Safe With You

The Weight Of Justice

~ Alyssa ~

The courthouse is colder than I remember.

Even with the morning sun streaming through the tall glass windows, there’s something sterile about it — too clean, too sharp, too bright.

The air smells faintly of coffee, disinfectant, and nerves.

My heels echo against the polished floor as we walk.

Every click feels like a countdown.

Greyson’s beside me — silent, composed, but I can feel the storm under his skin. He’s been that way since dawn: steady for me, angry for us.

Winston and Triston walk just behind, both in dark suits. They’re quieter than usual.

It’s not lost on me that these are the same men who stood between me and danger that night — the same hands that dragged Mark out of Triston’s house and threw him into the dirt.

When we reach the waiting area outside Courtroom Four, everything slows.

The clock ticks too loudly.

The hum of voices feels distant.

For a heartbeat, I’m seven years ago — barefoot, bruised, blood sticky on my skin, clutching baby Quinn in my arms and praying the car would start.

Then Greyson’s hand finds mine, grounding me in the now.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

I swallow hard. “No.”

He squeezes my hand gently. “That’s fine. You just have to be here. You’ve already won.”

The door opens, and the usher gestures for us to enter.

My pulse stumbles.

Here we go.

~ Greyson ~

Courtrooms always have a certain gravity — even when you’re not the one standing trial.

This one feels heavier than most.

We step inside, the air dense with quiet anticipation. Rows of wooden benches, polished to a mirror shine, stretch out like pews in a church.

The walls are cream, lined with brass plaques and quiet authority.

Alyssa’s chin is high, every inch the woman who rebuilt her life from ashes.

But I see the tremor in her hand, the tension in her shoulders.

I want to take her out of here — shield her from every stare, every whisper.

But she insisted on this.

“No screens, no distance,” she told the detectives. “I’ll face him myself.”

And so she will.

Triston takes a seat at the back beside Winston, both men tense, silent sentinels.

Alyssa and I sit in the front row. The prosecutor, a calm, sharp-eyed woman named Delainey, leans in with a reassuring nod.

“Remember,” she whispers, “you’re not on trial. He is.”

I nod, though the words feel useless — like throwing water on a wildfire.

The doors creak open again.

My stomach knots.

He walks in.

Mark.

He’s thinner than I remember, but that same smug arrogance clings to him like oil. His hair’s slicked back, his suit too new, his smile too practiced.

When his eyes land on Alyssa, the smirk falters for just a second — and that’s all I need to see.

Because she doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t look away.

She just stares back.

And for the first time, I realise this isn’t about fear anymore.

It’s about power.

~ Alyssa ~

He looks smaller.

It’s strange — how memory can lie.

For years, he was a monster in my head — taller, louder, unshakable.

Now, standing in the dock, he’s just a man.

A pathetic one.

His solicitor whispers something; he nods but doesn’t take his eyes off me.

I let him look.

Let him see exactly who he lost the day he chose violence.

The judge enters, and the courtroom rises.

When we sit, my heart is hammering, but my face is stone.

The opening statements blur together.

Prosecution outlining the charges — assault, coercive control, financial abuse, breach of bail.

Defense countering with denial, excuses, manipulation.

Every word he’s ever used to twist the truth repackaged in legal language.

Then the evidence begins.

Photos.

Statements.

Medical records.

Each image flashes on the screen for the court to see — the bruises, the stitches, the police reports that went nowhere.

I hear gasps.

I feel eyes on me.

But I don’t look away.

Because if I can look at them, maybe someone else who’s scared to speak will too.

~ Triston ~

From the back of the courtroom, I can’t take my eyes off her.

She’s not the girl who showed up on my doorstep seven years ago — shaking, bleeding, barefoot, holding Quinn against her chest.

That night plays in my head like it’s happening again.

I remember the sound of her voice — hoarse, desperate.

“Please, Tray. Please don’t let him find us.”

The way Quinn whimpered, tiny and terrified.

The way Alyssa’s hands wouldn’t stop trembling even when I wrapped her in a blanket.

We drove for hours that night.

Didn’t speak much.

Just the hum of the road, the baby’s cries, and Alyssa whispering, “She deserves better.”

She does.

And today, Alyssa’s proving it.

Winston sits beside me, arms folded, jaw tight.

Neither of us moves.

But when Mark shifts in his seat, Winston’s knuckles go white against the bench.

~ Winston ~

He has that smirk again — the same one he wore when he broke into Triston’s house.

I’ll never forget that night.

The sound of the door.

The silence before the storm.

