The board member’s words linger in the air long after he says them. They drift around me like smoke, clinging to my skin, seeping into the seams of the silk gown Damian sent. I stand there holding a fragile champagne glass while he watches me with an expression that hovers between amusement and contempt.
The implication is clear. He thinks I traded testimony for a better life. He thinks men like Damian collect women like trophies. He thinks I am one of them. A survivor only because I attached myself to another powerful man.
Humiliation floods me so fast it feels like heat crawling up my throat. I cannot breathe evenly. My pulse pounds with anger I cannot hide. I feel trapped between the life I escaped and the world I have been forced into. Either way, someone controls the narrative. Eith
