“Do you ever regret it?” she asked softly.

“Not hitting Trent, when he walked into my hospital room with those cheap flowers?” I pulled her against my side and kissed her forehead.

“No,” I said.

“Really?

Not even a little bit?” And I gave her the truest thing I know, the whole lesson of everything we had survived, distilled into a single sentence.

“If I had punched him in that room,” I said, “he would have walked out with a bruised jaw and a claim for assault, and I would have handed him the story he needed.

Because I kept my head instead, he lost his freedom, his money, his family’s name, and his entire future.