One second, we were laughing, whiskey glasses in hand.

Next, he was standing in the doorway, whispering her name like a curse.

Triston froze.

I didn’t.

Greyson and I moved before we even thought.

He grabbed Mark by the collar; I blocked the exit.

He swung first.

Greyson hit harder.

By the time Triston’s mates dragged him outside, his nose was broken, blood everywhere.

He shouted her name until Triston slammed the door.

Now he sits there, face healed, arrogance intact, pretending he’s the victim.

My fists ache just looking at him.

But Alyssa doesn’t need us to fight this one.

She’s doing it herself.

~ Alyssa ~

When my name is called, my legs feel like stone.

Greyson squeezes my hand once — firm, grounding — before I rise and walk to the stand.

The microphone crackles.

The air shifts.

I take the oath.

My voice doesn’t shake.

The prosecutor begins gently, her tone soft.

She lets me tell my story my way — not as a victim, but as a witness.

The timeline. The fear. The night I ran barefoot with Quinn.

And for the first time, I say it out loud — every word I’d swallowed for seven years.

The courtroom is silent.

No one breathes.

When she asks why I came today instead of using the privacy screen, I look straight at him and say,

“Because he doesn’t get to be the only face they see. He doesn’t get to own the story anymore.”

A murmur ripples through the room.

The judge silences it with a gavel tap, but I see something shift — even in the jurors’ eyes.

I talk about the bank account, the control, the threats.

About the bruises that didn’t fade, not on my skin or my soul.

About how he left me bleeding on the floor and walked away.

About how I ran barefoot, baby in my arms, until I saw headlights — Triston’s headlights — and knew I was safe.

By the time I finish, my throat is raw, my eyes wet.

But I’m still standing.

~ Greyson ~

When she steps down, I have to grip the bench just to stop myself from going to her.

She walks back to me, head high, eyes burning.

She’s shaking, yes — but not from fear.

From release.

When she sits beside me again, I take her hand under the table.

Her fingers tighten around mine, nails digging into my palm, and I swear I can feel her heartbeat through the grip.

She’s lighter somehow.

Like speaking it stripped away the last of his hold on her.

And as the court adjourns for lunch, Mark tries to catch her eye again — but she doesn’t even glance his way.

He’s invisible now.

~ Winston (outside the courthouse) ~

We stand on the steps while Alyssa and Greyson speak quietly with Delainey.

Triston lights a cigarette, hands trembling. “You think she’ll be okay?”

I nod slowly. “She’s more than okay. She’s free.”

He exhales, shaking his head. “If he so much as looks at her again—”

“He won’t,” I interrupt, voice cold as stone. “He’s already lost.”

Across the courtyard, Mark’s being escorted back into custody for the recess — handcuffed, furious, muttering under his breath.

He looks up once, eyes flicking toward Alyssa.

And that’s when Greyson steps forward — calm, collected, lethal.

He doesn’t say a word.

Just stands between them.

Mark looks away first.

And for the first time, I know this trial isn’t about revenge anymore.

It’s about restoration.

~ Alyssa (that night) ~

The house is quiet when we return.

Quinn and Poppy are asleep, Hope’s breathing softly in her cot, and Lillian’s curled up on the sofa with a book she’s not really reading.

I walk in still wearing my power suit, my shoulders aching from hours of tension.

And before anyone can say a word, I groan loudly, reach down — and kick off my heels with all the fury of a woman possessed.

They clatter across the floor, one narrowly missing Winston’s foot.

“Bloody hell, I hate those things!” I exclaim, rubbing my aching feet.

Lillian bursts out laughing, setting her book aside. “The mighty Alyssa Rae, destroyed by a pair of Louboutins.”

Greyson grins from behind me. “You spent half your morning terrifying grown men, and now you’re declaring war on shoes?”

“Shoes are evil,” I declare, dramatically dropping onto the sofa beside Lillian. “I don’t care what anyone says — these were invented by the devil himself.”

That breaks everyone.

Winston’s trying not to laugh, Triston’s already choking on his drink, and Lillian’s nearly in tears.

For the first time all day, the laughter feels real.

Me — A powerhouse in heels, survivor, mother, and businesswoman by day— sits barefoot on the couch, surrounded by family, laughing until her ribs ache by night.

And maybe that’s what healing really looks like.

Greyson drops down beside me, stealing a kiss against my temple. “Still worth it,” he murmurs.

I sigh contentedly, leaning into him. “Fine. Maybe they’re worth it for that.”

Outside, rain begins to fall, soft against the windows.

But inside, everything is still.

Whole.