Her husband called it an accident after breaking her arm—until the X-ray technician recognized her as his sister.

The car ride home was silent.

Garrett drove with one hand on the wheel, the other on my knee. His thumb stroked my skin like he was comforting me. Like he hadn't shattered my arm three hours earlier.

I stared out the window. The city lights blurred. All I could see was Noah's face.

You are not alone.

When we got home, Garrett helped me out of the car. He was gentle. Careful. He made me tea. He propped my arm up on pillows.

"I'm so sorry this happened," he said, brushing hair from my face. "Stairs are dangerous. I should've had them fixed."

I didn't say anything. I just nodded.

That was the thing about Garrett. After the rage came the charm. The apologies. The gifts. The version of him that made me fall in love in the first place.

I used to believe it. I used to think if I was just better—kinder, quieter, more obedient—the rage would stop forever.

It never did.

That night, while he slept, I took out the piece of paper Noah had slipped into my hand before we left. A phone number. Scrawled in messy handwriting. And three words: Call anytime.

I waited until Garrett's breathing was deep and even. Then I crept into the bathroom, locked the door, and dialed.

He answered on the first ring.

"Elena?"

"Noah." My voice broke. "Noah, I'm so scared."

"I know," he said. "I know. But I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere. Listen to me carefully. Can you talk?"

"He's asleep. I have maybe ten minutes."

"Okay. Here's what's going to happen. I've already called the police—"

"No!" I hissed. "Noah, you can't. Garrett knows everyone. The chief of police came to our Christmas party. Half the judges are his friends. If you go to them, they'll tell him. And then—"

I couldn't finish. I didn't have to.

Noah was quiet for a moment. "Okay. No police. Not yet. But I called a lawyer. A good one. She doesn't care who Garrett is. Her name is Detective—no, her name is Marisol Cruz. She specializes in domestic violence cases with high-profile defendants."

"She'll never take it. Garrett will ruin her."

"She already took it. Elena, she's been waiting for a case like this. Garrett Hartford has a reputation. People talk. She wants to take him down."

I leaned against the bathroom wall. My arm was throbbing. My baby was kicking.

"What do I do?" I whispered.

"You document everything. Every bruise. Every threat. Every time he raises his voice. Take photos. Keep a journal. And Elena—does he have secrets? Things he wouldn't want getting out?"

I thought about Garrett's office. The locked filing cabinet. The late-night phone calls. The envelopes of cash I'd seen him hand to city officials.

"Yes," I said. "I think so."

"Then we find them. Men like Garrett—they don't fall because of one broken arm. They fall because of everything they've been hiding. We give him so much trouble he can't buy his way out."

A floorboard creaked outside the bathroom door.

My heart stopped.

"Elena?" Garrett's voice, muffled through the door. "Who are you talking to?"

"I have to go," I whispered.

"Be brave," Noah said. "I'll see you soon."

I hung up, flushed the toilet, and opened the door. Garrett stood there, sleepy-eyed, concerned.

"Just feeling sick," I said. "Pregnancy."

He frowned. "Come back to bed. You need your rest."

I followed him back to bed. Lay beside him while he slept.

And I stared at the ceiling, making plans.