Page 185 of Lady and the Hitman
The piece wasn’t long. It didn’t try to be balanced or gracious. It didn’t waste breath on apology.
Yes, that photo is me.
Yes, that is my body.
Yes, I was there willingly.
I won’t explain him to you.
He doesn’t owe you that.
Neither do I.
What I will say is this:
I fell in love with someone who made me feel safe. Seen. Worshipped.
And that’s not a crime.
But do you want to know what should be?
The way you strip women of their autonomy the second they step outside your comfort zone.
The way you watch us with microscopes and magnifying glasses, waiting for us to misstep so you can remind us we never really belonged.
I’m not asking for permission anymore.
I’m not balancing on your tightrope.
I choose my own life.
My own body.
My own truth.
I choose him.
And I choose me.
I stared at the words, at the backlash already brewing in the comments, at the people scrambling to label me, to place me in a neat little box: feminist gone rogue, victim of manipulation, cautionary tale.
The hypocrisy wasn’t lost on me. For all the talk of empowerment and bodily autonomy, of sexual freedomand women making their own choices—those freedoms only seemed to apply if the choices aligned with a particular worldview. I was allowed to speak—until I said something they didn’t want to hear. I was allowed to love—until the man I chose didn’t fit their narrative. Suddenly, I wasn’t empowered. I was brainwashed. Deluded. Weak.
But I knew what I’d felt. What I’d chosen. Ronan hadn’t taken anything from me. He’d given. Not safety in the traditional sense, not like Trevor—but a deeper kind of safety. A place where I didn’t have to shrink myself. A man who could kill with his bare hands—and yet handled me like I was made of glass. That wasn’t weakness. That was the most radical kind of strength.
Let them rage.
I didn’t belong to them anymore.
The sound of the front door clicking open pulled me back into the moment. My pulse skittered.
Ronan stepped inside.
He moved with quiet ease, the kind of stillness that masked all the storms beneath the surface. He was wearing black again—fitted shirt, worn jeans, boots heavy enough to kick down doors. But his eyes, when they found me, were soft.
“You’re here,” I said.
He nodded once, setting something down on the entry table. “Wasn’t going to let you face this part alone.”
