Page 103 of Held-
“And if they grant it?” my father asks.
“Then Ethan legally can't come within a specified distance of Cece. If he violates that order, it will only add more evidence to our case.”
Joe stands, sliding his legal pad into his briefcase with practiced efficiency. “I'll text you the details for your medical examination once I've made the arrangements. Should be later today if my contact is available.”
“Thank you,” I say, feeling a strange mix of relief and anxiety at the thought of documenting my injuries. More evidence means a stronger case, but it also means more people examining the marks Ethan left on me, more explaining, more reliving what happened.
Joe hands me a business card, a heavy-cream stock embossed with his name and contact information. “Put this in your phone immediately,” he says, his tone gentle but insistent. “If Ethan approaches you or tries to contact you in any way, call the police first, then call me. Day or night.”
I take the card, nodding as I slip it into my pocket. “I will.”
My father rises, extending his hand to Joe. He shakes my father's hand, then Brayden's, before turning back to me. “We're going to get through this, Ms. Montgomery. You have my word.”
As the door clicks shut behind Joe, an awkward silence fills the living room. My father shifts uncomfortably in his chair, his fingers drumming against his Bible as he stares at the closed door. When he finally turns back to me, his face is drawn with more emotion than I've seen from him in years.
“Cecelia, I need to apologize?—”
“Don't,” I cut him off, raising my hand. “Not right now, Dad. Please.”
His mouth snaps shut, surprise flashing across his features.
“I appreciate what you're trying to do,” I continue. “But I can't handle one more emotional conversation today. I just...I can't.”
Brayden moves to sit beside me on the couch, his thigh pressing against mine in silent support. My father tracks the movement, but for once, he doesn't flinch or scowl at our closeness.
“I understand. Perhaps another time.”
“Another time,” I agree, relief washing through me. I'm not ready for whatever heart-to-heart he's prepared to offer—not when I can still feel the ghost of Ethan's fingers around my wrists, not when my emotions are this raw and exposed.
My father clears his throat, shifting gears with practiced ease. “Maybe we can have dinner when you’re ready. All three of us.”
“I’d enjoy that.”
The idea of my father and Brayden sitting at the same table still feels surreal, but a small smile edges onto my face. Awkward? Definitely. But the fact that my father is even willing makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
“Well,” Brayden mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, “breaking bread with a preacher wasn’t on my bingo card, but… sure. I can behave for a meal.” His hand settles over mine, warm and steady. “You’re worth the effort.”
My father stands, tucking his Bible under his arm. “I should go. I'll speak with Mrs. Holloway first thing. She's usually at the church office by seven, organizing the weekly bulletin.” He straightens his shoulders, determination hardening his features. “And then I'm calling an emergency meeting with the community outreach committee. We need to discuss the Kincaids' past donations and what this means for our charity work.”
“Dad, you don't have to?—”
“I do, Cecelia. Perhaps revisiting their financial history with the church will help our case. Show a pattern of behavior.” He hesitates, then adds, “Money often reveals a person's true character.”
I nod, too exhausted to argue. “Thank you.”
He moves toward the door but pauses with his hand on the knob. For a moment, it seems he might say something more, but instead he simply nods. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I let out a breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding as the door clicks shut behind him. The room instantly feels lighter, as if some invisible weight has lifted with his departure. And beneath that relief is something stranger—seeing him actually stand up for me instead of pushing back feels unreal in a way I’m still trying to process.
Beside me, Brayden exhales hard, his entire body loosening at once, tension spilling out of him after being wound tight for far too long.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters, dropping his head back against the couch. His hand finds mine, fingers gently tracing the bruises on my wrist. “Seeing you in those handcuffs...”
I turn to look at him—really see him—for the first time since this nightmare began. The shadows beneath his eyes tell me he hasn’t slept.
“It wasn’t exactly a high point for me either,” I say, trying for humor that collapses the moment it leaves my mouth.
Brayden’s expression tightens as his thumb glides gently over my skin, his features shifting into a storm of barely restrained emotion.