Page 136 of Wait For It

Mama once said, ‘No one expects an angel to set the world on fire.’

I hadn’t understood it at the time, but as cameras began flashing and the noise in the room became a deafening presence, it suddenly made sense.

“Now, folks,” Tristan drawled as he stepped under the spotlights, his voice magnified, courtesy of the microphone pinned to the lapel of his suit jacket. “I think you can see now why I took what happened to my baby girl so seriously. She’s been such a fighter these last few months, trying to come back from a brain injury, only to end up battered in violence. That man, who she truly thought cared, brutalized her—”

“No, that’s not true,” I argued, only to find my mic had been cut off. The urge to scream was overwhelming, but it wouldn’t do anything for me now.

I’d been silenced.

The blonde reporter seemed to be the only one not taking notes or shouting questions to Tristan. Instead, she was watching me with a look of unrepressed horror.

Maybe she saw the monster too.

His hand landed against my bare shoulder. I flinched, before trying to step away from the contact. With deft fingers, he tugged the dress back up over my exposed body and spun me around to let him zip it, before pulling me against his side with a punishing grip.

“Ariana fought for her life that night but lost the very thing she’d been saving for marriage,” he continued, speaking in a measured tone. “The physical effects are apparent, but it’s the emotional scars that have me troubled, folks. My baby girl has regressed in the days since the attack, convinced she’s still a virgin as a way of coping with the trauma.”

He looked down at me with a patient smile while I continued struggling.

Blink. Blink.

“Now, I’d like to ask y’all for something here today. Right now, Ariana needs to feel your love and support like never before during this time of healing and grief. Please join me in prayer. Dear Heavenly Father, we know that life doesn’t always make sense—”

My elbow dug into his ribs, and he exhaled what sounded like a low chuckle, before continuing, “But your plans are not our own, and all we can do is trust that you’ll hold us through this pain, leading us to brighter days ahead. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”

There was no time to stop and consider the ramifications of my actions as Tristan exited stage right with me firmly in tow. Numbness settled into my joints as he marched me off the stage, his fingers compressing the newest bruise blooming along my bicep.

All I could hope for at this point was a quick and merciful death.

I grimaced at the fury reflected in Dean’s glare as he met us backstage, getting the distinct sense he’d be open to making me suffer.

He squared his shoulders as we approached. “Do you want me to get her back to the house?”

“Please,” Tristan growled through a tight jaw, before dragging his index finger down my cheek. “And I want two guards posted outside her bedroom door—wouldn’t want her getting cold feet on her wedding night.”

“I’d rather kill myself,” I hissed, jutting my chin up in defiance.

Tristan chuckled and leaned down to whisper in my ear. “Not until Brad’s done with you, sweetheart. Maybe not even then.”

Dean wrapped a hand around my arm and dragged me toward a side door while I gasped and wheezed, feeling like I was on an elevator in free fall. Even with as angry as he was, he still managed to avoid touching my bruises.

We slipped down a hallway lined with empty Sunday-school classrooms before he came to a sudden stop and demanded, “What the fuck happened to not saying a word up there?”

“I—I improvised,” I weakly replied, my chin and lips trembling violently.

A condescending smirk lifted the corners of his mouth. “You have no idea what you’ve done, do you? There was a plan—which you completely steamrolled over—now, we’ll be lucky if we ever get anything—”

“He said he was going to kill Killian. What about that, huh?”

“Look at me,” he commanded, the muscle in his jaw tightening. “Conspiracy to commit murder is not going to be enough to put him away for life, especially not without proof of a conspiracy!”

“But you have the recording,” I argued as he began moving again, trying to match his pace in heels. “He said, ‘I’ll kill him myself.’ How is that not enough proof?”

“Do you know how many people say things like that in anger? Without proof of an actual plan, it’s purely conjecture. And, I don’t know if you’re aware of this or not, but you completely destroyed any credibility as a witness when you took your goddamned clothes off in front of the press!”

I studied the vein throbbing in his neck before asking the obvious. “You’re not really a security guard, are you?”

Dean looked at me like I’d suddenly sprouted a second head before sighing, “If you’d just been patient and trusted me—”

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