Even watching the playback, my stomach turned. I'd felt the bile rise in my throat that night, and it rose again in Harding's office. When the last clip ended, she closed the folder and leaned back in her chair. Her face remained composed, professional, but her knuckles whitened against the armrest.
"Legally," she said, voice steady, professional, "this is a strong case. We're looking at stalking, unlawful surveillance, assault, battery, harassment, and criminal intimidation. That video of her daring you to hit back? That's critical; it shows a pattern of coercion and psychological abuse. It establishes you as the victim."
I swallowed hard, hands twisting in my lap. "So what... what happens now?"
Harding folded her hands. "Step one: we file a formal police complaint. That creates a legal record and forces law enforcement to acknowledge it. Step two: we file for a restraining order. That bars her from contacting you, approaching your home, work, anywhere you are. If she violates it, she can be arrested immediately."
Mel leaned forward. "And what about... psychiatric intervention?"
Harding nodded slowly. "Given her behavior and the documented violence, a judge can mandate an evaluation. If she's deemed a danger to herself or others, involuntary treatment is possible. But the priority is your safety. That's non-negotiable."
I rubbed a hand over my face, the weight of it all pressing down. "And her father? His influence? The election?"
Harding's piercing eyes met mine, steady. "That's why we prepare two cases: one for the courtroom, one for the court of public opinion. If law enforcement hesitates, if there's any sign of a cover-up, we go public. Hospital records. Photos. Videos. Every scrap of evidence. The media will devour it. A politician running on family values with a daughter caught on tape abusing a man? He won't survive it."
She leaned back, fingers steepled. "And before we file, I'll make a single call to her father. A courtesy. He'll know the paperwork is already drafted, timestamped, ready to land on a judge's desk. That's not a bluff—it's the gun on the table. He has one chance toleash his daughter and keep this out of the headlines. If he fails, then the system takes its course, and his campaign burns with it."
The words sank into me like lead and air all at once. Terrifying. Liberating.
Mel leaned in. "And we keep this confidential?"
Harding nodded once, crisp. "Yes. Until the complaint is formally filed with the court, everything remains under seal. The evidence is secured in discovery protocol—chain of custody intact, timestamped, catalogued. Only myself, my associates, and law enforcement investigators have lawful access. Not the press. Not her father's campaign. No leaks."
She straightened the folder before her, voice like steel. "This allows us to control the narrative. Her father is given a pre-filing advisement—informal, off the record. He'll understand precisely what I have, and what will be entered into the public record should he fail to restrain her. You are not exposing yourself prematurely, which means no retaliation, no intimidation attempts. The danger to you remains contained, while we preserve maximum leverage. Once the petition is lodged and docketed, it becomes a matter of public record. Until then, we hold all the cards."
I swallowed, gripping the table. "I... I can't believe it's come to this."
Harding leaned back, folding her hands, her gaze steady as stone. " But make no mistake—this is a war, and wars aren't won in a day."
Mel leaned forward, her tone sharper, more personal. "The election is in six months. His entire campaign is built on family values, integrity, the spotless image of a man who can't be touched. If half of this—" she tapped the folder of bruises, hospital records, text messages— "ever saw daylight, it would rip that façade to pieces. He knows it. Which means he'll do anything to keep Mira out of the spotlight."
I swallowed, a bitter heat rising in my chest. "So we use that?"
Harding nodded slowly. "We give him a choice. Keep her away or we go public, and if he calls our bluff, we don't just go to the cops. We go to the press. Full exposure. The kind of scandal that wins elections for his opponents."
For the first time in years, I felt the balance shift. Not fully. Not safely. But enough that the weight didn't rest entirely on me anymore.
I signed. The scratch of pen against paper felt louder than it should, final in a way that rattled my bones.
That night, with the ink still drying on Harding's desk, the three of us sat in the dim light of her office as she picked up the phone. No hesitation, no wasted breath. January Harding, Esq.—December's friend and now my counsel—dialed the number that had haunted me for years.
The line rang once. Twice. Then his voice came, smooth and curated, the polished tone of a man who'd spent decades controlling rooms.
"Mr. Ryder?"
January's reply was glacial. "This is not Mr. Ryder. This is January Harding, counsel of record for Mr. Ryder in an activematter involving your daughter, Mira Golding. I am contacting you in my professional capacity to notify you of imminent legal proceedings."
There was a pause, deliberate. "This isn't an appropriate hour for—"
She cut in, crisp, every syllable sharpened like glass. "Abuse is not bound by office hours, Senator. Neither is harassment. As of this evening, I have filed a notice of preservation with law enforcement and begun drafting complaints for civil and criminal relief. I strongly suggest you take me seriously."
His silence was calculating, the pause of a man assessing angles. "Are you threatening me, Ms. Harding?"
Her tone didn't shift. It was cold, clinical. "No, Senator. I am outlining exposure. We have hospital records, photographic evidence, electronic communications, and documented witness statements establishing a pattern of stalking, physical assault, and psychological abuse by your daughter. Should there be further misconduct, I will have no choice but to escalate immediately—to the district attorney, to the bar association if necessary, and to the press. You understand the scope of discovery once litigation begins? Every private record, every correspondence, every attempt to use your influence—entered into public record."
I could hear his breath tighten on the other end, though his voice came low, a growl dressed in calm. "You'd ruin your client in the process. Drag him through court."
January leaned forward, her words slicing. "My client is already surviving your daughter's violence. Litigation will not harmhim, it will liberate him. The reputational damage, Senator, will not be his to bear. It will be yours. Election year. Platform built on family values. And yet, what headline do you think survives?'Senator shields violent daughter. Abuses silenced. Victims ignored.'"
