The injunction arrived before noon.
Amanda read it twice, then a third time—slowly, carefully. It was clean. Legal. Polite.
And ruthless.
Monica Duncan was seeking a court order to limit Naomi's public statements, citing emotional distress, coercion, and external influence.
Amanda laughed once.
"So this is her angle," she murmured.
Her lawyer leaned back. "She's trying to silence the echo before it becomes precedent."
Amanda's jaw tightened. "Will it work?"
"Only if Naomi backs down."
Amanda already knew the answer.
Naomi sat in a small interview room at the courthouse, hands folded, spine straight. She had expected fear.
What she felt instead was clarity.
The lawyer across from her spoke gently. "You understand this will be ugly."
Naomi nodded. "It already was."
"If you continue," he said, "your mother will fight you."
Naomi's voice didn't shake. "She already did."
The lawyer studied her, then nodded. "Then we proceed."
Cedric stood outside the café where he'd been working temporary shifts, apron folded under his arm. The manager had been kind. Careful.
"You sure you want to keep coming in?" the man asked. "Media's circling."
Cedric smiled faintly. "I'm done hiding."
The man nodded. "Then come tomorrow."
Cedric stepped into the street, shoulders back.
He felt watched again.
This time, he didn't flinch.
At home, Monica paced the living room, phone pressed to her ear.
"They're not backing down," she snapped. "Then push harder."
She stopped, listening.
"No," she said sharply. "Not threats. Pressure."
She hung up and stared at the family photos lining the wall.
Three daughters. Perfect smiles.
A life she had tried to preserve by force.
Her hands trembled.
Desperation didn't feel powerful.
It felt loud.
Duncan met Amanda in his study that evening. No lawyers. No recording devices.
Just honesty—long overdue.
"I should have stopped this years ago," he said quietly.
Amanda met his gaze. "You can't undo it."
"I know," he replied. "But I can stop it from continuing."
He slid a folder across the desk.
Bank records. Communications. A timeline that told a very different story.
"If this goes public," Amanda said, "it will ruin her."
Duncan nodded. "She ruined a boy."
Amanda closed the folder slowly.
"This ends," she said.
"Yes," Duncan replied. "One way or another."
That night, Cedric's phone rang.
Unknown number.
He answered.
"You don't know when to stop," a woman's voice said—tight, controlled, familiar.
Cedric closed his eyes.
"I didn't start this," he replied calmly. "But I'll finish it."
Silence.
Then the line went dead.
Cedric lowered the phone.
The fear was gone now.
All that remained—
Was resolve.
Monica sat alone in her bedroom, lights off, city glow bleeding through the curtains. Her phone lay on the bed beside her.
Unanswered messages.
Unreturned calls.
She whispered, almost pleading, "I was trying to protect them."
The words sounded smaller in the dark.
Less convincing.
Truth didn't need volume.
Cedric stepped onto his balcony, night air cool against his skin.
He thought of prison walls. Courtrooms. Lies spoken with confidence.
And the moment those lies began to crack.
Some skulls didn't break from force.
They broke from exposure.