Maury, Caleb’s agent, closes the folder containing photo after photo, from every angle, of the bruises and swollen places aching under my clothes even now, two days later. The pictures, the rape kit, documentation of previous injuries – all of it tells the story I’ve hidden for months until I had as much damning evidence on Caleb as he fabricated about me. Maury pushes the folder away on the table like a plate of rotten meat.

“Shit, Caleb,” he mutters. “How could you do this?”

Maury looks at me for the first time, wincing when he encounters the evidence of Caleb’s brutality stamped into my face. The only sympathy I’ll find in this room lies in his eyes.

“I’m sorry this happened to you, Iris,” he says softly, swallowing deeply. “What do you want? How’s this gonna go?”

I draw in a fortifying breath, ignoring the heat of Caleb’s glare. “As you see, the injuries I suffered only two days ago have been documented by a physician.” I steady my voice even though the humiliation of exposing what happened nearly chokes me. “X-rays and a complete examination also show evidence of past injuries never properly attended.” With one look, I fire a shot across the table at Caleb. “Tests also found evidence of rape.” I use the word deliberately, lest Caleb or anyone else think there was anything consensual about what happened to me.

“Rape?” Maury asks, his indignation emerging again. “What the hell? Damn you, Caleb. I’ll turn you in myself.”

“Oh, no.” I shake my head decisively. “Other athletes outed as abusers are fined and miss a few games, only to be back on the court, back on the field in a few weeks. I’m not trusting my life, my daughter’s life to a system that favors men just like Caleb. I’ve seen the so-called consequences we have for domestic abuse, and I need more than that.”

Cracks in the system are tailor-made and just the right size for men like Caleb to slip through. Caleb’s fame and money only tip the already-tilted scales even more in his favor. I’ve seen it too often to leave this to chance.

“No,” I continue. “You’ll comply with everything I ask or all the gory details come out. Endorsements gone, NBA career over, and at least a few years of your life behind bars.”

“Just get to the point,” Mr. Bradley says. “What do you want?”

My daughter. My innocence back. My tattered illusions repaired. My dreams restored.

My second chance with August.

All of it feels improbable, so I ask for the things I know I can get using the evidence splayed on the conference room table.

“I want my freedom.” I shift steady eyes to Caleb. “You don’t follow us. You don’t try to find us. You waive paternal rights, and you leave us alone.”

A disbelieving laugh sputters from Caleb’s lips. “You stupid bitch,” he spits. “You think I’ll give my daughter to you?”

“Did you bring the journal and my ring like I asked?” I ignore his insults and his arrogance. “Because I want those, too.”

He sobers fast, thinning his lips and icing his eyes over in the way that used to strike terror in me, but no longer can.

“Caleb,” Maury says sharply. “Give them to her.”

For a second it looks like he won’t, but his father snaps his fingers, and I know I’ve won at least this battle. Caleb pulls out the journal and slides it across the table so hard it skids off the edge and falls to the floor. Before I can squat to get it, Maury is there, picking it up and offering it to me with an apologetic look.

“My client’s an asshole,” he murmurs.

“Obviously, you don’t have to tell me that,” I say, accepting the journal. “And my great-grandmother’s ring?”

“I have no idea where your backwoods jewelry is,” Caleb drawls, contempt frosting his smile. “What use do I have for that cheap shit?”

I know he’s lying, but the ring is a small casualty in this war, considering all I’m gaining today. Considering all I’ve lost.

“Fine. My journal and my freedom will do,” I say, locking eyes with him.

“That’s it?” Caleb slouches in his seat. “And I don’t ever get to see my daughter again?”

Everything in me screams hell no, but having stripped him of his parental rights, I make the only concession I can. “When she’s older, and if you’ve completed anger management therapy to my satisfaction, then I’ll consider supervised visits.”

“To your satisfaction?” He rolls his eyes and sucks his teeth. “We’ll see about that.”

“Caleb, shut your fucking mouth,” his father snaps. “Iris, I understand. I’ll have paperwork drawn up reflecting your . . . demands.”

The hesitation on his face seems out of place. He’s always sure, but uncertainty is as clear as the pride he pushes aside to ask his next question.

