There are more lights on now—the overhead fixture, the bedside lamps, even the floor lamp in the corner. The room is bright.
I don’t miss the way Iris flinches when she sees my face.
With makeup on, the discoloration is barely noticeable. I’ve gotten very good at covering injuries like this over the past year.
Without it, there’s no hiding what he did.
“Okay,” Penny says, stepping toward me with her phone already raised. Her voice is calm and professional. She takes pictures of my face from different angles—straight on, leftprofile, right profile, tilted down so the light catches the swelling. She’s careful and thorough, zooming in on the worst of it.
When she’s satisfied, she lowers the phone and meets my eyes. “Would it be okay if I took pictures of you in your underwear and bra?” she asks gently.
I nod.
“Are you sure?” she adds, her brow furrowing. “Only if you’re comfortable.”
“Yes,” I say firmly, my voice stronger than I expected. “As I said, I want to keep this bastard as far away from me as possible.”
I reach for the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head, letting it fall to the floor. My jeans follow, pooling around my ankles before I step out of them and kick them aside.
I stand there in my underwear and bra, my arms at my sides.
The room goes silent.
Anna’s eyes widen and Iris takes a sharp breath.
They’re taking in the bruises scattered across my body—the finger-shaped marks on my ribs, the dark splotches on my thighs, the greenish-yellow remnants of older injuries that never quite faded before new ones appeared.
Miranda raises both hands to cover her mouth, trying—and failing—to hide her reaction as tears fill her eyes and spill over.
Penny swallows hard and starts taking pictures. Of all of them, she hides her emotions the best, keeping her expression neutral and her movements efficient. But I still see her lip quiver as she snaps each photo. I see the way her hand shakes slightly when she zooms in on the bruise wrapping around my rib cage.
“Okay,” Penny finally says, her voice breaking on the word. “That should do it.”
I pull my jeans and shirt back on, my fingers fumbling with the button.
Anna and Iris move toward me immediately, crossing the space in just a few strides.
“I am so sorry,” Iris says, her voice trembling as tears spill down her cheeks. She reaches for my hand, holding it gently. “I’m so sorry you had to endure that.”
“I’m so sorry,” Anna echoes, her voice thick with emotion. She takes my other hand, squeezing it.
Miranda steps forward, her face streaked with tears. “I hate him so much,” she says, her voice fierce despite the crying. “I hate him.”
The four women surround me, their arms coming around me in a gentle, protective embrace. It’s not suffocating—it’s careful, like they’re afraid I might break.
Until today, I’d never met them. But I trust their intentions completely.
And at this moment, surrounded by their warmth, I feel something I haven’t felt in a long time.
Loved.
If I’m being honest, I really needed that tonight.
I needed to feel seen. To feel understood. To feel like I wasn’t alone anymore.
To feel like maybe—just maybe—I was going to be okay.
“I hate him, too.” A single tear rolls down my cheek. I’m so tired of crying over Preston Vale. I hope it’s the last tear I shed because of him. I’m ready to leave him in my past.
