He claimed I’d misunderstood his behavior.
He said he wanted reconciliation.
He also claimed the stranger at the restaurant had interfered in our marriage.
My attorney sounded unimpressed.
“We have your statement, the photographs, the security records, and other evidence. We’ll respond through the appropriate process.”
I sat on the edge of Jasmine’s couch.
“Can he force me to go back?”
“No,” she replied firmly. “You are an adult. He cannot require you to resume living with him.”
I closed my eyes.
The relief was so overwhelming that I began crying.
Two days later, an envelope arrived at Jasmine’s apartment.
No return address.
Inside was a photograph.
It showed me walking out of the art supply store.
On the back, someone had written:
You can’t hide forever.
My hands went cold.
Jasmine called the police.
We preserved the envelope and photograph.
The responding officer documented the incident and advised us not to engage with the sender.
I spent the rest of the afternoon shaking.
That evening, my phone rang.
An unfamiliar number.
I almost ignored it.
Then a text appeared.
Hannah, this is Camille Roberts. We heard about the photograph through your attorney’s request for restaurant records. Are you safe?
I stared.
I hadn’t spoken to Camille since the night I escaped.
I called her.
She answered immediately.
“Sweetheart?”
I started crying.
She listened while I explained.
Then she said, “I’m glad you reported it.”
I wiped my cheeks.
“I’m scared.”
“I understand.”
I hesitated.
“Does Damien know?”
“Yes.”
My stomach tightened.
“What did he say?”
Camille paused.
“He asked whether you needed any practical assistance. I told him you had legal representation and were following a safety plan.”
I nodded.
Then she added, “He also said he wouldn’t involve himself unless you requested it.”
For reasons I couldn’t explain, those words made my chest ache.
A man with enormous power had chosen not to use it without my permission.
I looked down at my watercolor painting.
“Could you tell him thank you?”
“Of course.”
A moment passed.
Then Camille asked, “Would you like to speak with him yourself?”
I hesitated.
Then whispered, “Yes.”
She transferred the call.
A familiar deep voice answered.
“Hannah.”
I closed my eyes.
“Damien.”
“How are you?”
I nearly laughed.
“Honestly?”
“Preferably.”
“Terrified.”
He was silent for a moment.
Then he said, “I’m sorry.”
I stared at the wall.
“Did you hear about the photograph?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think Brandon sent it?”
“I don’t know. It would be wrong to pretend certainty without evidence.”
I appreciated that.
He continued.
“Your attorney and the police are the right people to handle the threat. If you need transportation to appointments or help connecting with a support service, Camille can arrange options for you to consider.”
I hesitated.
“Why are you still helping me?”
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he answered.
“Because somebody helped my mother once.”
I blinked.
“Your mother?”
His voice changed.
“She spent years in a marriage where every decision was made for her. When she finally left, a woman she barely knew gave her a room, helped her find work, and reminded her she wasn’t property.”
My eyes filled.
“She got away?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to her?”
“She rebuilt her life.”
A pause.
“She taught me that having power means very little if you only use it to control people.”
I wiped my cheeks.
“Your mother sounds wonderful.”
“She was.”
Was.
I understood.
