I nodded in agreement, subtly stepping out of his embrace.
Sure enough, by the next day, the reporters had arrived.
He couldn’t wait even a moment longer, unwilling to let his precious first love endure another day of public criticism.
The script Evan had prepared for me was neatly printed out with lines meticulously crafted to shift all blame onto me. All I had to do was read it word for word, taking full responsibility for everything.
The interview was a live broadcast, but I had been in front of cameras countless times for work and felt no trace of nerves.
As the two bright lights illuminated my face, the broadcast began.
Instantly, the live chat exploded with hateful comments, each one nastier than the last. I ignored them all, keeping my composure as the reporter prepared to begin.
But instead of the script, I reached under the stack of papers and pulled out a few printed screenshots.
They included Anne’s intimate photos with Evan, my marriage certificate with him, and evidence of the threats and confinement I’d endured at his hands.
Evan, sensing something was wrong, scrambled in a panic, trying to cut the live feed.
Just before the screen went dark, I mustered every ounce of strength and shouted three words that tore through the chaos, “Call the police!”
