Chapter 15
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
TESSA
Ifollow the women down the hall, my footsteps muffled by the plush carpet runner.
The condo is quieter back here, insulated from the city noise outside.
We pass a bathroom with gleaming marble counters and a bedroom that looks like it’s never been used before we reach the one at the end—the room Logan mentioned.
Penny pushes open the door, and we file inside.
It’s bigger than I expected. A king-sized bed sits against the far wall, dressed in crisp white linens and a charcoal duvet.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city, the skyline glittering in the darkness.
There’s a reading chair tucked in the corner beside a floor lamp, and a door on the left that I assume leads to the bathroom Logan mentioned.
It’s beautiful. Impersonal, maybe, but beautiful.
Once we’re all inside, Penny closes the door behind us with a soft click.
She turns to me with a gentle smile, though something sad lingers in her eyes. “So,” she says, her voice soft, “Logan filled us in on what’s been going on. And I want you to know that I can take care of this.”
Iris nods, leaning against the dresser. “Truly, you can trust her, Tessa. Penny’s entire job is to fix any problem that comes up with the team or the guys—and she’s really good at it. She has more connections than anyone I know. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”
I look at all of them—these women I just met, standing in this beautiful room, offering to help me—and something warm settles in my chest. But reality pushes back against it.
“I appreciate you all trying to help me,” I say carefully, wrapping my arms around myself. “But I really think this is much bigger than you realize. Preston’s family has a huge reach. A lot of influence.”
“We know plenty of people with the same kind of reach,” Penny says calmly. “People who owe us favors. People who would do just about anything to help us. Believe me, a lot of powerful people are obsessed with professional sports, and I’ve collected them as partners over the years.”
She meets my gaze, unwavering. “There’s no problem I can’t solve. I know you may not understand that yet—or believe it—but I need you to try to have faith. You don’t need to run. You don’t need to hide. We’re here for you, and we’ll protect you for as long as it takes.”
“Okay,” I say quietly because I do appreciate their effort. And because a small, desperate part of me wants to believe her.
Penny glances around at the other women, then back at me. “The first step is getting a protection order against Preston. I can fill it out, file it, and make it official. I just need a few minutes of your side of the story, okay?”
I sit down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath me. The duvet is soft under my palms. Penny pulls out her phone and taps the screen a few times.
“I’m going to record it, if that’s okay,” she says gently.
“It’s easier than typing everything out.
And if having this many people here makes you uncomfortable, some of us can step out.
We just thought the more strong women you had on your side, the better—but whatever you’re comfortable with is what matters. ”
“It’s fine,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “You can all stay. I don’t mind.”
“And you’re okay with me recording?” Penny asks, holding up her phone.
I nod. “That’s fine.”
“Okay.” She settles into the reading chair, her expression open and patient.
“Just give us a general rundown. When you met Preston, when you moved in together, when the abuse started, and what triggers him. Then talk about the last couple of incidents. We don’t need much to get a personal protection order—details from the last few events will be enough. ”
I nod again, pulling in a shaky breath. “Okay.”
I start at the beginning. I tell them how I met Preston at a fundraiser for the local food bank—one of the rare events I attended during my sophomore year of college.
How he swooped in like a knight in shining armor when I was overwhelmed by the crowd.
How I thought he was going to be the greatest thing that ever happened to me.
In the beginning, he was perfect. Loving.
He was more than loving—absolutely devoted.
He texted me good morning every day. He brought me flowers.
He told me I was beautiful, special, and worth everything.
I felt lucky that someone like him—successful, charming, and put-together—loved someone like me.
After a year of him begging me, I finally moved in with him, relinquishing some of the control I’d worked so hard for after leaving the foster care system.
But once I felt completely safe, things started to change.
It began small. A hand gripping my arm too tightly when he was frustrated. A raised voice that made me flinch. At first, I convinced myself they were accidents. That he was stressed. That I was overreacting.
But over time, the incidents grew more frequent. More severe.
My voice falters as I recount the progression—the first time he shoved me into a wall, the first time he left a bruise I couldn’t hide.
The way he isolated me from the outside world and how he convinced me to quit my second job—making me reliant on him financially.
He convinced me that no one else would ever want me and that I was lucky he put up with me.
I look at the women in front of me—Penny with her phone, Anna leaning against the wall, Miranda perched on the arm of the chair, Iris still by the dresser—and shame floods through me.
“I feel so stupid saying all of this,” I whisper, covering my face with my hands. “I feel weak. You must think I’m an idiot for getting myself into this situation.”
“No,” Miranda says immediately, crossing the room to sit beside me on the bed. She takes my hand in hers, her grip warm and steady.
Anna moves to my other side, settling onto the mattress and covering both of our hands with hers.
“We absolutely do not think that,” she says firmly, her voice gentle but unyielding.
“It is very easy to get pulled into relationships like this, and it is tough to get out of them. That’s just a fact. ”
“You did nothing wrong,” Iris adds from her spot by the dresser, her arms crossed but her expression soft. “Please believe that.”
“Anna’s right,” Penny says, lowering her phone for a moment. “What you’re describing—the way he built you up before tearing you down, the isolation, the control—that’s textbook abusive behavior. It’s calculated. It’s not your fault for falling for it. That’s what these people do.”
I nod, tears slipping down my cheeks. Miranda squeezes my hand.
