Chapter 52: He Still Thinks He Owns Me
The room settles into something quieter once everything officially begins, not silent, but structured in a way that makes every sound feel intentional, like it belongs to something larger than the people inside it.
Papers move.
Voices carry, measured and even.
None of it is what holds my attention.
That stays fixed across the room.
He hasn’t changed.
Not in the way he sits, not in the way he listens, not even in the way his attention moves when someone speaks to him, all of it controlled and practiced like he’s done this enough times to understand exactly how to exist inside it without giving anything away.
Except he does.
Not to them.
To me.
His gaze finds mine again without effort, like it doesn’t matter what else is happening around him, like none of it holds the same weight.
I don’t look away.
That’s the only thing I give him.
Nothing else.
A question is asked somewhere near the front, something about timelines, about process, words that move through the room without landing anywhere that matters, and he answers when he’s supposed to, calm and steady, like this is nothing more than a formality.
Like he isn’t here for me.
Like this isn’t the point.
But his fingers tap once against the table again, slow and deliberate, a rhythm that doesn’t match anything else in the room, and it’s the only thing that feels honest.
Mike shifts slightly in the seat ahead, tension pulling tight through his shoulders before settling again, while Josh doesn’t move at all beside me, his focus locked forward in a way that feels controlled rather than distant.
Jake stays quiet behind me, present without drawing attention, and Drew’s knee presses lightly against mine, steady and grounding in a way that doesn’t need to be acknowledged.
Patrick remains still.
Completely.
That stillness says more than anything else.
The hearing continues around us, voices rising and falling in measured tones, questions asked, answers given, all of it moving forward exactly the way it’s supposed to, but none of it feels real.
Not compared to this.
Not compared to the way his attention keeps circling back.
A pause comes when it’s my turn.
Not announced.
Just understood.
Something shifts in the room, small but enough to register, like everything is narrowing slightly, waiting for something that hasn’t happened yet.
I feel it settle against my shoulders.
The expectation.
The space.
His gaze doesn’t leave me.
Not for a second.
“Miss—”
The voice from the front barely lands before something cuts through it.
“Emmy.”
It’s quiet.
Too quiet for the room.
But it reaches anyway.
My breath doesn’t change.
That’s the first thing I check.
In.
Out.
Steady.
The judge says something after that, a correction, a reminder, but I don’t follow it fully because the only thing that matters is that he said my name like it still belongs to him.
Like he’s allowed.
I don’t respond.
I don’t look at him.
I keep my attention forward, exactly where it’s supposed to be, and let the silence that follows stretch just long enough to make it clear.
Not anymore.
There’s a shift behind me.
Subtle.
Controlled.
Jake.
Drew’s knee presses slightly firmer against mine, grounding without pulling. At the same time, Josh’s presence beside me sharpens without movement, his attention tightening in a way that feels immediate even if it doesn’t show.
Mike exhales once, slow and controlled.
Patrick doesn’t move.
That’s how I know he noticed.
Across the room, he doesn’t push.
That’s what makes it worse.
He leans back slightly instead, his expression unchanged, like the moment didn’t matter, like he didn’t just test something and get his answer.
But his gaze lingers.
Just a second longer than it should.
Satisfied.
The questions continue.
Someone speaks.
He answers.
Everything moves again, the structure taking over, filling the space where that moment sat, as if it never happened.
But it did.
It sits there anyway.
Between one breath and the next.
Mike shifts again, leaning slightly toward Josh, his voice barely audible. “He’s baiting.”
“I know,” Josh says quietly, not looking away from the front.
Jake’s voice comes lower, closer to my shoulder. “You good?”
“Yes.”
The word comes out clean.
No hesitation.
Drew’s hand brushes mine briefly, just enough to ground before it settles back, and Patrick’s voice comes low beside me, even and certain.
“He doesn’t get anything you don’t give him.”
“I know.”
Across the room, his attention returns again.
Not constant.
Not obvious.
But always there.
Like something waiting.
The hearing moves toward its end without anything breaking, without anything loud enough to shift the room the way it feels like it should, and that’s the part that settles deepest.
Nothing happens.
Not on the surface.
No explosion.
No clear move.
Just small things.
A look.
A word.
A moment that doesn’t belong.
And when it finally begins to close, when voices lower and papers shift, and people start to move again, he doesn’t rush.
He doesn’t react.
He stays exactly where he is, like he has no reason to move first.
Like he’s not the one being watched.
Likewise,e he’s not the one who just tried to remind me of something that doesn’t exist anymore.
I don’t look at him again.
Not when the room begins to shift.
Not when people stand.
Not when the space starts to fill with movement again.
Because I don’t need to.
I already know.
This wasn’t the point.
This wasn’t the move.
It was just the beginning.