Living with Noah wasn’t easy, but it was safer. At least that’s what I told myself.
The apartment was quiet most nights and peaceful. Noah made space for me and the baby. He gave me the master bedroom, picked up prenatal vitamins without me asking, turned off the news when my name came up but nothing could turn off the storm inside me.
Not of the s*x itself but of hands I didn’t recognize pulling back curtains, opening doors, whispering threats I couldn’t trace. Waking up didn’t help. The fear followed me into daylight, hiding in mirrors and message previews.
The worst part?
I didn’t know who was behind it but I had a feeling.
The link surfaced again three days after my public interview, no name attached, just a video. Grainy, shaky, and damning of me in Noah’s car that night.
A mome
