𝗙𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗕𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗩𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗮 𝗨𝗻𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗲.
𝐅𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐞
I am the judge, the jury, and the executioner.
Francesca "Frank" Monroe. One of the most successful criminal defense attorneys in the history of Illinois. The woman everyon...
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It had been a long, grueling day at work, and I was beyond relieved to finally be done with it.
But as I drove back home, the glow of Christmas lights spilling out of shop windows and the faint sound of carolers in the distance only made my chest tighten. The holidays didn't bring warmth or joy anymore—they hadn't for a long time.
Christmas used to be something magical for us. I could still remember the laughter, the smell of cookies baking in the kitchen, the way Dad would joke about the tree always being "too damn big" for the living room. But now it was a season filled with nothing but ghosts.
I couldn't stop myself from thinking about that day—how it shattered everything we had. It was supposed to be a simple, happy moment: Dad taking Noah to pick out a Christmas tree. Something so ordinary, so innocent. But Dad didn't make it back home.
Noah was there. He saw it. He watched the world break in a single second, and it left scars on him that no time could ever fully heal. Every year since, as Christmas got closer, those scars ripped open again. Noah would shut down, trapped in the same nightmares, the same darkness. And I could do nothing but watch, helpless.
We tried, at first. Pretended we could still have some kind of holiday. But the lights, the music, the tree—they all felt wrong. Forced. Hollow. Eventually, we just stopped. No decorations, no celebrations, no pretending we could go back to what we'd lost.
Christmas wasn't Christmas anymore. It was just another reminder of how fragile everything can be—and how easily it can all be taken away.
It was a little after eleven, and Noah was sound asleep after our cozy movie night with Layla. I'd been relieved to see him relax, even just for a little while, away from the weight of the holidays that always seemed to suffocate him. But just as I was settling into bed, there was a soft knock on my door.
"Frankie?"
His voice—quiet, broken—pulled me up in an instant. I was at the door before I even realized it.
Noah stood there, slumped in the doorway, his shoulders heavy, his eyes bloodshot. And God, the way he looked at me... it shattered whatever small, unbroken part of me was still holding on.
I didn't think. I just reached for him, pulling him into my arms like I could somehow hold him together with how tightly I hugged him. His arms wrapped around me just as tightly, clinging to me like I was his lifeline.
"I don't want to be alone with my head, Frankie," he whispered, his voice barely holding.
And I broke. I could feel it—the sharp, unbearable crack of my heart splitting wide open.
I pulled back enough to look at him, brushing his tear-streaked cheeks with my thumb. "You don't have to be, baby," I murmured. "Come with me."
Taking his hand, I led him into my room. We crawled into bed, and he instantly curled up against me, tucking himself into my arms like he used to when we were kids. I held him close, my hand running through his soft curls, soothing him the only way I knew how.