Here’s Part 2 continued:
He narrowed his eyes.
“Have you completely lost your nerve?” he asked, his voice low, testing.
I held his gaze.
That was the first mistake he made.
Emma never held his gaze when he used that tone. She would look down. Apologize. Shrink.
I didn’t.
Something flickered across his face — confusion first, then irritation. He stepped closer, expecting me to flinch.
I didn’t.
Instead, I calmly picked up the mug he’d criticized and set it exactly where I wanted it.
“If something bothers you,” I said evenly, “you can move it yourself.”
Silence.
The rain tapped against the windows. The house felt smaller, tighter.
He wasn’t used to resistance. He was used to control. And control only works when the other person participates in it.
He studied me like I was a puzzle that wouldn’t solve itself.
“What’s wrong with you tonight?” he muttered.
I tilted my head slightly — just like Emma does when she’s thinking. “Nothing’s wrong,” I replied. “I just realized something.”
“And what’s that?”
“That I’m not afraid of you.”
The words landed heavier than shouting ever could.
He laughed — but it wasn’t confident. It was thin. Forced.
He stepped closer again, but this time I didn’t step back. I didn’t tremble. I didn’t rush to smooth things over.
Instead, I calmly pulled my phone from my pocket and placed it on the table between us.
The screen was already recording.
His eyes dropped to it.
And that’s when the balance shifted.
“You’re not as untouchable as you think,” I said quietly.
For the first time, he hesitated.
Abusers thrive in shadows. In silence. In the certainty that no one will believe the person they hurt.
But tonight, there was light.
And witnesses.
Outside, across the street, my car was parked with its dashcam angled toward the entrance. A friend — one who knew the situation — was waiting for my signal. Emma wasn’t alone anymore.
He realized something then.
The woman standing in front of him might look like his wife.
But she wasn’t his victim.
And more importantly —
She wasn’t alone.
