Chapter 237

Noah

The same routine kept repeating throughout the week.

Different mornings. Same courtroom. Same air that felt too thin to breathe. Same comforting gathering afterwards.

I stopped counting how many people took the stand against my father.

Security guards from the cathedral first. Calm. Professional. Describing the gun. The angle. The moment everything shattered.

Then guests. People in expensive clothes who had come to watch a wedding and ended up watching a man die. They spoke about screams, blood, panic. About how quickly my father had been taken down. About William, local hero and benefactor, my dad’s heinous crime and their tragic loss…

Every word landed like a hammer.

My stomach stayed twisted the entire time.

And through all of it—he sat there.

My father.

Still. Composed. Hands folded. Face carefully neutral.

Like this was happening to someone else.

Then my mother was called.

She shook so badly on the walk to the stand I thought she might collapse. I wanted to stand. To stop it. But I couldn’t. I had already learned that lesson—this was bigger than what I wanted.

Her voice broke when she spoke about the years. The control. The fear. The nights she locked her bedroom door. The bruises she learned to hide.

She never looked at him.

The jury did.

Some of them wiped their eyes.

My father, out of pure theatrics, lowered his head as if the weight of guilt were too much to bear. When the lawyers questioned him, his voice cracked on cue.

“Margaret, I’m so sorry,” he said, hands trembling just enough. “I never meant to hurt you. I was hurting myself and took it out on you. I was depressed—losing my career, my passion. I was in physical pain, mentally lost, financially unprepared to be a husband… to be a father.” He swallowed hard. “It was overwhelming. And instead of seeking help, I put it on you. I’m so sorry. I hope you can forgive me.”

His eyes shone with tears.

The jury leaned in.

I clenched my jaw.

Emily went next.

That one nearly destroyed me.

She cried on the stand. Didn’t even try to stop it. She talked about the stairs. The hospital. The fear that never really left. The way she’d learned to listen for footsteps like it was a survival instinct.

I watched the jurors’ faces change. I watched sympathy turn into something heavier.

And still—he didn’t react.

Not really.

I knew him well enough to recognize it. He was untouched. Unmoved. Waiting.

When it was his turn again, he finally struck.

He turned toward Emily.

“Baby…” His voice broke completely this time. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I know that.”

No, you don’t…

My dad’s tears spilled freely now, and I wanted to puke.

Fake motherfucker…

“I was sick. I was drowning. Addiction twisted everything I was. But I never stopped loving you. Never.”

Emily covered her mouth, shaking.

“I would give anything to take it back,” he said. “Anything. All I ask—” his voice cracked again, perfectly timed, “—is that one day you might forgive your father.”

The room felt like it tilted.

I could hear people sniffing. Chairs shifting. The sound of a jury being pulled exactly where he wanted them.

He looked at my mother, then at Emily. Then—briefly—at me, and cried again.

He kept talking about regret. About mistakes. About alcoholism. About how retirement had left him bitter and lost. He used words like “remorse” and “shame,” and “I wasn’t myself” as if they were absolution.

For a moment, the room softened. You could feel it. That dangerous hesitation. That human urge to believe a man who says he’s sorry.

I almost hated him more for that than for anything else.

Because I knew that act.

I’d grown up with it.

By the end of each day, my head ached constantly. My body felt like it was made of glass. I slept badly. I woke worse.

The night before my big day, I felt him.

Aiden shifted closer, his arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me back against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hand rested over my stomach, warm and steady, his breath slow against the back of my neck.

“I can’t sleep,” I whispered into the dark. “I’m scared.”

His grip tightened just a little. Protective. Certain.

“Then let me calm you down, baby,” he murmured, lips brushing my hair.

He didn’t rush me. He never did.

His fingers traced slow, reassuring paths along my arms, my shoulders, my back—nothing demanding, nothing urgent. Just there. Just reminding my body it was safe. He kissed my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth, soft and unhurried, like he was stitching me back together one breath at a time.

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispered. “You’re doing something most people never find the courage to do.”

My throat closed. “I don’t feel brave.”

“I know,” he said gently. “That’s how I know it’s real.”

I turned slightly in his arms, pressing my forehead to his chest. He kissed the top of my head, then my brow, then lingered there, breathing me in.

“This is the last day of your old life,” he said quietly. “The one where you carried all of this alone.”

I listened.

“And tomorrow,” he continued, voice steady and sure, “when you step down from that stand—no matter what happens—I’ll be there. I’ll hold you. I’ll love you. And every day after that, we build something new. Together.”

His hand slid up to cradle my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek with infinite tenderness.

“We don’t erase the past,” he said. “We rewrite what comes next.”

I closed my eyes, letting his warmth sink into me, letting his certainty hold me up when mine was gone.

I woke up that day in his arms, short of breath, my heart going a thousand miles per hour, yet I took a deep breath and let Aiden guide me through my morning routine until we made it to the courthouse. I sat there among my family and friends, even those that didn’t have to be there but would not dare leave me to my demons.

That was the day that didn’t repeat.

That was the day everything I’d ever buried got dragged into the light.

When the clerk, finally, said my name, I stood. My legs felt distant; my hands were numb. I didn’t look at him as I walked to the stand.

Not yet.