingers tremble as I hold it. “When I was sixteen, I started recording things. Just... insurance. I haven’t listened to these in years.”
I press play, fast-forward through the static, and suddenly my father’s voice fills the room.
