Chapter 21 Cece #2
“Ethan saw us at Tony’s together. He came to our table and tried to pick a fight.
When he didn’t get what he wanted…” I take a deep breath, feeling Brayden's thigh press reassuringly against mine.
“He took matters into his own hands while Brayden was paying our bill. He followed me to the bathroom. He cornered me, grabbed my wrists, and was trying to force himself on me when Brayden walked in.”
My father's face turns ashen. “Force himself on you?” he repeats. “You're saying Ethan tried to...”
He can't even say the word. The mighty Reverend Thomas Montgomery, who's preached against every sin imaginable from his pulpit, can't bring himself to name what almost happened to his own daughter.
“Yes,” I say firmly. “And if Brayden hadn't shown up when he did—”
“He would have…assaulted you,” my father finishes.
“Yes,” I affirm. “He would have raped me in that bathroom to prove a point. “
“What point?”
“I’m not sure you want to hear this part, Dad. It’s enough that Brayden wants to kill him. I don’t need you to forsake the sixth commandment, too.”
“You let him go?”
“Yes, but only because Cece asked me to let him go,” Brayden admits. “Part of me hopes she changes her mind.”
The blunt honesty makes my father flinch, but I'm grateful for it. No more lies, no more pretending. This is who we are now.
“Dad, you need to understand something,” I say, leaning forward. “Ethan isn't who you think he is. He never was. The perfect Christian husband was always an act.”
“An act?” My father shakes his head like he's trying to dislodge my words. “Cece, I've known that boy since he was sixteen years old. He's been nothing but—”
“A liar,” I cut in. “A manipulator. You need to take him off the pedestal you still have him on, Dad.” I peer over at Brayden as he reaches out, taking my hand in my lap, reassuring me.
My father’s eyes track Brayden’s hand over mine, his expression shifting. I can see him wrestling with what I’ve just told him, the foundations of his beliefs starting to give way.
“What exactly are you saying, Cece?” he finally asks, strain tightening his words. “That Ethan… deceived us all? That the man who sat in my study every Sunday for years, who led our youth group, who prayed with me over dinner…was some kind of monster?”
“I’m saying he showed you what you wanted to see,” I reply, the truth bitter on my tongue. “He knew exactly how to play the part in public. But behind closed doors? He was cruel. Controlling. And when I finally stopped being the obedient wife he wanted, he made sure I paid for it.”
My father sinks slowly onto the armchair across from us, looking suddenly older than his sixty-seven years. The Bible he’s been clutching slips from his grasp onto the coffee table.
“Dad?” I say softly, watching him seem to collapse in on himself.
Before he can answer, the unmistakable sound of sirens cuts through the morning air. Brayden’s head snaps up, his whole body tensing as he moves to the window.
“What the hell?” he mutters, pushing the curtain aside.
“What is it?” I ask, my pulse spiking.
“Two police cruisers just pulled up,” Brayden says, his tone hardening. He turns toward my father, accusation written all over his face. “You called the cops on me?”
My stomach drops. “Dad, tell me you didn't.”
My father looks genuinely confused, his eyes widening as he shakes his head. “I didn't call anyone. I swear it.”
“Then why are there two Sheriff’s deputies getting out of their cars right now?” Brayden snaps, his entire body drawn taut, readiness radiating off him as he gears up for a fight.
I move to the window beside him and peer out. Sure enough, Sheriff Miller and one of his deputies are walking up the path to the guesthouse, their hands resting on their holsters.
“Dad, if you didn't call them, who did?” I ask, panic rising in my throat.
“I don't know,” he insists, and for once, I believe him. The confusion on his face seems genuine.
A heavy knock sounds at the door. Brayden and I exchange glances.
“Let me handle this,” Brayden says, moving toward the door.
My father stands up, his expression shifting from confusion to concern. “Maybe I should—”
“No,” Brayden cuts him off. “This is my house.”
I follow close behind Brayden, my heart hammering against my ribs. Something feels wrong. Very wrong.
Brayden pulls open the door, his broad shoulders blocking most of my view. “Sheriff, what can I do for you?”
“Mr. Cole,” Sheriff Miller's gravelly voice carries through the doorway. “We need to speak with Cecelia Montgomery. We’ve been told she’s staying with you.”
I step out from behind Brayden, trying to keep my face neutral despite the panic clawing at my throat. “I'm here, Sheriff. What's this about?”
The sheriff’s weathered face is unreadable as his eyes move from Brayden to me, then past us. “Ms. Montgomery, we’ve got a situation.”
Footsteps behind us. My stomach sinks before I even turn. “What kind of situation requires you to come to speak to my daughter, Jim?”
Sheriff Miller’s jaw tics. He’s uncomfortable, and that’s somehow worse. “We received a report this morning,” he says, glancing at me, then away. “From Ethan Kincaid.”
Ice floods my veins. “A report about what?”
His gaze hardens, locking onto mine. “Mr. Kincaid has filed charges against you. Assault and battery. He claims you attacked him at Tony’s.”
“What?” My voice breaks around the word. My knees almost give out, but Brayden’s arm is there, solid around my waist.