“Maybe you could . . .” He clears his throat, an uncharacteristic pause from a man who always sounds sure. “. . . consider allowing my wife and me to see Sarai when the time is right? She is our only granddaughter, after all.”

I toughen the soft parcels of my heart, giving no ground. Anyone I have contact with is someone Caleb can use to find me before I’m ready to be found. Phone calls, letters, messages—they’re all bread crumbs Caleb would sniff out and follow if his obsession overpowered his sense of self-preservation.

“I’ll consider that later,” I reply. “But right now, I need to put distance between me and everything to do with your son, including you.”

“This is ridiculous,” Caleb says under his breath.

“That’s fair . . .” Mr. Bradley’s expression hardens into granite, his negotiating face. “Now for our terms.”

I knew this was coming, and I’m prepared. I simply nod for him to go on.

“You sign an NDA that you’ll never speak of this and never release the contents of this file, as long as Caleb complies with your requests,” he says. “And I mean speak of it to no one. Ever. Violation of that nullifies everything else and restores Caleb’s parental rights.”

I meet Caleb’s eyes, and for a second, I think he wants me to violate it—to give him an excuse to break the leash I’m imposing and come after me, take Sarai. Hurt me again.

“I can do that,” I agree.

“And I can write a check for a generous amount to get you settled.” Mr. Bradley pulls out his dreaded checkbook again.

“No.” I’m not yielding on this. “I don’t want your money. I don’t want to take anything from your family into our new life. As matter of fact, I have something for you, Caleb.”

I reach into the front pocket of my jeans, remove the engagement ring Caleb forced on me, and slide it across the table with such force it skips across the hard surface and lands on the floor, repaying his earlier disrespect.

Caleb’s cheeks mottle with emotion. The corners of his eyes tighten.

“Yours, I believe.” I rub at my ring finger as if it’s contaminated.

Mr. Bradley slips the checkbook back into the inside pocket of his jacket. “We’ll draw up the papers tomorrow, and—”

“I want the papers today.” I gather my things and the tiny scraps of self-respect I’ve recovered and turn toward the door. “Instructions for delivery are in the folder. I’m leaving town tomorrow.”

“Where are you going?” Caleb demands. “Where are you taking Sarai?”

“You heard the terms, Caleb,” Maury interrupts. “If you don’t want to lose everything and find yourself in a well-earned prison cell, you don’t get to know, and you don’t get to follow. Regardless, you’ll need to find yourself a new agent.”

Maury grimaces, taking in the gruesome images of my pummeled face and body. “Iris, are you sure you don’t want to press charges? He shouldn’t get away scot-free.”

A bitter laugh precedes my answer. “I press charges and what? He gets a slap on the wrist? Probation? A year for what he’s done by the time his lawyers whittle it down? And still can get joint custody of my daughter?”

I glare at Caleb before going on. He blanks his expression, looking deliberately bored, like I’m wasting his time.

“Should I live looking over my shoulder, waiting for him to decide he wants me back?” I continue. “Or wants me dead? Is that the justice you want me to seek? No, thank you. I’ll make my own justice. It’s not perfect and it may run out one day, but it’s the best I can do right now for Sarai and me.”

I shake my head. “I’ve taken the things from him that matter most: access to me and my child. Forgive me for being more concerned about our freedom than whether or not he is ‘scot-free.’ The only thing he wants to do more than hurt me is to protect himself.”

“Well then let’s get on with it,” Maury says, standing and extending his arm for me to precede him through the door.

I’m walking out when Caleb snatches me by the arm, his touch setting off an alarm system in my body, red lights flashing, sirens blaring, and sprinklers spitting water. Shackled to him again, protest roars through me.

“Get your hands off me,” I ground out.

Maury pushes against his chest, but Caleb won’t let go, his fingers tightening painfully over my bruises.

“Iris, don’t leave me.” Desperation fills his eyes and some sick kind of sorrow, but no regret. “I . . .” His gaze dips to Maury’s face and then to his father, who stands by, disgust and disappointment marking his expression.

“I need you, baby,” he whispers. And I know it’s true. He needs something to control, to manipulate, to toy with when the pressure is too much, but I’m not his punching bag. I’m not his anything anymore.

“Get your fucking hands off me.” I jerk at my arm, but he refuses to let go. “Or the deal is off and your precious endorsements and your career—they’ll all be over.”