Prologue
Blessed Are the Silent
The courtroom was colder than the night I found the hidden camera behind my bookshelf.
My hands didn’t shake. Not because I was calm, but because I had moved so far past fear, it doesn’t register anymore. I had got the photos. The screenshots. The time-stamped logs. The thirty-four documented instances of Warren Ellison showing up where he didn’t belong.
He followed me.
To the gym.
To my grocery store.
To my gynecologist’s office.
He hacked my calendar.
He broke into my apartment—door wide open, the A/C turned off, my toothbrush wet.
He didn’t leave fingerprints. He didn’t touch my body.
But I know he was there.
I felt him.
My advocate sat next to me, a manila folder thick with evidence between us. Her perfume—something floral and professional—couldn’t mask the sour smell of fear that permeates the room. My fear. The fear of every woman who's ever had to prove she wasn't crazy.
Warren sat across the aisle, pressed suit and perfect posture. He didn’t look at me directly; he was too smart for that. Instead, he studied his hands, occasionally whispering to his attorney, a sharp-featured man whose hourly rate probably exceeds my weekly salary.
I caught Warren's eye just once. He smiled. Not a full smile, just the slight uptick at the corner of his mouth that used to appear when I'd deliver reports early. That little quirk that once made me feel accomplished now makes my stomach clench like I've swallowed broken glass.
"All rise," called the bailiff.
The judge entered, a man with steel-gray hair and half-moon reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. I rose with everyone else, legs unsteady beneath me.
"Be seated," he said, voice flat and practiced. The rustle of movement filled the courtroom as we all sank back down.
Judge Harriman—according to the nameplate on the bench—flipped through a stack of papers, his expression giving nothing away. My advocate leaned toward me.
"Remember," she whispered, "you already have the temporary order in place. We just need to make it permanent."
I nodded, but the temporary restraining order feels like tissue paper, something Warren could tear through without a second thought. He's already violated it twice. The police did nothing but take a report.
"We're here on the matter of Magdalena Holloway versus Warren Ellison," the judge announced, looking up from the documents with an expression I can't read. "Ms. Holloway is seeking a permanent stalking order against the defendant."
Two and a half hours later, my throat is raw from repeating the same answers over and over. Warren's attorney had twisted every word I've spoken, manipulated every piece of evidence I've presented.
"So, Ms. Holloway," he said, pacing before me with casual confidence, "you claim my client appeared at your gynecologist's office to stalk you, yet you have no photographic evidence of this alleged incident?"
"I was there for a medical appointment. I wasn't thinking about documenting—"
"Just answer yes or no, please."
I clenched my jaw. "No."
"And these texts you've submitted," he continued, holding up printouts like they're contaminated. "Couldn't they simply be a supervisor checking on an employee who had suddenly gone missing from work?" He raised his eyebrows, addressing the judge more than me. "My client was simply concerned."
"Objection, your honor. My medical history is not relevant to the stalking case.”
"Sustained," Judge Harriman said without looking up from his notes.
But the damage was done. Warren's attorney smiled—a predator's smile—and switched tactics.
"Ms. Holloway, isn't it true that you've been diagnosed with anxiety? That you're currently taking medication for this condition?"
My heart pounded. The medical records. Somehow, they got my medical records.
"Yes, but that has nothing to do with—"
"And isn't it also true that you've had difficulty maintaining relationships in the past? That you have a history of what some might call… dramatic reactions to perceived slights?"
I felt the blood drain from my face. My mother shifted in her seat behind me. I could feel her disapproval radiating like heat. She warned me about this, about how they'd try to paint me as unstable, neurotic, a woman scorned.
"Your Honor," my advocate interrupted, "Ms. Holloway's medical history is confidential and irrelevant to these proceedings."
"I'm establishing a pattern of behavior," Warren's attorney countered smoothly. "The court needs to understand the complainant's state of mind."
Judge Harriman considered for a moment, then nodded. "I'll allow it, but tread carefully, Counselor.”
"Thank you, Your Honor." The attorney turned back to me, shark-like. "Ms. Holloway, would you describe your relationship with Mr. Ellison as professional?"
I swallowed hard. "Yes. He was my supervisor."
"Just your supervisor? Nothing more?"