“This is bullshit,” Brayden growls. “She didn’t touch him. He’s the one who—”
“I’m going to have to ask you to step back, Mr. Cole,” Sheriff Miller interrupts, hand drifting toward his holster in a gesture that’s more habit than threat.
My father steps forward. “Jim, there must be a mistake. My daughter would never—”
“Dad,” I snap, sharper than intended. “Stop.”
Brayden’s voice cuts in, steel in every syllable. “Let’s see the warrant.”
The deputy steps forward, pulling a folded document from his jacket. Brayden snatches it from his hand, scanning quickly. His shoulders stiffen with every line. His fingers curl tight around the paper.
“That fucking son of a bitch,” he mutters.
“Watch your mouth, son,” the Sheriff says, but the reprimand is hollow, almost reflexive. His eyes drift to my wrists. I see the flicker of doubt there.
“Ms. Montgomery,” he says quietly. “I need you to come with us.”
“She’s not going anywhere,” Brayden snaps, stepping halfway in front of me again. “Not until we call a lawyer.”
“She has that right,” the Sheriff concedes with a nod. “But the arrest still has to happen.”
My mind spins. Assault? Ethan cornered me. He left these bruises. He was the one— He did this. And now he’s flipping the story.
“Jim,” my father says again, this time with more force. “Look at her. Look at her wrists. You’re really going to tell me those marks were made in self-defense?”
The Sheriff hesitates. I see it. See the part of him that hates this—knows it smells wrong.
“I see them,” he says finally. “And it’ll be documented. But I’ve got a warrant signed by a judge. I don’t have a choice.”
Brayden’s hand finds mine, steadying me. His voice drops, edged with quiet danger. “This is Mayor Kincaid pulling strings,” Brayden says, a growl simmering beneath the words. “Using his influence to protect his precious son.”
Sheriff Miller's jaw tightens. “I'm just doing my job, Mr. Cole. Now, Ms. Montgomery, as much as it pains me to say this, I have to place you under arrest.”
“You can’t be serious,” I say, disbelief making my words shake. “Ethan is the one who should be arrested. He assaulted me!”
Sheriff Miller’s expression stays professionally neutral, though a flicker of something crosses his face—discomfort, maybe even sympathy. It doesn’t change anything.
“Ms. Montgomery, please turn around and place your hands behind your back.”
“Jim, for God’s sake,” my father protests, stepping forward. “You’ve known Cece her entire life. You really believe she would assault anyone?”
“What I believe doesn’t matter right now, Reverend,” Sheriff Miller says, tone steady but not unkind. “I have a sworn statement and a warrant.”
I feel Brayden's body tensing beside me. His arm tightens around my waist, and for a terrifying moment, I think he might actually try to stop the sheriff physically. The thought of him getting arrested too sends a jolt of panic through me.
“Brayden,” I whisper, placing my hand on his chest. “Don't.”
The cuffs click shut, biting into my already bruised wrists. I flinch, but I don’t make a sound.
Brayden does.
It isn’t a word, not even a growl—just a harsh, guttural sound torn from his chest. His fists clench at his sides, jaw so tight I can almost hear his teeth grind. One more step, just one, and I know he’ll cross a line neither of us can undo.
“Brayden,” I whisper, because I need him to look at me, not at the deputy. “Please.”
His eyes snap to mine. The rage is still there—boiling, volcanic—but he locks it down with visible effort. For me.
“I’ll fix this,” Brayden declares. “I don’t care how many strings I have to pull or bridges I have to burn—I’ll get you out.”
“I know.” My voice is steadier than my hands. “That’s why I need you out here.”
The sheriff mutters something procedural, but it blurs into nothing. All I see is Brayden—braced, furious, struggling to keep himself from snapping the cuffs off me and tearing the walls down.
As they turn me toward the door, I finally glance at my father.
He stands there stiffly. His mouth is tight, eyes full of conflict—believing me, but paralyzed by the weight of who he is. He says nothing. Not a word. Not even my name.
The silence from him hits harder than the handcuffs.
Brayden notices.
His head turns, slow and cold, voice dropping into something dangerous enough to still the whole room. “Hell of a thing,” he says, eyes locked on my father. “Watching a man of God stand there and do nothing while his daughter is dragged out in her worst moment.”
My father’s jaw trembles, but he doesn’t speak.
Brayden steps closer, fury simmering just under the surface. “You talk about saving souls, preaching love and protection—but when she needs you?” He shakes his head, disgust cutting sharp. “You choose to be silent.”
The words hang there, heavy with judgment. And my father still has no answer.
When he stays silent, Brayden shifts his focus back to the sheriff, anger sharpening every line of his body.
“If she doesn’t press charges for what that bastard did in that bathroom, then I damn well will. And if I find out you had any part in covering this up—”
“Enough.” Sheriff Miller’s voice snaps through the room, authority finally settling into place. “Everyone stand down.”
The door swings open. Sunlight floods in, harsh and unforgiving, illuminating the quiet street beyond. Morning in this town has an eerie stillness—too calm for what’s unfolding.
The walk to the patrol car stretches out before me, a distance that feels impossibly long.
Brayden follows, every step a silent promise.
I don’t look away until the door closes behind me and the engine starts. And even then, I can feel his eyes burning holes in the back of the cruiser, willing me to feel how hard he’s coming for me.