Page 55 of Held-

“You don't get to decide that anymore.” I stand up, needing to move, to put some distance between us. I pace in front of the fireplace where our family photos still line the mantel. My gaze catches on one—me at my wedding to Ethan, my father beaming beside us. I take it off the mantel and toss it into the fire. The glass shatters upon impact.

“What are you doing?”

“Burning the picture of a life I don’t want anymore.”

Dad's face turns to stone as he watches the flames lick at the edges of my wedding photo.

“You've lost your mind. This man has poisoned you against everything good in your life.”

“No, Dad. Ethan did that all by himself.” I stare into the fire, watching as the image melts into ash. “And you helped, pushing me to stay with him even when you knew what he was doing.”

“I never knew?—”

“Mrs. Calloway told you she saw him with Jessica Allen at the motel on Route 16. You told her to mind her business and pray for my marriage instead of spreading gossip.”

Dad's mouth opens, then closes. For once, the great Reverend Montgomery is speechless.

“Did you think I wouldn't find out?” I continue, unable to stop now that the dam has broken. “This whole town is a fishbowl. Nothing stays secret for long.”

“I was trying to protect you,” he finally says. “Divorce is?—”

“A sin? Is that what you were going to say?” I laugh, the sound hollow in the quiet room. “You know what else is a sin, Dad? Lying to your daughter. Pretending everything is fine when her husband is screwing any woman who doesn’t have the good sense to shake him off.”

“Language, Cecelia.”

“Fuck my language!” The curse explodes from my lips.

Dad's face turns crimson. For a moment I think he might actually have a heart attack. Then he strides toward me, finger pointing at my chest.

“That's enough! I will not be spoken to this way in my own home!”

I turn on my heel and head for the stairs. I'm done with this conversation and done with his judgment. His footsteps follow me, heavy and determined.

“We are not finished discussing this, Cecelia!” he calls as I take the steps two at a time.

I push open the door to my childhood bedroom. Dad is right behind me, hovering in the doorway as I yank my suitcase from under the bed.

“What do you think you're doing?”

I snap the suitcase open on the bed. “What does it look like?” I pull open dresser drawers, grabbing handfuls of underwear,socks, and t-shirts, tossing them inside without bothering to fold anything. “I’m leaving.”

“You can't just leave in the middle of a conversation.” He steps into the room, blocking my path to the closet.

I sidestep him. “Watch me.”

I grab armfuls of clothes from the closet—jeans, blouses, dresses I'll probably never wear again—and dump them into the suitcase. I feel his eyes boring into my back, judging every movement as I frantically pack.

“Cecelia Montgomery, you stop this nonsense right now.” His voice thunders through the small bedroom as he steps closer.

I ignore him, moving to my desk where I snatch my laptop, shoving it into its case before tossing it into the suitcase. Next comes my phone charger, yanked from the wall with enough force that the plug bends slightly.

“What exactly do you think you're doing?”

“I'm leaving, Dad.”

“And going where? To him? To that criminal's bed?”

I zip the suitcase with enough force that it nearly breaks. “Yes.”