Chase stood there in a designer jacket and sunglasses, even though it was dark. Confidence radiated from him like he owned the place.
“Move,” he said. “We’re late.”
“You’re not coming inside.”
He laughed. “Still playing daddy?”
He spotted Grace behind me and pointed.
“Come on. Cameras are waiting. You’re my redemption story.”
“She’s not your prop,” I snapped. “She’s a child.”
“My child,” he sneered. “And if you get in my way, I’ll bury your shop. Legally.”
That’s when I knew it was time.
“Grace,” I said calmly, “bring me my phone and the black folder from my desk.”
Chase laughed. “Calling the cops? Cute.”
“Oh, I’m not calling the cops,” I said.
Grace returned with the folder.
I opened it and showed him printed screenshots—every threat, every coercive message, every line where he called her a perfect image piece.
His face drained of color.
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