Annelly

A sob escapes before I can stop it, the helplessness and humiliation of that night stealing the air from my lungs. My breath comes in shuttering gasps, but I force myself to speak, even as the words feel like shards of glass cutting through my throat. “He told someone to go ahead, and the next thing I knew there was a hand—” My voice cracks, as more tears break free from my eyes. “A hand under my dress, touching me…”  

I can’t finish. I don’t need to. The shame of being forcibly touched by a stranger, of being held down and treated like I wasn’t a person but a thing to be used, rips through me like a violent storm. Overwhelmed, I fall apart, my body trembling as the dam inside me bursts free. Though I’ve thought about that night a thousand times—relived it in my waking hours and in my nightmares—this is the first time I’ve spoken the words aloud. And the weight of them feels unbearable.

“Fuck!” His sharp expletive slices through the air, cutting through the sound of my sobs. Before I can fully process it, he’s there—sliding into the booth beside me and wrapping me in his arms. “Shh. Don’t cry, Annelly. Please don’t cry,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick with barely concealed desperation.

His chin rests on the top of my head, the weight of it grounding as his arms tighten around me. It’s as if he’s trying to shield me—not just from the world, but from the suffocating memory that has me unraveling. My sobs wrack my body, but I try to focus on him, on the steady rhythm of his heartbeat thudding through his chest and against my cheek. 

His breaths are heavy, uneven, trembling with barely restrained fury that radiates from him in waves. And yet, his touch remains impossibly gentle, his hands steady as he holds me like I’m something precious, something breakable. For a fleeting moment, I let myself believe I’m safe.

He presses his lips to the top of my head, lingering there for a moment before trailing soft, desperate kisses down to my temple. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his voice a mix of anguish and fury. “God, Annelly, I’m so fucking sorry. I hate myself for making you do this, but I have to know. Please… please tell me what happened next.”  

His arms tighten around me, holding me like he’s afraid I’ll somehow slip away. The steady pressure of his embrace, the heat of his body against mine—it all serves to anchor me, to remind me that I’m here. That I’m safe. That these are just memories, no matter how vivid they feel.

“When I fought back,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “He hit me. In front of all those people…” My chest tightens as a sob tears through me. “He dragged me to his office, yelling that I’d embarrassed him, and there… there he hit me some more. When he stopped…” My breath hitches, and I force the words out through the lump in my throat. “He forced me to kiss him. He touched me. Hurt me.” 

James’s body stiffens against mine, a low growl rumbling in his chest, but he doesn’t interrupt. I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart as the memories continue to claw their way to the surface. 

“Then he told me to go home.” I manage to choke out, tears streaming down my face. “He said that after closing…” My throat constricts, and the words barely make it past my lips. “He’d come to me.” 

The memory hits like a tidal wave, the raw fear I felt that night surging back with brutal clarity. My voice cracks on the last word, the weight of his threats pressing down on me like a vice. I can still feel it—the suffocating dread that gripped me, the haunting certainty of what he planned to do to me. It steals the air from my lungs, leaving me light-headed and trembling as the past and present blur together. 

But I can’t let it consume me. Not now. Not when James is here, waiting, needing to understand. Forcing myself to push through the panic, I pull back from his embrace, my hands gripping his arms for stability as I meet his gaze. 

“I left his office, and I ran,” I say, my voice shaking but resolute. “I left everything behind—school, the role of a lifetime, my friends, my entire life. I only took what I couldn’t leave behind and came home… because I knew that if I stayed, I wouldn’t survive the things he’d do to me.”

A sob wracks my body as the shame and helplessness threaten to swallow me whole. “James, please believe me… I never meant to be that girl. I never thought I’d ever be that girl.”

“Jesus, no.” His voice breaks, raw and filled with anguish. “Stop. Look at me, angel.” 

His hands leave my body only to cup my face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that won’t stop falling. His touch is firm yet gentle, grounding me in the here and now. His gaze locks onto mine—intense, fierce, and layered with a depth of emotion I’ve never seen from him before.

“None of this—none of what happened—is your fault. You hear me?” His voice trembles, but his words are steady and unyielding. “You fought back. You got out. You did everything right and got yourself somewhere safe. And now…” His jaw clenches, his eyes blazing with determination. “Now you’re here with me, and I swear to you, he will never get the chance to hurt you again. Never. I promise you that.”  

The conviction in his words wraps around me like a life preserver, holding me afloat as the waves of despair begin to recede. After pressing a tender kiss to my forehead, he pulls me into his arms. The silence that follows is grounding, soothing. Unburdened by the weight of my secrets, I take a deep, shuddering breath, letting the warmth and safety of his embrace seep into my soul. For the first time in months, it feels like I can finally breathe.

When he clears his throat and his body tenses, I know there’s another hard question coming. 

“I’m sorry about this, but I need to ask. Why didn’t you go to the police?”

I close my eyes, memories from that night clawing their way to the surface. The men Victor introduced me to weren’t just powerful—they were untouchable. It wasn’t until weeks after I escaped that I finally understood why he insisted I attend that dinner, why he paraded me in front of men whose status was so far above my own. It wasn’t just a business meeting. It was a message. A cruel demonstration meant to showcase the breadth of his power and influence. 

“Because the man sitting next to me that night,” I say, my voice trembling but steady enough to continue. “The one who put his hand up my dress and touched me… was Arnold Price, the Manhattan District Attorney.” 

James’s sharp inhale is audible, and the tension in his body radiates through me. His chest rises and falls, his breathing ragged as though he’s fighting to contain the fury building inside him.

Desperate to push through the memory, I rush on. “I believe Victor invited me to that dinner to show me I had no choice. To make it clear that his wants and needs were law, and that as long as he wanted me in his life, there was no way out.” My voice wavers, but I force myself to finish. “I didn’t go to the police that night—or any other night since—because I knew it would only make things worse. Reporting him wouldn’t have saved me. It would have trapped me in his world, chaining me to a life I knew I’d never survive.”

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