Hannah Eaton POV:
"Hannah," the man said, his voice deep and calm, cutting through the lingering panic in my mind. "It's Agent Oconnor. Do you remember me?"
My breath hitched. Ewing Oconnor. The rookie FBI agent who had found me, bruised and starving, in that derelict cabin. His face, etched with concern, was the first kind face I had seen after weeks of terror.
He gently but firmly took my arm from Erik' s grasp. Erik, caught off guard, stumbled back, his eyes wide with shock. Ewing positioned himself between me and Erik, a solid, protective barrier. He took off his suit jacket, draped it over my shoulders, shielding me from the glaring lights and the prying eyes of the crowd. It felt like a warm, heavy blanket, a sudden sense of safety.
"Are you okay, Hannah?" he murmured, his voice low, for my ears only. "Can you walk? We're getting you out of here."
I nodded, my throat still tight, but a flicker of hope, faint but real, ignited within me.
"Hannah, wait!" Erik' s voice was hoarse with desperation. He lunged forward, grabbing my wrist again, his grip surprisingly strong. "Please, don't leave. We can fix this. Just talk to me."
His plea was pathetic, ludicrous. My mind, still reeling from the betrayal, registered only the hollow sound of his words. Fix this? He thought betraying me on a national stage was something that could be "fixed."
"Let go, Erik," I said, my voice cold, devoid of any warmth. "There's nothing to fix."
I pulled my arm free, his touch now abhorrent. He had taken my deepest secrets, the agonizing details of my abduction that only he knew, and handed them to a true crime podcaster. He had allowed Blaire to twist my truth, to make me a villain. He had violated every ethical boundary, every promise of trust. My medical records, the very intimate details of my trauma, were supposed to be safe with him. They were the key to my healing, a fragile map of my broken mind. I had given him access, believing he was my healer, my confidant, my future. He was supposed to be my savior. He had been my only hope in the darkness.
And now, I knew. He wasn't saving me; he was just mining me for material.
My gaze drifted from Erik to Blaire, who had recovered her composure and was now staring at Ewing with cold disdain. "Agent Oconnor," she began, her tone dripping with condescension. "I admire your dedication, but this is a private event. You're disrupting it, and frankly, this woman is clearly having a breakdown. She's delusional." She made a dismissive gesture towards me. "Her claims about Dr. Nichols are baseless, a desperate cry for attention."
Her words, intended to wound, barely registered. I knew their game now. They would always try to paint me as unstable, to invalidate my experiences, to silence me. It was their go-to defense, a shield forged from my own weakness.
My heart sank lower. There was no point in arguing with them. Anything I said would be twisted, used against me. Erik watched me, his face a mask of misery, but I saw no true remorse, only regret for being caught.
Ewing, his jaw tight, cut through Blaire' s scathing remarks. His voice, now amplified by a microphone he had subtly taken from a stunned reporter, boomed through the theater. "This woman," he stated, his gaze sweeping across the stunned audience, "is Hannah Eaton. The survivor of the Lakeside Kidnapping." He paused, letting the weight of the name settle. "And I am FBI Agent Ewing Oconnor. I was the lead agent on that case. I found her. I was there. And I can tell you, with absolute certainty, that Ms. Eaton's story is entirely true. And anyone who claims otherwise, or profits from twisting her trauma, will face the full extent of the law."
