4. - – Christian
CHAPTER FOUR
-
CHRISTIAN
I was cleaning a rifle at the kitchen table when I heard the television click on.
The sound immediately put me on edge. The television hadn't been on once since I arrived at the lake house because I hated the noise.
News anchors, politicians, they are all just talking heads.
Half of them lie for money, the rest lie because it is easier than telling the truth.
I've seen enough to know the difference doesn't matter.
And anyone who discovers the truth hidden behind their lies?
Dead.
Amelia sits on the couch with the remote in her hand, looking nervous while flipping to a news channel. It's like she already knew she wasn't going to like what she found.
I open my mouth to tell her to turn it off when Preston Fairfax appears on the screen.
Amelia's eyes are glued to the TV. Her shoulders lock, her breathing picks up, and every muscle in her body tightens just from hearing his voice.
Preston stands behind a wall of microphones, wearing a tailored suit and a carefully crafted expression of concern.
The son of a bitch is good, I'll give him that. Good-looking, well-spoken. The kind of man people trusted automatically was also the kind of man who would beat a woman half to death and still hold a press conference to convince the world he was the victim.
"Amelia, if you see this," Preston said softly, "I just want you to know I love you and I'm asking you to please come home. You need help. Please let me and your family help you."
My grip tightens around the rifle, and the urge to put a bullet through the television becomes overwhelming.
Amelia didn't look surprised; she'd heard all of this before.
The manipulation. The rewriting. The gaslighting. The careful construction of an alternate reality.
The reporter started talking about Amelia's emotional instability and how she has battled lifelong and often debilitating mental health issues.
I stopped listening, crossed the room, and pulled the plug out from the wall before I consciously decided to move. The television went black and silence settled around us.
Amelia stared at the empty screen.
"He always wins." The words came out dead like she has already accepted that she will end up right back at his house, and that scared me more than tears would've.
I folded my arms, "No, not this time."
She laughed. The sound was ugly and broken.
"Yes."
Then she started explaining.
"My father and Preston control the narrative," Amelia said.
"They always have. Before we were even engaged, he had journalists on his payroll, connections at every major news outlet in the South.
My father made sure of it—guaranteeing Preston's political trajectory in exchange for taking me off his hands. "
She stood, pacing in front of the window, "When I told people what he did the first time it happened, they looked at me like I'd lost my mind. I even went to the police." Her voice cracked on that last word.
"I showed them the bruises on my ribs, the cuts on my face. The officer took one look at Preston's name and told me wealthy couples have 'misunderstandings.' Said I should talk to a therapist."
My jaw tightened. "What therapist?"
"The one Preston hired after I 'became unstable.'" She turned, meeting my eyes. "He convinced everyone I needed help. That I was fragile and stress made me imagine things. And the longer I stayed, the more unstable it actually made me, to the point I started believing him."
She was shaking now.
"He didn't just hit me. He rewrote my entire reality until I couldn't trust my own mind. Until I started apologizing for bleeding on his carpet like it was really my fault."
I'd seen psychological warfare deployed in interrogations overseas. Watched trained operatives break under sustained manipulation. But this? This was systematic destruction disguised as love.
"So yes," Amelia whispered. "He wins. Nobody believes the unstable woman with a history of mental illness. He made sure of it."
I crossed the room, stopping close enough that she had to tilt her head back to look at me.
"You think I give a damn what people believe? He controls the narrative out there." I gesture toward the dead television. "You're in my territory now. He doesn't get to rewrite what happened to you here and sure as fuck not with me."
By the time she whispered, "I should leave," I was already imagining how many bones I could break with my bare hands.
"No."
"He'll come looking," she said.
"Let him. It will save the time of finding him."
"You don't understand. He has resources. Money. People who?—"
I wasn't handing her back. Not if I still had blood pumping through my veins.
"I've killed men with more resources than him."
Amelia stares at me, and for the first time since she arrived, she doesn't flinch when I move closer to her.
"I am not giving you back."
The words came out rough, but dangerously honest. Amelia looked away first, but I had already noticed the tears gathering in her eyes.
Something twists in my chest, a feeling that has been growing since the night she showed up here.
Protectiveness? Possession? No, it's something darker than either of those, and every day it grows stronger.
I should have sent her away, but instead I let her stay. Now it's too late. Somewhere between cleaning blood from her feet and sitting beside her bed during nightmares, I'd become invested.
And that was dangerous for both of us.