Chapter 4: Confession and the Glass Room

The tabloids had a field day, headlines screaming about secrets, abuse, and betrayal. Every checkout stand had our faces on the covers.

But public opinion spun out of control. Some cursed Connor, saying he deserved it. Others cursed me, calling me a monster, saying I’d conspired with Connor to torture Grace.

Online, people picked sides, their words vicious. My inbox filled with threats and sympathy in equal measure.

No.

I had to make sure the "victim" label stuck to me. No matter what.

I steeled myself. The only way out was through. I practiced every word, every tear, every bow until it was second nature.

I held a press conference on behalf of Connor’s company. Facing the cameras, I sobbed, "Connor was the husband I loved most. He respected me and cherished me. Everything between us was by my own choice."

I dabbed my eyes with a tissue, letting the cameras catch every trembling hand. I spoke softly, my voice breaking just enough to sound real.

A reporter pressed, "Grace Monroe says she killed Connor because she couldn’t stand the abuse! Why was he gentle to you but cruel to her? Did he know she wasn’t you all along?"

Good question.

The room held its breath. I could feel every eye on me, waiting for me to crack.

I stood up and bowed deeply. "Everyone, let me show you our glass room."

The big screen lit up with a photo I’d snapped. There it was—every kind of adult product imaginable, all neatly displayed.

The image drew gasps, and a few nervous laughs. The truth was messier than anyone wanted to admit.

I cleared my throat. "Connor respected me. If I said no, he’d never force me. But Grace—maybe she didn’t have the courage to say no. She thought we were perverts, was scared her cover would be blown, and just endured it. She and I were friends, but I never told her about our private life. The pain she suffered came from her own fear."

I let the words hang in the air. The implication was clear. I was the real wife, the real victim, the one who survived.

The crowd sighed.

A wave of sympathy washed over the room. People nodded, some wiping at their eyes.

I bowed again. "Connor’s gone. Please respect the dead. Don’t let rumors destroy his name."

The room erupted in applause.

Cameras flashed, reporters scribbled, and for a moment, the tide turned in my favor.

——

My interview went viral. Public opinion split right down the middle.

Some sided with Grace: "Poor girl, betrayed by her best friend!"

Others cheered for me: "Savannah and Connor forever! Grace was a fake, she had it coming!"

The hashtags trended for days. People argued late into the night, convinced they knew the real story.

"SavCon"—our couple nickname—suddenly had fan accounts popping up overnight, posting old photos and sappy quotes. The internet never let anything die quietly.

I wrapped myself in a blanket, watching the news, with reporters camped outside the apartment day and night. On TV, every rooftop in the neighborhood seemed to have a glass room—some filled with plants, others with nothing but shadows. Connor’s was a cage of desire.

I watched from behind the curtains, sipping cold coffee, the world outside my window a circus.

My phone rang. It was Detective Harris. "You need a full medical exam for the trafficking case."

His voice was gentle but firm. I braced myself, knowing this was just one more step in an endless process.

I changed and went out, only to be surrounded and heckled by Grace’s supporters the moment I stepped outside. A dozen news vans tailed us all the way.

They shouted insults and questions, their faces twisted with anger or curiosity. I kept my head down, pushing through the mob. Detective Harris shielded me as best he could.

Detective Harris patted my shoulder. "The living have to move forward."

I nodded, my voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you."

His hand was warm and steady. I leaned into that comfort, just for a moment.

The exam began. I took off my shirt, my back covered in cigarette burns and whip marks. Detective Harris and the policewoman looked at me with pity.

Their faces softened, eyes shining with empathy. I turned away, ashamed and exposed.

After the routine check, the nurse said, "There’s also a pelvic exam."

Her voice was gentle, but the words made my stomach twist. I nodded, numb.

I was still dazed when a little boy nearby tripped and fell. I knelt to help him up, sat him on my lap, checked his knee, and comforted him, just like I used to do for Nicky.

He was maybe four, cheeks red from crying. I brushed dirt from his jeans, whispered that he’d be okay. My heart ached for my own son.

Reporters gasped. "Savannah’s so kind! Officer, did you see that? Grace needs to pay for what she did!"