Chapter 24 Cece #2
“So what do we do in the meantime, Joe? Sitting and waiting is not one of my strong suits,” Brayden asks.
Joe taps his pen against his legal pad, considering Brayden's question. “You keep on living your life, and we don't give them any ammunition to use against us.”
“That's the lawyer answer. I'm asking what we actually do while these assholes are out there painting Cece as some kind of psycho ex-wife.”
“We stay smart,” Joe replies. “The Kincaids want you to react, to do something rash that would justify their narrative. Don't give them that satisfaction.”
I twist my hands in my lap, the dull throb in my wrists a constant reminder of what happened. “Maybe we should just leave town for a while. Let things cool down.”
“No.” The word comes from both Brayden and my father simultaneously, overlapping in rare agreement.
“Running looks like guilt,” my father says, his jaw set in that stubborn way I know too well.
“And it gives those bastards exactly what they want,” Brayden adds, his hand squeezing my shoulder gently. “You gone, me gone, problem solved for them.”
I sigh, leaning back against the couch. “So we just pretend everything is okay?”
“Precisely,” Joe answers. “You need to be seen in public. Preferably still taking care of your duties at the church. We need to continue the narrative that you aren’t capable of the accusations.”
I stare at Joe, his words dropping into my mind one after another, heavy and unavoidable.
Public appearances. Maintaining the narrative.
It all feels like another performance, another role I’m supposed to step into.
And God, I’m exhausted. I’m so tired of pretending, of shaping myself to fit what everyone else needs me to be.
“And what happens if Ethan shows up to taunt me? What if he corners me again? I can't exactly ignore him if he's in my face.”
Joe sets his pen down deliberately, his expression calm but serious. “If Ethan approaches you, you walk away. You don't engage, you don't respond, you simply remove yourself from the situation.”
“And if I can't?” The memory of being trapped against that bathroom wall makes my skin crawl.
“You won't be alone,” Brayden says immediately.
Joe holds up a hand. “Actually, that's not the best approach. Brayden, you need to keep your distance from Ethan. Any confrontation between you two plays right into their narrative.”
Brayden opens his mouth to argue, but Joe continues before he can speak.
“I'm filing for a protective order as soon as I leave here,” he says, his tone leaving no room for debate. “Given the evidence of physical harm,” he gestures to my wrists, “we have solid grounds for approval.”
“And if they grant it?” my father asks.
“Then Ethan legally can't come within a specified distance of Cece. If he violates that order, it will only add more evidence to our case.”
Joe stands, sliding his legal pad into his briefcase with practiced efficiency. “I'll text you the details for your medical examination once I've made the arrangements. Should be later today if my contact is available.”
“Thank you,” I say, feeling a strange mix of relief and anxiety at the thought of documenting my injuries. More evidence means a stronger case, but it also means more people examining the marks Ethan left on me, more explaining, more reliving what happened.
Joe hands me a business card, a heavy-cream stock embossed with his name and contact information. “Put this in your phone immediately,” he says, his tone gentle but insistent. “If Ethan approaches you or tries to contact you in any way, call the police first, then call me. Day or night.”
I take the card, nodding as I slip it into my pocket. “I will.”
My father rises, extending his hand to Joe. He shakes my father's hand, then Brayden's, before turning back to me. “We're going to get through this, Ms. Montgomery. You have my word.”
As the door clicks shut behind Joe, an awkward silence fills the living room. My father shifts uncomfortably in his chair, his fingers drumming against his Bible as he stares at the closed door. When he finally turns back to me, his face is drawn with more emotion than I've seen from him in years.
“Cecelia, I need to apologize—”
“Don't,” I cut him off, raising my hand. “Not right now, Dad. Please.”
His mouth snaps shut, surprise flashing across his features.
“I appreciate what you're trying to do,” I continue. “But I can't handle one more emotional conversation today. I just...I can't.”
Brayden moves to sit beside me on the couch, his thigh pressing against mine in silent support. My father tracks the movement, but for once, he doesn't flinch or scowl at our closeness.
“I understand. Perhaps another time.”
“Another time,” I agree, relief washing through me. I'm not ready for whatever heart-to-heart he's prepared to offer—not when I can still feel the ghost of Ethan's fingers around my wrists, not when my emotions are this raw and exposed.
My father clears his throat, shifting gears with practiced ease. “Maybe we can have dinner when you’re ready. All three of us.”
“I’d enjoy that.”
The idea of my father and Brayden sitting at the same table still feels surreal, but a small smile edges onto my face. Awkward? Definitely. But the fact that my father is even willing makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
“Well,” Brayden mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, “breaking bread with a preacher wasn’t on my bingo card, but… sure. I can behave for a meal.” His hand settles over mine, warm and steady. “You’re worth the effort.”
