Safe With You

The Storm Breaks

~Alyssa~

When the article first hit, it didn’t feel real.

It wasn’t anger, not at first — just a deep, cold numbness that settled in my bones.

I’d known this day might come.

I’d always known he’d try something eventually.

So when Greyson and Tray stormed into AQ, their faces pale with fury and fear, I was already waiting.

I didn’t panic. I didn’t cry.

I simply picked up my phone, dialled my lawyer and PR manager, and said the six words I’d been rehearsing for years:

“Make it public. All of it. No more hiding.”

For a moment, there was silence on the other end of the line. Then my lawyer, firm and steady, said, “Understood.”

And just like that, the truth was out.

Within hours, the statement was everywhere — a flood of clarity against years of his lies.

Images of me broken and bruised in hospital.

Medical records detailing every admission.

Bank statements showing the money that bled from my accounts into his.

Voice recordings — his voice, threatening, venomous, cruel.

Videos. Proof. Every horrible truth laid bare.

No spin. No gloss. Just the truth.

When it hit the press, the reaction was instant.

Shock. Outrage. Support.

For the first time in years, I didn’t feel trapped in someone else’s version of me.

And still, I couldn’t quite breathe.

~Greyson~

By the time Tray and I reached AQ, Alyssa was a force of nature.

Her office lights glared against the marble floor, her hair pulled back, her phone in hand.

Calm. Composed. Terrifying in her stillness.

She looked up as we entered, eyes fierce but glassy with exhaustion.

“It’s done,” she said simply. “They’re running it all.”

Tray just stared. “You sure about this, Lys?”

She nodded once. “He wanted to destroy me. So I’ll show them who I really am. No more whispers. No more hiding.”

Her hand shook slightly as she placed her phone down. I moved closer, taking it gently from her trembling fingers.

“You’re incredible,” I whispered.

Her lips trembled into a smile. “No, Greyson. I’m just done being scared.”

Tray

It’s nearly midnight when I finally find him.

The bastard’s flat is exactly what I expected — filthy, desperate, reeking of stale smoke and failure.

I watch him from the car first, his silhouette pacing back and forth.

He’s furious. Unhinged. Talking to himself.

“…thinks she’s won. Thinks she’s better than me. I’ll make her pay…”

I send Greyson a message anyway, even though I know what he’ll say.

T: “Found him.”

G: “Tray, don’t do anything stupid.”

T: “Too late.”

Before I can move, another car pulls up beside me — black, silent.

The doors open, and out steps Winston, sleeves rolled up, eyes sharp as knives.

Two of his mates follow behind — built like mountains, quiet and steady.

“You really think we’d let you go alone?” he says, voice low but calm.

I can’t help but smirk. “Didn’t think you were the type for late-night strolls.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t think you were the type to start fights without backup.”

We cross the street together.

No words. Just purpose.

Up the concrete stairs, past the flickering light, and there he is — the monster himself.

When he opens the door, his smirk falters at the sight of us.

“Well,” he sneers, “if it isn’t Alyssa’s little fan club. What’s this, moral support?”

I take a step forward. “You’ve said enough.”

He leans on the doorframe. “You think this ends because she played the victim? People forget. They’ll turn on her soon enough.”

Winston’s voice cuts through, cold as steel.

“Funny thing about truth,” he says. “It sticks. And so do people like us when someone we care about is threatened.”

The man’s face drains of colour.

I take one more step, until I’m inches from him. “You so much as whisper her name again, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Something shifts behind his eyes — realisation, maybe.

He’s not the one in control anymore.

Winston nods toward the corridor. “Let’s go.”

And just like that, we turn and leave him standing in the doorway, seething, powerless.

He wanted to break her again.

Instead, we broke him.

Greyson

When Tray calls at 2 a.m., I’m still awake, sitting beside Alyssa’s bed.

T: “He’s rattled. Won’t try anything tonight.”

G: “And Winston?”

T: “Solid as ever. Don’t worry.”

G: “Good. Come home.”

T: “On my way.”

I hang up and glance over at her.

She’s sleeping now — hair fanned across the pillow, breathing soft and steady.

I brush a stray curl from her face, watching her stir and settle again.

She’s been through hell and somehow still manages to glow.

There’s something almost sacred about the strength she carries in silence.

And I swear, in that moment, I’d burn the whole city down if anyone tried to touch her again.

~Alyssa~

By morning, the internet is ablaze.

The truth — my truth — has spread like wildfire.

Headlines read “Fashion CEO Breaks Silence: Alyssa Rose Speaks Out on Years of Abuse.”

And beneath every post are thousands of messages.

We believe you.

You’re so brave.

We’re with you.

For once, the noise isn’t crushing.

It’s freeing.

Downstairs, laughter floats through from the kitchen — Poppy and Quinn arguing playfully over who gets the bigger pancake.

Greyson’s voice follows, warm and amused.

“Ladies, there are plenty to go around! No syrup wars before 9 a.m., alright?”

When I walk in, he grins up at me.

“You should still be resting,” he says, mock-stern.

“I’ve been asleep for eight hours.”

“Still counts.”

I roll my eyes and steal a pancake from the plate.

He raises a brow. “Doctor’s orders, love. You heard Markus.”

“Doctor’s your brother.”

“Exactly.”

I laugh, but there’s something in his eyes when he looks at me — relief, pride, something deeper he hasn’t put into words yet.

For now, I let the silence fill in the spaces between us.

~Tray~

Later that night, we’re all at Greyson’s place.

The girls are in the living room, tangled in blankets watching a film.

Winston’s half asleep on the sofa, his mates long gone.

I should feel peace, but my mind won’t stop replaying that bastard’s voice.

I know he’s not finished — not really.

But I also know this: Alyssa isn’t alone anymore.

She’s got me, she’s got Greyson, she’s got all of us.

And for the first time in years, I think that might actually be enough.

~Lillian~

I stop by AQ the next evening to drop off sketches for Mum’s charity ball.

The place is quiet — calm after the storm.

I hear laughter echoing from Alyssa’s office and pause before stepping in.

Poppy and Quinn are twirling in matching dresses, fabric glimmering under the light.

“Careful!” Alyssa laughs, hands on her hips. “You’ll ruin them before the big day!”

The girls giggle harder.

Then Poppy stumbles, and Alyssa catches her mid-fall, scooping her up into a hug.

And that’s when I hear it — small, sweet, unthinking.

“Sorry, Mummy.”

Alyssa freezes for half a heartbeat — then smiles, pressing a kiss to Poppy’s forehead.

“It’s alright, sweetheart. You can call me whatever you like.”

Poppy beams and throws her arms around her neck.

“I like Mummy.”

Quinn joins the hug, both girls giggling, and Alyssa holds them close — one arm around each.

It’s such a soft, simple scene, but something inside me shifts watching it.

Because this isn’t just affection.

This is belonging.

Poppy’s never had a mother figure. Quinn’s never had a father.

And somehow, without even trying, Alyssa and Greyson have filled those spaces — seamlessly, naturally, as though the universe had been waiting for this to happen.

For the first time, I understand why Greyson looks at her the way he does.

Because she’s not just part of his life.

She’s home.

~Greyson~

That night, after everyone’s gone home, the house is quiet again.

The girls are asleep, tangled together in Quinn’s bed, clutching stuffed animals and glittery hairbands.

Alyssa’s in the next room, breathing soft and even.

I sit on the edge of the bed and trace the curve of her hand where it rests against the pillow.

She stirs but doesn’t wake.

And I realise — this peace, this small, perfect moment — it’s worth everything.

Every headline, every fight, every sleepless night.

Because she’s here.

And she’s free.