Chapter 14
CECE
The whole ride to my dad's house, I'm rehearsing what I'll say, but all the words evaporate the moment Brayden pulls up to the curb. Dad's probably watching from behind the curtains, counting my sins each second I spend pressed against Brayden's back.
“You sure you don't want me to come in?” Brayden asks as I swing my leg off his bike. “I don't mind facing the firing squad.”
I hand him back his helmet, fighting the urge to run my fingers through my tangled hair. “And give my father an actual target? No thanks.” I try for a smile, but it feels wobbly. “Let me handle him first. No sense in both of us getting crucified.”
Brayden gives the house a once-over, his jaw tightening with a verdict he doesn’t voice.
“If you need an escape, call,” he murmurs. “I’ll be here in five.”
“I’ll be fine.” I rise on my toes to kiss him, quick but certain. “Can I come by tonight? I’ll drive myself so you don’t have to keep playing chauffeur.”
He catches my hand before I can step away, his thumb tracing slow circles over my pulse. “And miss the excuse to keep you close?” A teasing curve lifts the corner of his mouth. “Not a chance.”
The warmth of his gaze makes my knees weak, but I force myself to step back. “I'll text you when I'm free.”
“I'll be waiting,” he promises, revving his engine.
I stand on the sidewalk watching until his bike disappears around the corner. Only then do I turn to face my childhood home, squaring my shoulders like I'm walking into battle. Which, knowing my father, I am.
The front door feels heavier than it should as I push it open. The house smells the same as always—lemon polish and old books, with the faint undertone of coffee. Dad's Sunday sermons are spread across the dining table, pages of notes and highlighted Bible verses in his familiar scrawl.
“Dad?” I call out, hanging my purse on the hook by the door.
The silence stretches for a moment before I hear movement from his study. When he appears in the hallway, the disappointment on his face is exactly what I expected.
“Cecelia.” Not Cece. Never Cece when he's upset. “I see you've decided to come home after all.”
I resist the urge to fidget the way I used to when I came home past curfew. “I told you I would.”
He studies my appearance—rumpled clothes, messy hair, the faint mark on my neck left by Brayden’s mouth—as though he’s cataloging every supposed wrongdoing etched on my skin.
I’ve stood under this same scrutiny a hundred times before: after school dances, after my first date with Ethan, after news of my divorce spread through the congregation.
But this time, something in me refuses to fold under it.
“I was with Brayden, exactly as I said. And I’m not apologizing.”
Dad's lips press into a thin line. “That man is dangerous, Cecelia. The people he associates with—”
“Are none of our business,” I interrupt. The words feel foreign in my mouth. I've never cut him off before. “I'm a grown woman, Dad. I make my own choices.”
“Choices have consequences.” He gestures toward the living room. “We should sit.”
I follow him, noticing how the house feels smaller now, as though I’ve outgrown the space without realizing it.
The floral couch—home to countless lectures over the years—greets me with an unsettling familiarity.
Dad takes his usual armchair, the one that always positions him as though he’s presiding over court rather than having a conversation.
“Your mother would be heartbroken to see you this way.”
A familiar ache blooms in my chest at the mention of Mom. She’s been gone for twelve years, yet Dad still wields her memory whenever he needs leverage.
“Mom would want me to be happy, Dad.”
“Happy with a respectable man, Cecelia.”
“I tried that, and look where it got me.” I gesture to the room around us. “Things are different with Brayden.”
Dad doesn’t flinch. “Ethan made mistakes, but at least he came from a good family. At least he—”
“Cheated on me? Humiliated me?” My voice rises despite my attempt to stay steady. “Is that what you want for me? Another so-called respectable man who treats me like garbage once the doors are shut?”
“Marriage requires work and forgiveness.”
“Not that kind of forgiveness,” I say, the words sharp on my tongue. “And certainly not the kind of work where I pretend to be someone I'm not just to make him look good.”
“And I suppose this...biker...lets you be yourself?”
The question catches me off guard. Does Brayden let me be myself? No. He demands it. Expects it.
“Yes,” I say simply. “He does.”
Dad sighs, rubbing his temples as though I’m the source of his migraine. “He’s been trouble since he was sixteen. His father was a drunk, and his mother wasn’t much better. The company he keeps—”
“I know who he is,” I cut in again. “And I’m not asking for your permission or your blessing. I’m asking you to respect my choices.”
Dad stares at me as if I’ve grown a second head. The Cecelia he raised never interrupted him, never pushed back. For a moment, something flickers in his eyes—not only disappointment, but confusion. Maybe even a trace of respect.
“I understand you're going through a phase,” he says finally, his tone softening into the one he uses for wayward parishioners. “After what happened with Ethan, it's natural to rebel, to seek out someone completely different.”
“This isn't rebellion, and it's not a phase. I’m not a little girl anymore, Dad. I’m a woman. A woman who is figuring out who I am when I'm not trying to please everyone else.”
“By running straight into the arms of a man with a criminal record?” Dad's eyebrows rise. “Don't look surprised, Cecelia. Everyone in San Salona knows about the Heaven's Rejects. They're not exactly subtle with their...activities.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Dad would have done his research. He probably had the church secretary pull up every scrap of gossip about Brayden the moment I called this morning.
“I'm not blind to who he is,” I tell him. “But I'm not going to sit here and let you judge him based on rumors and ancient history.”
Dad leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he's about to deliver a particularly solemn sermon. “Two years ago, he was arrested for assault. Put a man in the hospital.” His voice is calm but deliberate, each word a stone placed carefully in my path. “Did you know that?”
I swallow hard. Brayden hasn't told me everything about his past, but I'm not surprised by this revelation. “I know he has a history.”
“A history of violence,” Dad corrects. “The kind of man who solves problems with his fists isn't the kind who can build a stable future, Cecelia.”
Something flares in me—defensiveness, loyalty, anger. “You don't know what happened. You don't know him.”
“And you do? After what—a few days?” Dad's expression softens with pity, which somehow hurts more than his disappointment. “You’ve only just started to rebuild your life after Ethan. I don't want to see you tear it down again for someone who can't possibly give you what you deserve.”
I laugh, the sound bitter even to my own ears. “What I deserve? What exactly do you think I deserve, Dad? Another man who looks good on paper? Someone who makes you proud when you introduce me at church functions? A man who tears me down until there’s nothing left?”
“Someone who won't drag you into a world of violence and lawlessness,” he counters. “Someone with a future.”
“Brayden has a future,” I insist, though the truth hits me even as I say it—I don’t actually know what that future looks like. We haven’t talked about tomorrow, let alone next month or next year.
Dad must catch the uncertainty, because he goes straight for it. “What does he do for a living, Cecelia? Beyond whatever work those bikers do that keeps them in leather and on motorcycles?”
I open my mouth to answer and come up empty. We haven’t discussed ordinary things—jobs, money, day-to-day responsibilities. I know he’s with the Heaven’s Rejects, but what that means in practical terms is still a mystery.
“That’s what I thought,” Dad says. “You’re rushing into this because it feels exciting and different. Because he’s the opposite of Ethan.” He exhales, suddenly looking older than his sixty-two years. “You don’t belong in his world, sweetheart. You’re too good for that life.”
“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.”
“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.