"I…" I hesitated, feeling sweat beading along my hairline. "He was my supervisor."
Warren's attorney smiled, leaning against the table. "Mr. Ellison contends he was much more than that, Ms. Holloway. He states he was your mentor, both professionally and personally. Would you care to comment on that characterization?"
The word "mentor" hit like a slap. My throat tightened.
"That's how he portrayed himself," I managed. "But that wasn't the reality."
"Your Honor," Warren's attorney said, straightening his tie, "my client took Ms. Holloway under his wing when she first joined the company.
He provided career guidance, helped her navigate office politics, and even offered personal advice when solicited.
" He gestured toward Warren, who nodded solemnly.
"Their relationship extended beyond office hours, with Mr. Ellison often inviting her to professional development events after hours.
He even met with her mother to discuss Ms. Holloway's career trajectory. "
My heart stopped. My mother. He brought my mother into this.
I turned lightly, just enough to see her sitting three rows back. She wasn't looking at me. She was nodding.
"Your Honor," Warren's attorney continued, "Ms. Holloway's own mother can attest to Mr. Ellison's mentorship role. Mrs. Holloway has provided a written statement describing how Mr. Ellison consulted with her about her daughter's career advancement opportunities."
The judge glanced up, adjusting his glasses. "Is Mrs. Holloway present in the courtroom today?"
My mother stood, her spine straight as a ruler, her cream-colored blouse perfectly pressed. "I am, Your Honor."
I couldn’t breathe. The room tilted, and the room spun as Caroline approached the stand. My mother—the woman who once told me that anxiety was a "luxury for the weak-minded"—was about to testify on behalf of my stalker.
"Mrs. Holloway," Warren's attorney said, his voice dripping with rehearsed respect, "could you please describe your understanding of Mr. Ellison's relationship with your daughter?"
Caroline smoothed her skirt as she settled into the witness chair, her wedding ring catching the fluorescent light. The diamond had always looked too large for her thin fingers—a constant reminder of the marriage she'd maintained for status rather than love.
"Warren has been nothing but professional and supportive," she said, voice clear and confident. "He called me several times, concerned about Magdalena's… episodes at work."
"Episodes?" the attorney prompted.
"Yes. My daughter has always been…" Caroline paused.
"Dramatic. Prone to misinterpreting situations.
She's always had difficulty with authority figures, especially men.
" Her gaze finally found mine, and I saw something there I'd never seen before—vindictiveness.
"Warren was trying to help her learn appropriate workplace boundaries. "
The words hit me like physical blows. My chest constricted, each breath becoming a conscious effort. The fluorescent lights overhead seemed to pulse with my heartbeat, casting harsh shadows across my mother's face. I could taste copper in my mouth—I'd bitten my tongue without realizing it.
"And did Mr. Ellison express concerns about your daughter's behavior to you directly?" Warren's attorney continued, his voice smooth as silk.
"Yes. He was worried about her stability. Her ability to maintain professional relationships."
"Mrs. Holloway, thank you for your testimony," the judge said, making a note in his file.
I couldn’t look at her as she walked back to her seat. The betrayal cuts deeper than anything Warren has done. My own mother. The woman who was supposed to protect me, who should have been my first defender.
My advocate squeezed my arm. "We still have the evidence," she whispered. "The logs, the photos, the documentation."
But I knew it wasn't enough. Not anymore. Not after my own mother had painted me as unstable, dramatic—a woman who couldn't be trusted with her own perceptions.
The judge cleared his throat. "I'd like to hear from Ms. Holloway directly about the alleged violations of the temporary order."
I stood on wobbly legs and approached the stand again. The wood felt cold beneath my palms as I steadied myself.
I gripped the stand, steadying myself against a wave of dizziness. The judge's face swam before me, his features blurring as he asked about the violations. I forced myself to focus.
"The first violation occurred three days after the temporary order was issued," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "I found him sitting in his car outside my apartment building. When I called the police, he was gone before they arrived."
Judge Harriman looked over his glasses at me. "And you're certain it was Mr. Ellison?"
"Yes, Your Honor. I have photos." I glanced at my advocate, who nodded encouragingly. "The second time was at the grocery store. He followed me through every aisle, staying just far enough away to maintain plausible deniability."