Page 80 of His Orders

I swallow. Not because I’m afraid but because saying it out loud feels like exhaling something I’ve held for too long.

“He cried that night. Sat on the floor and told me he didn’t know what came over him. Said he loved me. Said it was the pressure of work. That he felt like I was pulling away from him. I believed him. Or maybe I needed to.”

The prosecution lets me talk without interruption. The courtroom is unusually silent. Even the paper shufflers have stopped shuffling.

“But it didn’t end there. The next time, it was because I was late. He said I embarrassed him. That I made him look like a man who couldn’t control his own girlfriend. He didn’t punch me. It was never that obvious. It was a hand around the arm, fingers around my jaw. A shake hard enough to make my teeth clacktogether. Always followed by a soft apology and an expensive gift.”

My voice is strong. I don’t rush. I make them live in it.

“The truth is, I stayed.”

That’s when the defense attorney rises, a practiced expression on his face, all courteous sympathy layered over skepticism.

“Miss Dawson,” he says, stepping closer, “you’re clearly intelligent. You had a career, friends, family. You’re well-spoken. So I have to ask—why didn’t you leave?”

There it is. The question everyone wants to ask. Why not walk away?

I lean forward slightly, resting my hands on the wood in front of me. My voice doesn’t rise. It deepens—not with volume, but with something else. Something rooted.

“Because abuse doesn’t begin with a bruise,” I say. “It begins with the idea that your feelings don’t matter. That your instincts are wrong. That the person who loves you is the only one who truly sees you. It begins with isolation so gradual you don’t realize how far you’ve drifted from yourself until you’re already on the other side of it.”

I hold the jury in my gaze.

“It’s waking up and telling yourself it was just a bad night. It’s making excuses before anyone can ask the question. It’s being so ashamed of being fooled that you convince yourself you haven’t been. Thatyou’rethe one who needs fixing.”

My voice never breaks. It doesn’t need to.

“You stay because you think leaving will make it worse. And you’re right. It does. Because men like him don’t let go. They watch. They circle. They follow you into new lives and new cities and leave pieces of their rage like shards beneath your skin.”

I glance at Daniel then, just for a second.

“You don’t stay because you’re stupid. You stay because you’re surviving.”

The courtroom doesn’t move. Even the judge stops writing. Then the cross-examination begins.

The defense attorney rises and straightens his tie as he strides to the edge of the jury box. On reaching, he folds his hands with a touch too much elegance, as if the performance matters more than the truth.

“Miss Dawson,” he begins, “you’ve painted a vivid picture today. A relationship marked by fear, control, emotional volatility. But I must ask…” He turns toward me, his expression sympathetic in the way a hunter might look at prey. “If things were so unbearable, why didn’t you leave?”

The question is a dull ache pressed into an old bruise. The courtroom leans forward, but I stay still.

He lifts one shoulder in what might pass for a shrug. “You had resources. A job. Family. Friends. You weren’t locked in a basement. You weren’t on camera being beaten. You weren’t even physically restrained, were you?”

I look at him. I let the silence stretch. Then I speak.

“He never needed chains,” I say. “Not when he had apologies.”

He arches a brow, waiting.

I lift my chin. “He would break things when he was angry. A vase. A doorframe. Once, my wrist. He’d come back minutes later with flowers, shaking hands, and a look in his eyes likehewas the one who needed comforting. He would cry. Say he was sorry. Say I made him feel things he didn’t know how to handle.”

The attorney glances at the jury, then back to me. “But you stayed.”

“I stayed because leaving didn’t feel like freedom. It felt like failure. Like proof that I really was the problem. That if I had just been calmer. Quieter. Less dramatic. Lessme, maybe he wouldn’t have needed to do what he did.”

He steps closer. “So you’re saying he manipulated you into believing you deserved it?”

I shake my head. “No. He didn’t need to convince me. I already believed it.”

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