Page 56 of Held-

“I forbid it.” He steps between me and the door, drawing himself up to his full height.

The word “forbid” hits me like a slap. I'm transported back to a hundred different moments—Dad forbidding me to go to prom with Tyler Jenkins because his parents were divorced, forbidding me to apply to colleges more than two hours away, forbidding me to wear a bridesmaid's dress in my cousin's wedding because the neckline was immodest.

“Frankly, Dad, I don’t need your god damn permission.”

His face contorts with shock at my defiance. He physically recoils, taking a step back as if I struck him.

“What will the congregation think?” he sputters, his hand clutching at his collar. “Have you considered that at all?”

I laugh, the sound bitter and sharp even to my own ears. “I guess I'm becoming the next example of immorality in your sermon, huh, Dad? Another cautionary tale about the wages of sin?”

His face pales. I've never called him out so directly on how he uses other people's mistakes to fuel his Sunday messages.

“That's not fair,” he says, but there's a flicker of guilt that tells me I've hit the mark.

“Isn't it? How many sermons have you preached about fallen women? About the importance of appearances? About honoring thy father?” I hoist my suitcase off the bed. “I bet you've already drafted the one about me.”

“This isn't about my sermons. This is about your safety—your soul.”

“No, it's about your reputation.” I push past him.

Dad follows me down the hallway, his footsteps heavy behind me. “You're making a terrible mistake, Cecelia. That man will ruin your life.”

I spin around at the top of the stairs, nearly losing my balance with the weight of my suitcase. “Maybe I need to destroy who I was to become who I'm meant to be.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but the words falter. For the first time, I think he actually sees me—not the obedient daughter he crafted, but someone far beyond his reach now.

The silence stretches between us, thick as the years I spent trying to make him proud.

“I’ll pray for you.”

I take a breath, steady and sure. “You should probably save your prayers, Dad. I’ve already found something else to believe in.”

His face falls. I don’t wait for his answer. I just walk out of my family home for what may be the last time.

CECE

I drive straightto Brayden’s, my foot heavy on the gas pedal, as though I’m trying to outrun my father’s prayers. The memory of his face—shock shifting into disappointment—stays with me, a snapshot of the exact moment I finally broke free.

My hands shake on the steering wheel. I’ve never spoken to my father that way. Never cursed at him. Never walked out. The adrenaline that carried me through our confrontation is already fading, leaving me hollow and jittery at the same time. I crank the radio up, loud enough to drown out the voice in my head thatsounds far too much like Dad’s. The one insisting I’m about to make the mistake of my life.

Maybe I am. Maybe tomorrow I'll wake up and regret everything.

But right now, as I pull onto the dusty road leading to Jillian's property, all I feel is a wild, terrifying freedom. Like I've jumped from a plane and haven't hit the ground yet.

I park beside Brayden’s bike and sit for a moment, staring at the modest guesthouse where everything shifted. My reflection in the rearview mirror startles me—flushed cheeks, bright eyes, hair mussed from running my hands through it on the drive. I barely recognize myself. The obedient preacher’s daughter is gone, replaced by someone unpolished and real.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab my suitcase from the passenger seat and head for his door. Three sharp knocks, and then I wait—my heart pounding against my ribs as though it’s trying to break free.

The door swings open, and there he is—Brayden, still toweling off from a recent shower, bare shoulders damp, jeans slung on in a hurry. His gaze moves from my suitcase to my face, surprise flickering through his eyes, though not enough to hide the sense that he’d already guessed this moment was coming.

“That was fast,” he says, leaning against the doorframe. His gaze drops to my suitcase. “I'm guessing it didn't go well.”

“You could say that.” My voice catches, and I clear my throat. “I told my father to go to hell. Not in those exact words, but close enough.”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “Wish I could've seen that.”

“No, you don't. It wasn't pretty.” I shift my weight, suddenly unsure. We've shared a bed, shared our bodies, but this feels more intimate somehow. More permanent. “I need a place to stay. Just until I figure things out.”