“You’re brave for leaving,” Anna says quietly. “A lot of people don’t make it this far.”
I swallow hard, wiping at my face with my free hand. “I’m not sure I would have if Logan hadn’t shown up.”
“But you did,” Miranda says. “And that’s what matters.”
Penny gives me a moment, then lifts her phone again. “Are you okay to keep going? We’re almost done.”
I nod, pulling in a steadying breath. “Yeah. I’m okay.”
And somehow, surrounded by these women I barely know, I actually believe it.
I skim over the rest of our history, my voice growing steadier as I move through the timeline.
Finally, I reach this summer. I talk about specific incidents—what happened, how he hurt me, the excuses I made for him even as the bruises darkened.
I end with the most recent one, the incident triggered by the Instagram post.
When I finish, the room falls silent except for the faint hum of the city outside.
Penny stops the recording and rises from the reading chair, slipping her phone into her pocket.
“Thank you so much for sharing that with us,” she says gently, her voice steady despite the emotion I can see pooling in her eyes. “I’m going to have no problem getting you a PPO—trust me. But there’s one more thing I need to make sure it really sticks.”
I nod, my throat tight.
“Would it be okay if I took some pictures?” She asks it carefully. Her expression is steady, professional, but I can feel the discomfort beneath it—the weight of what she’s asking. I know this isn’t easy for her.
I nod again. “Yeah. Whatever I can do to keep him away from me, I’ll do it.”
“Good,” Penny says softly, relief crossing her face. “That’s good. Why don’t you go wash your face in the bathroom, and we’ll take pictures after.”
“Okay.”
I head into the bathroom and close the door behind me, leaning against it for just a second to steady myself.
The bathroom is just as beautiful as the bedroom—all white marble and polished chrome.
The vanity is fully stocked with high-end toiletries, including a face wash that probably costs more than I’d ever spend on myself.
I pump some into my palm and start scrubbing away the heavy layer of makeup I applied this morning.
The concealer comes off in beige streaks, swirling down the drain. I rinse my face thoroughly, then pat my skin dry with a towel so soft it feels like a cloud.
When I look up at my reflection, the bruise is visible now. Dark purple spreading from my cheekbone up toward my eye, with yellowing edges where it’s started to heal.
I take a breath and head back into the bedroom.
There are more lights on now—the overhead fixture, the bedside lamps, even the floor lamp in the corner. The room is bright.
I don’t miss the way Iris flinches when she sees my face.
With makeup on, the discoloration is barely noticeable. I’ve gotten very good at covering injuries like this over the past year.
Without it, there’s no hiding what he did.
“Okay,” Penny says, stepping toward me with her phone already raised.
Her voice is calm and professional. She takes pictures of my face from different angles—straight on, left profile, right profile, tilted down so the light catches the swelling.
She’s careful and thorough, zooming in on the worst of it.
When she’s satisfied, she lowers the phone and meets my eyes. “Would it be okay if I took pictures of you in your underwear and bra?” she asks gently.
I nod.
“Are you sure?” she adds, her brow furrowing. “Only if you’re comfortable.”
“Yes,” I say firmly, my voice stronger than I expected. “As I said, I want to keep this bastard as far away from me as possible.”
I reach for the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head, letting it fall to the floor. My jeans follow, pooling around my ankles before I step out of them and kick them aside.
I stand there in my underwear and bra, my arms at my sides.
The room goes silent.
Anna’s eyes widen and Iris takes a sharp breath.
They’re taking in the bruises scattered across my body—the finger-shaped marks on my ribs, the dark splotches on my thighs, the greenish-yellow remnants of older injuries that never quite faded before new ones appeared.
Miranda raises both hands to cover her mouth, trying—and failing—to hide her reaction as tears fill her eyes and spill over.
Penny swallows hard and starts taking pictures.
Of all of them, she hides her emotions the best, keeping her expression neutral and her movements efficient.
But I still see her lip quiver as she snaps each photo.
I see the way her hand shakes slightly when she zooms in on the bruise wrapping around my rib cage.
“Okay,” Penny finally says, her voice breaking on the word. “That should do it.”
I pull my jeans and shirt back on, my fingers fumbling with the button.
Anna and Iris move toward me immediately, crossing the space in just a few strides.
“I am so sorry,” Iris says, her voice trembling as tears spill down her cheeks. She reaches for my hand, holding it gently. “I’m so sorry you had to endure that.”
“I’m so sorry,” Anna echoes, her voice thick with emotion. She takes my other hand, squeezing it.
Miranda steps forward, her face streaked with tears. “I hate him so much,” she says, her voice fierce despite the crying. “I hate him.”
The four women surround me, their arms coming around me in a gentle, protective embrace. It’s not suffocating—it’s careful, like they’re afraid I might break.
Until today, I’d never met them. But I trust their intentions completely.
And at this moment, surrounded by their warmth, I feel something I haven’t felt in a long time.
Loved.
If I’m being honest, I really needed that tonight.
I needed to feel seen. To feel understood. To feel like I wasn’t alone anymore.
To feel like maybe—just maybe—I was going to be okay.
“I hate him, too.” A single tear rolls down my cheek. I’m so tired of crying over Preston Vale. I hope it’s the last tear I shed because of him. I’m ready to leave him in my past.