My father stands, tucking his Bible under his arm.
“I should go. I'll speak with Mrs. Holloway first thing.
She's usually at the church office by seven, organizing the weekly bulletin.” He straightens his shoulders, determination hardening his features.
“And then I'm calling an emergency meeting with the community outreach committee.
We need to discuss the Kincaids' past donations and what this means for our charity work.”
“Dad, you don't have to—”
“I do, Cecelia. Perhaps revisiting their financial history with the church will help our case. Show a pattern of behavior.” He hesitates, then adds, “Money often reveals a person's true character.”
I nod, too exhausted to argue. “Thank you.”
He moves toward the door but pauses with his hand on the knob. For a moment, it seems he might say something more, but instead he simply nods. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I let out a breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding as the door clicks shut behind him.
The room instantly feels lighter, as if some invisible weight has lifted with his departure.
And beneath that relief is something stranger—seeing him actually stand up for me instead of pushing back feels unreal in a way I’m still trying to process.
Beside me, Brayden exhales hard, his entire body loosening at once, tension spilling out of him after being wound tight for far too long.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters, dropping his head back against the couch. His hand finds mine, fingers gently tracing the bruises on my wrist. “Seeing you in those handcuffs...”
I turn to look at him—really see him—for the first time since this nightmare began. The shadows beneath his eyes tell me he hasn’t slept.
“It wasn’t exactly a high point for me either,” I say, trying for humor that collapses the moment it leaves my mouth.
Brayden’s expression tightens as his thumb glides gently over my skin, his features shifting into a storm of barely restrained emotion.
“I'm going to kill him. Not today. Not tomorrow. But someday, when all this legal shit is over, when no one's watching anymore...I'm going to make him pay for putting his hands on you.”
I feel a twisted sense of comfort in his promise—in knowing someone would go that far to protect me. I've never had that before.
“Brayden.” I shift my hand until it closes around his. “We can’t let our heads go there. Joe’s right. We beat them by outthinking them, not by reacting.”
He lifts my wrist to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss against the bruises. “Being smart doesn't mean letting him get away with it,” he murmurs against my skin. “It just means being patient.
I should argue, should tell him that revenge isn't worth the cost. But the truth is, part of me wants Ethan to suffer too. Wants him to feel even a fraction of the fear and humiliation he's inflicted on me. What does that say about who I've become?
“I'm so tired,” I admit. “Tired of fighting him. Tired of being afraid.”
Brayden pulls me against his chest, and I go without hesitation, sinking into his warmth.
His arms feel like the only safe place left in the world.
I press my face to him, breathing in the familiar mix of leather and soap.
The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my ear quiets everything inside me—the doubts, the fear, the relentless what-ifs.
“Come on,” Brayden murmurs into my hair. “You need to rest before your appointment.”
I let him guide me toward the bedroom, too worn down to resist. My limbs feel heavy, every step an effort.
The adrenaline that kept me standing through the interrogation, through Joe’s strategy session, through my father’s unexpected support…
it’s gone now, leaving me drained and aching in every way that matters.
Brayden pulls back the covers and helps me sit on the edge of the bed. When he kneels to remove my shoes, the tenderness of the gesture makes my throat tight. This man, who radiates danger and violence to the rest of the world, treats me with a gentleness that still catches me off guard.
“I can undress myself,” I protest weakly, even as he's already sliding my socks off.
“I know you can, but you don't have to.”
I surrender, because I don’t have the strength to do anything else. Because, for once, it feels good to let someone take care of me.
Brayden helps me settle against the pillows, pulling the blanket up around me.
The soft rustle of fabric and the faint trace of his cologne wrap around me, another layer of comfort I didn’t realize I needed.
He sits on the edge of the bed for a moment, brushing a loose strand of hair from my forehead.
“Try to sleep,” he says quietly.
Something in his voice loosens the final knot in my chest. I reach out, my fingers resting lightly on his wrist. “Stay.”
He hesitates for only a heartbeat before kicking off his boots and sliding in beside me. His arm curves around my waist, steady and warm, drawing me close until my back settles against his chest. Heat radiates from him, easing the chill that has lived under my skin for days.
For the first time in what feels like forever, the silence isn’t suffocating. It’s gentle, filled with the rhythm of his breathing and the calm, steady pulse beneath my palm where our hands rest together.
My eyes grow heavy, thoughts blurring into a haze. Somewhere in the space between waking and sleep, I feel his lips brush the crown of my head.
“You’re safe now,” he murmurs.
And I believe him.
The last thing I’m aware of is the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath me, the sound of his heartbeat lulling me under until the darkness takes me, safe in his arms.