Page 132 of When Hearts Awaken

Elias smirked, his eyes twinkling, and he replied, “Strategy is part of everything.”

He sobered and something flashed in his gaze. “And I learned from the best.”

Blowing out a deep breath, I repeat my affirmations inside my head.

I can do this. I’m a fighter, a warrior, a survivor. The past didn’t kill me and this won’t either.

I bite my lip and think back to the revelation of Ian and me being at the same place that night. Maybe my body wasn’t overreacting when I first saw him at ABTC.

Maybe I should’ve trusted myself. Deep down, I must have known the truth all along.

My body didn’t betray me this time.

The thought, as strange as it may be, gives me strength.

I look at the front row and find Charles’s eyes first. He sits there, clad in a formfitting dark gray suit, his posture deceptively relaxed, but I know his tells now. The muscle pulsing on his forehead. The slight crinkle between his brows. The strain of his forced smile. I nod at him and he mouths,“I love you. No matter what.”

A flash of warmth burrows inside me. I’ve forgiven him for not telling me his suspicion about Ian. There are bigger problems to worry about and I really understand where he’s coming from. He didn’t want to believe the man he loves can be a monster.

I hope that isn’t the case and somehow, this is all a coincidence.

My heart skips a beat as I scan the rest of the row, noting Maxwell, Ethan, Grace, the rest of my siblings, and my girls, minus Olivia, who has to see patients today, but she gave me the sweetest pep talk this morning. Even Belle is there, trying to fend off photographers wanting to take a close-up of her belly. The first Anderson grandchild is a topic of interest for the gossip rags.

The whispers grow louder; the crowd waiting impatiently for me to begin. No doubt they’re wondering why so many Andersons are all in one place on a normal June afternoon.

“I’m ready to begin,” I announce into the microphone and wince as the shrill screeching of feedback reaches my ears. A staff member adjusts the mic and motions for me to continue.

“Thank you all for coming.” I grip the podium tightly as I stare at Charles, pretending only he’s in the room. “I’m sure you’re curious why you’re here today.”

I clear my throat. “One in six American women has been a victim of attempted or completed rape in her lifetime. Most victims experience PTSD or other mental disorders after their assault. In fact, every sixty-eight seconds, an American is sexually assaulted.”

When I prepared for this speech, I decided not to make it just about my experience, but also to shine a light on this horrible reality. Too many victims live in silence, in fear, in shame. I won’t do it anymore. If I have a platform, I’m going to make some noise.

A hush falls over the crowd as the tension thickens.

Nausea swirls in my gut, my sweat drenching the simple blue dress I have on. I take a deep breath to fortify myself and push out the next words.

“I am one of those women. When I was sixteen, I was drugged and raped.”

Chaos erupts in the room as cameras click, the flashes a constant barrage of light searing my eyes. I close them as reporters bark out questions, their voices merging into one big roar in my ears.

“Silence! Let her finish!” Charles’s loud voice pierces through the ruckus, followed by shocked gasps and uneasy silence again.

Opening my eyes, I find his gaze again. His jaw is tense, his hands fisted on his lap. He gives me a subtle nod of encouragement.

Keeping my eyes on him, I recite the words carefully prepared for me by Lana.

“It occurred at a hotel lounge after a ballet event. A man slipped something into my drink and I was assaulted. It was the worst night of my life. The assailants are still out there because I was too scared to pursue the case after the police ignored me. I was young, a poor teenager from the Bronx.”

Heaving out a ragged exhale, I drag my eyes away from Charles to the press, taking in the horrified expressions on their faces, the mad scribbling of pens on paper, sympathy shining from some of the female reporters’ eyes.

“I was powerless and silenced, like too many before me and, unfortunately, too many after me. No one believed me and I was forced to deal with the aftermath by myself. To live in fear, to be afraid of men, afraid of the world, my innocence shattered.”

A spark of energy gathers in my gut and travels to my chest. These are words I’ve yearned to say ever since that fateful night and never realized how much it pained me to keep them inside. The physical wounds healed and are now invisible, but the mental anguish—that has never left.

And I couldn’t tell anyone.

“But I won’t be silenced anymore. Because this was not my fault. Because I deserved to be heard, just like other women in my unfortunate position. Regardless of my background—whether I was a poor girl from the Bronx or a member of the Anderson family—I deserved to be believed and be treated with dignity instead of doubt and suspicion. I hope by standing up here today and sharing with you my story, I’ll inspire other women to come forward. To tell their stories. To tell them they can stand back up again.”

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