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“Why?” He throws his hands up. “What makes her so special?”

I cross the room in three quick strides, getting right in his face. “Because I said so.” My voice drops to a whisper that carries more threat than any shout. “Question me again on this, little brother, and we’re going to have problems.”

Seb’s eyes widen, but he holds his ground. “Jesus, Zeke. What kind of hold does this woman have on you?”

I step back, running a hand through my hair as I try to reign in my temper. That’s the question that’s been haunting me since the moment I saw her in my club. What is it about Eve that makes me willing to risk everything I’ve built?

Chapter 7

The Ties that Bind

Evelyn

The meeting hall smells like burnt coffee and despair. It clings to the peeling walls and lingers in the corners, a constant reminder of the struggles we all bear. Each deep breath I take is weighted, as if the stale air is saturated with the unspoken pain of those gathered here.

I push through the heavy wooden door, my feet heavy with dread as I make my way to the refreshment table. Same stale cookies. Same watered-down coffee. Same faces wearing carefully constructed masks of “I’m fine” that crack a little more each week.

“Eve!” Lydia waves from her usual spot, her blonde hair bouncing as she gestures me over. She’s already claimed three chairs in the circle, saving spots for our little group.

I grab a Styrofoam cup and pour myself some coffee, more out of habit than desire. The liquid is almost transparent and will taste like warm dishwater, but it gives my hands something to do.

“You’re late.” Olivia appears beside me, reaching for a cookie. Her designer scarf probably costs more than my monthly grocery budget. “I was starting to think you weren’t coming.”

“Traffic.” I don’t mention I sat in my car for fifteen minutes debating whether to come in at all while Eli sat in the car next to me. He’s been following me all day, and I hate it.

Almost as much as I hate these meetings. They help, but some days everyone’s shared trauma is suffocating.

“Besides,” I add, giving Olivia’s hand a gentle squeeze. “Today is all about you. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

She offers me a faint smile. She’s not excited about this any more than I was when it was my time.

We gather our meager refreshments and join Lydia in the circle. She’s wearing her favorite tortoise print cat-eye glasses today with a high collar shirt that buttons up her neck. The combination makes her look like a 1950s librarian.

“How’s Leo?” Lydia asks, genuine concern in her hazel eyes.

“Better.” I stir my coffee, watching the liquid swirl. “No more incidents with other kids. The nightmares aren’t as frequent now either.”

“Time helps,” Olivia says softly, her perfectly manicured fingers wrapped around her own cup. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it will.”

The familiar ache in my chest tightens. We’re all here for different reasons, but the pain that brought us together is the same. Different flavors of the same poison.

The meeting facilitator starts arranging chairs, signaling we’re about to begin. Around us, other women drift to their seats, carrying their own cups of terrible coffee and wearing their own careful masks.

Once everyone is in their seats, the facilitator gets us started with a brief introduction, then she turns the floor to Olivia. Olivia stands, brushes her hand down her blouse and adjusts the scarf around her neck. She’s nervous, and I can’t say I blame her.

“I never thought I’d end up in a place like this, but I’m guessing we’ve all said or thought that.” Olivia’s voice waversas she speaks to the circle. Her fingers twist the Hermes scarf around her neck—a nervous habit I’ve noticed. “But this next part is probably unique to me.” She looks down at the cup of coffee in her hands and sighs. “My father arranged my marriage. I never really connected with Vinny, but that didn’t matter. I had no choice. He seemed charming at first, but…”

She trails off, eyes still glued to the inside of her coffee cup. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows under her eyes, highlighting the remnants of old bruises that makeup can’t quite hide.

“He started with little things,” she continues. “Controlling what I wore. Who I talked to. Then came the accusations—I was flirting with his associates, disrespecting him in front of the family. The first time he hit me, I convinced myself it was my fault. We’d only been married a week.”

My stomach churns. I know this story. We all do, in our own ways. Different men, same pattern.

“The beatings got worse. Black eyes. Cracked ribs.” Olivia’s voice drops to barely above a whisper. “He’d apologize afterward, buy me expensive gifts. But then something would set him off again. One night, he came home drunk, paranoid that I was going to leave him. He wrapped his hands around my throat—”

Her fingers drift to her neck, touching the silk scarf. Now I understand why she always wears them.

“I thought I was going to die.” Tears slip down her cheeks. “Vinny pushed further and further with each beating.”