Chapter 65
Chapter 65
Chapter 65: “Louder Than Silence”
POV: Elizabeth
\---
The article had been out for hours, and I was still sitting in the same spot.
My phone was face down, my laptop closed, and the lights were off. I hadn’t left the dining table except to make a quick trip to the bathroom. Even then, the person I saw in the mirror felt like a stranger, someone with pale skin, weary eyes, and a painful truth that had been distorted in the world outside.
The headlines kept replaying in my mind.
“Bruised and Pregnant: The Secret Life of a Billionaire's Wife.”
“Who Hurt Elizabeth Labonair?”
“Fame or Victimhood? The Internet Weighs In.”
They didn’t make any effort to get it right. They hadn’t bothered to ask me or show any concern.
I pulled the sleeves of my sweater over my hands, but it did little to warm me. I felt a chill deep within, a sensation that no blanket could chase away.
I should have felt angry, furious, even. But instead, I mostly felt… empty.
Then I heard Jackson’s voice.
“Elizabeth.”
I hadn’t noticed the front door open or heard his footsteps, but there he was in the doorway, looking as if he’d been through his own kind of hell.
I didn’t respond; I just stared at him.
He approached slowly, knelt beside my chair, and placed his hand gently on my knee.
“I’m really sorry.”
That broke something inside me.
I focused on him, really focused. His eyes were red, his jaw tense, and I noticed his hand trembling ever so slightly.
I swallowed hard. “They treated my body like it was just gossip.”
“I know.” His voice faltered. “And I should have done something to stop it. I should have been more proactive.”
“That’s not the point.” I shook my head. “No one should have posted it in the first place.”
He stood up, ran a hand through his hair, and began to pace. “We can sue. Richard is already drafting cease-and-desist letters. If we push back hard enough, they’ll have to take it down.”
“And then what?” I asked quietly. “They’ll just wait for the next scandal. Another photograph. Another part of me to tear apart.”
He turned to face me. “So what do you want to do?”
I took a deep breath.
“I want to reclaim my story.”
He blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I mean my truth. I’m tired of being a headline. I want to share what really happened, not for pity, not for attention, just because I’m done being silent.”
“Like… an interview?” he asked.
“No. An open letter. From me. Written in my own words, unfiltered, unedited. Just honest.”
He paused for a moment, considering.
Then he nodded slowly. “Alright. We’ll do it together.”
I looked up at him. “You’re okay with that?”
He managed a faint smile. “I’m not the one pouring my heart out on the page, but I’ll be right here with you while you write it.”
\---
We were in the living room, surrounded by cushions on the floor, with a laptop opened between us to a blank document.
My fingers lingered above the keys, waiting.
“What if they twist my words again?” I murmured.
“They probably will,” Jackson replied candidly, “but that doesn’t diminish the power of your truth.”
I glanced at him, uncertainty creeping in. “Do you really believe I can do this?”
“I have no doubt,” he assured me.
So, I began to type.
\---
> My name is Elizabeth Warren Labonair. You might already recognize me. What you might not know is that I’ve spent countless years being silent due to fear, shame, and self-preservation. But that ends now.
> The image that got circulated wasn’t altered. It was very much real. The bruises were genuine, and so was the pain. I never sought this kind of attention, nor did I ask to be dragged into the internet's speculation.
> But if you’re looking for the truth, here it is: I was hurt. Not by my husband, not because of any scandal, but by those who thought they could exploit me—physically, emotionally, and publicly. For too long, I stayed silent, as society teaches women to do.
> I’ve been on a slow path to healing. I've been rediscovering my voice through art, the support of those who love me, and the difficult choice to keep going, even when it felt easier to give up.
> This isn’t a scandal; it’s a story of survival. And I refuse to feel ashamed.
\---
As I finished my piece, I stared at the screen.
Jackson read it through multiple times, his gaze lingering on the final line.
He remained silent for a moment, then whispered softly, “That’s my wife.”
\---
We decided to share it together.
On my personal account. No public relations team, no grand reveal, just a screenshot of my letter accompanied by the caption: “From me. For me.”
In a matter of moments, it went viral.
Some hailed me as brave; others dismissed me as overdramatic. A few even told me to keep quiet and appreciate my wealthy husband.
But none of that truly mattered.
For the first time in so many years, I felt free from hiding.
Later that night, I found myself in the art room, paint smeared on my hands, gazing at a neglected canvas from the week before. The colors were dark and tumultuous, swirls of red and stark black strokes. I picked up a brush and dipped it in white.
Gradually, I began to paint over the chaos.
Not to erase it.
Just to create space for something new.
Jackson entered behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist.
“Are you okay?” he asked gently.
“No,” I admitted. “But I will be.”
We stood in that quiet moment together, me with a brush in hand and his arms anchoring me.
I had no idea what tomorrow might hold, or the days to follow. But at this moment?
Right now, I was louder than the silence.
And I was here to stay.