23. Eli
Eli
A knock at the door pulls our attention toward it. Deck had arrived not long after the call.
Thirty minutes later, a courier hands CJ a plain paper folder. Now it sits on the coffee table, and I stare at it. A cold pressure builds behind my ribs. Opening it feels like stepping back into a life I barely survived.
Barely moving. Barely breathing.
After CJ signed for it, I finally left the bedroom I had returned to after the call and curled into his side. No one says a word. They wait for me.
I sit up and take a deep breath. I don’t know what’s in here, and given we now know Adrian is behind everything, this isn’t going to be a pleasant ride.
I open the folder. Photographs. Every single one is of me. My stomach drops as I pull out the first one.
I’m asleep in the bed Adrian and I shared. Dark, finger-shaped bruises ring my throat. Shadows sit beneath my eyes. Dried blood clings above my eyebrow.
Dinner was late.
Second photo: I’m in the shower, naked and unconscious. Blood forms a halo around my head as it mixes with the water and drains away.
I was late home.
Third photo: My fingernails are torn because I fought him. My lip is split.
I had said no to sex.
Fourth photo: I’m lying in a pool of blood beside the coffee table, the glass cracked from my head hitting it.
I had argued back.
Fifth photo: I’m slumped in the car seat, unconscious. Blood runs out of my nose, and dark drips stain my shirt.
I had embarrassed him in front of his friends.
I place each one on the table for them to see, and reach for another. And another. And another.
Finn makes a small sound as he looks at the photos. I glance up and watch Deck pull him onto his lap: a comfort for Finn, but also a comfort for Deck.
I keep going.
Photo after photo is laid across the coffee table. All of them are me: broken, bruised, and bloodied. He had sent everything. I hadn’t even known about the photos. Every beating and bruise. Every injury. Adrian had documented all of it.
I keep going because if I stop now, I won’t be able to start again. I’ve already told them everything: not the edited version I gave therapists, or the police, or anyone who looked at me with pity.
I don’t give them the version where I tripped. Or fell. Or had a car accident.
The people sitting in this room know the truth, laid bare. They know that Adrian wants to remind me exactly who I used to be, and he is doing it with all the photos sitting piled up on the table between us. He wants to show them that I am weak, vulnerable, and afraid.
This is his gift. His reminder. His way of telling me he’ll always own my past. To make me remember how his kindness became control, how control became isolation, and how that became fear. Every insult he threw at me was designed to keep me small.
And it worked. I felt worthless, tiny, and unlovable. The worst part? I thought I was lucky. Lucky someone like Adrian noticed me. Lucky he stayed. Lucky he loved me.
I pull out another document. This one is a hospital report. I remember this one.
This was one of my many “accidents.”
It was after a supposed home invasion, though the truth was far different. It was one of the worst beatings Adrian had ever given me. I’d embarrassed him in front of his colleagues again, and this was my punishment.
Adrian played his part perfectly. Tears streaked his cheeks, and his voice cracked with just the right amount of concern as he yelled for help.
He told everyone he’d come home and found me like this.
He stayed by my side while they examined me, followed me to my CT scan and X-rays, never leaving my side.
He looked like the devoted, terrified partner.
I knew the real reason he stayed: he wanted to make sure I didn’t tell the truth.
I didn’t. I never told them he was the one who had done this to me.
He was the perfect actor.
It was one of many that were officially recorded, and each time, Adrian performed. The files were thin, and no one raised any concerns. That’s how convincing Adrian was; he fooled everyone.
Another beating, another claim that there had been a break-in. A car accident. He lied. There were police reports and more hospital reports, but nothing came of them. They believed him, and they didn’t believe me.
The cycle repeated itself week after week, month after month, year after year, and the photos prove it.
By the time I finish laying everything out, the room is deathly silent.
Deck hasn’t moved once. His jaw is locked so tightly I can see the muscle ticking beneath his skin. The look in his eyes mirrors CJ’s. It’s not just anger. It’s vengeance. He wants to hurt Adrian.
Finn sits in Deck’s lap with his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles have turned white. Tears stream down his face. He squeezes his eyes shut and drags a hand over them.
“Oh, Eli…” His voice breaks.
I can’t look at him. I can’t comfort him. Not right now; if I do, I’ll break too.
Beside me, CJ picks up each photo one at a time. He is studying them. He picks one up, then puts it down, picking up another, and another. I know he’s memorizing them.
Memorizing every bruise. Every cut. Every scar. Every drop of blood.
I watch him, and his face never changes, but his shoulders grow tighter with every photograph. When he reaches the last page, he quietly closes the folder.
I can’t breathe. I can’t look at CJ, or Deck, or Finn. I can’t bear to see pity in their eyes.
Then I feel a hand settle over mine. CJ has moved closer.
I look up, and his eyes lock onto mine. I see fury in them: enough to burn the world down. And for once, none of the fury is directed at me.
“Nobody,” he says, squeezing my hand, “is ever touching you again.”
And for the first time in years, I believe someone when they say it. I breathe. I believe him, the man I’ve fallen in love with.
* * *
Later, the apartment is quiet. I busy myself in the kitchen. Deck and Finn left a while ago, and I keep busy to stop thinking.
Strong arms slide around my waist, and CJ rests his chin on my shoulder. “How are you doing?”
I turn my head slightly and meet his eyes. “I’m stuck in my head.” The words come out rougher than intended. “I can’t get away from it.”
His grip tightens, and I lean back into him.
“Just for a little while, CJ,” I whisper, “help me forget.”
He presses a kiss beneath my ear. Then another. I turn in his arms and bring my lips to his. He hums softly against my mouth as we kiss slowly.
When we pull apart, he rests his forehead on mine. “Shower with me.”
I nod.
Together, we switch off the lights. Hand in hand, we walk down the hallway, neither of us saying another word.