I lifted my chin and stared hard at the girl in the mirror. Her eyes were tired. Her hair wasn’t perfect. But she was still standing.
“You’re not the victim anymore,” I whispered.
And this time, I believed it.
The dress might’ve been soft, but there was steel underneath now. Steel forged by years of silence, by every time I was told to smile, to settle, to stay small.
I was done letting other people decide what kind of girl I was.
I knew who I was walking out of this room.
A knock echoed through the silence—sharp, firm, and familiar.
I didn’t have to look to know it was him.
My fingers hovered at the handle for a beat too long, heart pounding like it hadn’t caught up with everything we’d just walked through. Then I opened the door.
And there he was.
Nick stood in the dim hallway light, a black suit clinging to his frame like it was tailored for the storm we just survived. Broad shoulders, lean waist, sleeves wrinkled from stress and motion. His tie hung crooked around his neck like an afterthought, and the faintest hint of dried blood still clung to the edge of his collar. He must’ve tried to rinse off quickly—his blond hair still damp and messy, like he’d run his hands through it a dozen times but never calmed the chaos.
His eyes found me instantly.
They dragged over me slow and sharp—taking in the dress, the bare shoulders, the slight tremble I was still trying to swallow. His gaze burned. Not with lust. Not with pity. Something deeper. Something dangerous and desperate.
“Are you okay?” he asked, voice rough.
I nodded. Even though I wasn’t sure. Not really. “Are you?”
His jaw ticked before he answered. “I’ve never been less.”
The words hit hard. They didn’t ask for pity or understanding. They gave it. A quiet confession between two people who had walked through fire and were still smoldering.
He held out his hand.
Open. Waiting.
I stared at it for a second longer than I should’ve. Those fingers—the same ones that had just left bruises on a handler’s suit jacket—now curled soft, like they were offering me safety instead of violence.
I took it.
His palm closed around mine, warm and steady, and just like that, the hallway shrank down to nothing but us.
We walked together, side by side. His steps were solid, mine a little unsteady. But he kept pace with me like he could feel every hesitation, every flicker of doubt still riding my ribs.
The courthouse buzzed around us—clerks clicking keys, doors creaking open, a hum of machinery and murmurs. But none of it touched us.
Nick kept me close. His thumb traced soft, deliberate circles against my skin. And that simple motion—the gentleness of it—nearly undid me. No one had ever held me like that before. Not like I was something fragile and worth protecting. Not like I was already his.
As we reached the corridor that led to the courtroom, I caught our reflection in the glass doors.
We didn’t look like a couple in love.
We looked like a storm.
His suit was rumpled, my dress still clung to me from the heat of adrenaline, and our faces carried the weight of too many wars in too little time. But we stood there, together. Two people who had been dragged through hell and still chose each other.
I didn’t recognize myself.
