“You did well.”
“No,” you whispered. “I’m terrified.”
“Both can be true.”
Two days later, you moved into a safe apartment owned by a women’s legal aid foundation Damian funded under another name.
You found that out from the advocate, not from him.
When you confronted him, he looked almost annoyed.
“You weren’t supposed to know.”
“You fund this place?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His face closed.
“My sister needed one like it once.”
You waited.
He did not continue.
You did not push.
Everyone had locked rooms inside them.
You knew that better than most.
The apartment was small but bright, with a view of the river and a deadbolt that made a heavy, satisfying sound when it turned.
For the first time in months, you slept six hours straight.
When you woke, sunlight was on the wall.
No one was standing over you.
No one was checking your phone.
No one was telling you what to wear.
You cried in the shower because freedom felt too quiet.
The legal process began slowly.
Painfully.
Your hospital photos became evidence.
Your statement became a case file.
The wedding footage became both blessing and curse.
There were videos of you fainting.
Videos of Damian lifting your veil.
Videos of the bruise appearing under smeared makeup.
The internet ate it alive.
Some people believed you.
Some called you an actress.
Some said you trapped Leonardo.
Some said Damian staged it to attack the Harrington family.
Strangers dissected your face, your dress, your body, your past.
You wanted to disappear.
Damian told you not to read comments.
You read them anyway.
Then you hated yourself for bleeding over people who did not know you.
One evening, after a particularly cruel article suggested you had “a pattern of emotional instability,” you threw your laptop onto the couch and screamed.
Damian was in the kitchen, making coffee badly.
He looked up.
“Do you want me to destroy them legally or financially?”
Despite everything, you laughed.
It came out wet and broken.
“You can’t destroy everyone who talks badly about me.”
“I can try.”
