“That’s right.” Layla nods enthusiastically, lifting her mug in a mock toast. “You’re free.”
“I don’t know if that’s entirely true yet,” Tessa says, her voice quieter now. “But it will be.”
She looks at me, and I hold her gaze, giving her a reassuring smile.
“It will be,” I say firmly. “I promise.”
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
TESSA
Ifeel like I’m living in some alternate reality. Like a twisted version of a Disney fairy tale—the princess locked away in a tower for her own protection, guarded from the Big Bad Wolf prowling below.
I’m sitting in Logan’s luxury condo, perched on his oversized leather couch with a view of the city that probably costs more per month than I used to make in a year. A bodyguard is stationed at the entrance downstairs—Cole or Jack, I can’t remember which shift it is right now. Anything I need can be delivered to me with next-day shipping. Logan and his friends treat me with a level of care I’m not used to—care that feels almost unreal, like I’m a porcelain doll they’re afraid might shatter if handled too roughly.
I’ve lived through a lot of strange situations over the years. I’ve stayed with foster families who ranged from indifferent to outright hostile. I’ve slept on couches that smelled like cigarettes and in bedrooms with locks on the outside instead of the inside. But this? This is something else entirely.
The life I’ve fallen into feels surreal, as if I’m waiting to wake up from it at any moment. Like someone will shake my shoulder and I’ll open my eyes to find myself back in Preston’s apartment, his hand already reaching for me.
I don’t fully understand why these people—people who barely know me—decided I was worth fighting for. But they have.
Penny secured a restraining order against Preston. It was already served and filed within twenty-four hours—faster than I thought possible. By law, he isn’t allowed anywhere near me. My injuries have been documented with photos. My accounts have been recorded, time-stamped, and notarized. If I choose to press charges, I can.
And God, I want him to be held accountable. I want him to pay for what he’s done—not just to me, but for every lie he’s told, every bruise he’s left, every time he made me feel like I was the problem. I want him to sit in a courtroom and hear someone with authority tell him he was wrong. That he was the monster.
But I’ve seen how the system works for women. I can only imagine how it would go if I tried to stand up against Preston and his influential family.
The court proceedings would drag on endlessly. My experiences would be questioned, dissected, and twisted until they barely resembled what actually happened. They would dig through my life with a fine-tooth comb, pull out every ugly or humiliating detail they could find—things that have nothing to do with what Preston did to me, but would paint me as damaged, unstable, unreliable. A foster kid with no family. A girl who couldn’t hack it in the real world. A liar looking for a payout.
Preston would sit there in his expensive suit, his lawyer beside him, his father in the gallery radiating wealth and respectability. Ultimately, he would walk away untouched. He always does. That’s how the world works for people like him.
It’s cruel, but it’s reality.
So the best thing I can hope for—the safest thing—is escape. A chance to live my life without fear breathing down my neck every day. I don’t want to jump at every unexpected sound or check over my shoulder constantly, wondering when he’ll appear.
And for the first time in a long time, sitting here in this beautiful condo with Beatrice purring on my lap and Layla laughing in the kitchen with Logan, that hope doesn’t feel impossible.
It feels like maybe—just maybe—I could actually have a life worth living.
A life that’s mine.
Layla has visited every day over the past week, and it’s been so good to see her outside of work. I think she may be happier with my current living situation than I am. For years, I know she felt helpless, watching me struggle and not knowing how to help. Despite the fact that our friendship started behind a coffee counter, she’s my truest friend. She only ever wanted the best for me, and she’s genuinely elated that I’m finally safe.
Logan has barely left the condo all week. He insists it’s fine since it’s the offseason and workouts are voluntary. We spend our days binge-watching TV shows, ordering food, shopping online, and talking.
I’ve opened up about my years bouncing between foster homes, and sharing this part of my life with someone has been healing. He talks about his family down in Florida and his favorite parts of playing professional hockey with the highlight being winning the Cup. I’ve explained why it’s so important to me to be a social worker and how much I want to make a difference in kids’ lives.
The vibe between us has shifted. He’s no longer the flirty hockey player who used to tease me over the counter at thecoffee shop, asking his daily questions with that playful glint in his eyes. Now, he’s my safe place. He gives me space to breathe, to settle, to exist without constantly looking over my shoulder.
Yet—now that I’m away from Preston, now that my body isn’t perpetually braced for impact—I miss the flirtation, if I’m being honest. Because even stripped of all charm and bravado, Logan is still the most attractive man I’ve ever seen in my life. That hasn’t changed. If anything, watching him move around his kitchen making breakfast, or seeing him sprawled on the couch in sweatpants with Beatrice on his chest, has only made it worse.
Layla comes bounding into the living room from the kitchen, wiping croissant crumbs from her mouth. “All right, babe,” she says, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I gotta head to work. I’m training the new guy today.”
I’m curled up on the couch under a throw blanket, my new laptop—courtesy of Logan—balanced on my knees where I’ve been halfheartedly working on a paper for my social work class. I close it and set it aside.
We decided it was probably best—for now—that I lay low and not return to the coffee shop, even with a bodyguard. Once Joyce and Bob found out what was going on, they practically insisted I stay away, even offering to pay me my normal salary until things settled. I haven’t needed the money since Logan insists on paying for everything—a fact that makes me deeply uncomfortable that he refuses to discuss—but I still miss them. I miss the smell of fresh-ground coffee. I miss the regulars. I miss my routine.
