Updated Mar 22, 2026 • ~10 min read
Chapter 20: Choosing Myself
SLOANE
One month after sentencing.
I’m still at Jade’s.
Haven’t moved back to the house.
Can’t.
Too many ghosts.
Rebecca helps me sell it.
The house Ethan and I bought together.
The house where it all happened.
I price it low.
Want it gone fast.
It sells in a week.
I take the money.
Split it with Ethan legally since it was marital property.
The lawyer deposits his half into an account I’ll never access.
I take my half.
And buy a small condo.
One bedroom.
Top floor.
Ocean view.
Nothing like the house.
Fresh start.
Moving day.
Heath and Jade help me unpack.
New furniture. New dishes. New everything.
Nothing from the old life.
“This is nice,” Jade says. “Really nice.”
“It’s mine. That’s all that matters.”
“No ghosts here.”
“Not yet.”
I start therapy three times a week.
Dr. Morgan specializes in complex trauma.
We work through everything.
The gaslighting. The violation. The pregnancy. The abortion.
She never judges.
Just listens.
Helps me process.
“You made the best choice you could with the information you had,” she says when I bring up the abortion.
“I killed it.”
“You terminated a pregnancy that resulted from rape. That’s not the same thing.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No. And the fact that you’re struggling with it shows how deeply you value life. Even in impossible circumstances. That’s not weakness. That’s humanity.”
“I don’t feel human. I feel broken.”
“Broken things can heal.”
“Can they?”
“Yes. But healing isn’t the same as forgetting. You’ll always carry this. The question is: do you let it destroy you or do you let it reshape you?”
I go back to work.
Part-time at first.
The architecture firm is understanding.
Give me easy projects.
No client meetings yet.
Just design work.
It feels good to create again.
To build something.
Even if it’s just on paper.
Dakota invites me to lunch.
First social interaction outside therapy in months.
“How are you?” she asks carefully.
“Surviving.”
“I saw the news. About the sentencing. That was really brave.”
“I didn’t feel brave.”
“You spoke out. You fought back. That’s the definition of brave.”
“I just didn’t want them to win.”
“They didn’t. You did.”
I want to believe her.
Two months after sentencing.
I get a letter.
From prison.
Ethan.
I almost throw it away.
But curiosity wins.
*Dear Sloane,*
*I know I have no right to contact you. I know you probably hate me. I know sorry will never be enough.*
*But I need to try. One more time.*
*I’ve been in therapy here. Mandatory at first, then voluntary. Learning about codependency. About enabling. About how my need to be loved made me complicit in evil.*
*I should’ve chosen you. Every time. Instead of him.*
*I should’ve protected you. Believed you. Fought for you.*
*Instead, I betrayed you in the worst way possible.*
*I don’t expect forgiveness. I don’t deserve it.*
*But I want you to know: I’m working on being better. Not for you. Not to get you back. But because I need to be someone who would never do this again.*
*I hope you’re healing. I hope you’re happy. I hope you’ve found peace.*
*You deserved better than me. Than us. Than any of this.*
*I’m sorry.*
*Ethan*
I read it three times.
Then I burn it.
Watch it turn to ash.
Because his apologies don’t matter anymore.
His growth doesn’t matter.
Only mine does.
Three months after sentencing.
I go on a date.
Just coffee.
With a man I met at a bookstore.
His name is Owen.
He’s kind. Normal. Uncomplicated.
Doesn’t know my story.
Just knows I’m an architect who likes mystery novels.
We talk for two hours.
About books. Movies. Life.
Nothing heavy.
When he asks me out again, I say yes.
On the third date, he asks about my past.
“You seem guarded. Like you’ve been hurt.”
I could lie.
Make up a simple breakup story.
But I don’t.
“I was married. To an identical twin. His brother raped me while pretending to be my husband. They gaslight me for months. It went to trial. They’re in prison now.”
He goes quiet.
I expect him to run.
To make excuses.
To disappear like most people do when they find out.
Instead: “That’s the most fucked up thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you okay?”
“Getting there.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“Okay. Want to talk about the new Marvel movie instead?”
“Yes. Please.”
We do.
And it’s… normal.
Blessedly, wonderfully normal.
Four months after sentencing.
I get a package.
From Vivian.
Inside: photos.
Of Ethan and Everett as kids.
Before they became monsters.
A note:
*”These are who they were. Before they chose to be who they became. I thought you might want to see. To remember there was good once. Even if it’s gone now. – V”*
I look at the photos.
Two little boys. Identical. Smiling.
Innocent.
Before the world twisted them.
Or before they twisted themselves.
I don’t know which.
And I don’t care.
Because whoever they were doesn’t matter.
Only who they became.
I put the photos in a drawer.
Don’t throw them away.
But don’t display them either.
Just… acknowledge they exist.
That once, they were human.
Before they became predators.
Five months after sentencing.
I testify at a legislative hearing.
California is considering stronger laws against sexual assault by deception.
I tell my story.
On record.
For the legislators.
For the public.
For anyone who needs to hear it.
“Sexual assault by deception is real. It’s devastating. And current laws don’t adequately address it. We need stronger protections. Clearer definitions. Better enforcement.”
The bill passes.
Named after me.
The Mitchell Act.
Making sexual assault by deception a felony.
With mandatory minimums.
And no statute of limitations.
It’s not enough.
But it’s something.
Six months after sentencing.
I run into Cassidy.
At a coffee shop.
We hug.
“How are you?” she asks.
“Better. You?”
“Same. Got engaged actually.”
“That’s amazing!”
“Thanks. It’s weird, you know? Moving on. Feeling happy. After everything.”
“Do you ever feel guilty? For being happy?”
“Every day. But my therapist says that’s normal. Trauma doesn’t mean we don’t deserve joy.”
“I’m still learning that.”
“Me too.”
We exchange numbers.
Promise to stay in touch.
Fellow survivors.
Bonded by horror.
Healing separately.
Seven months after sentencing.
Owen asks me to be his girlfriend.
Officially.
“I know you’ve been through hell,” he says. “And I know you’re still healing. But I like you. A lot. And I want to see where this goes. If you do.”
“I do. But I need you to know—I have PTSD. I have triggers. Some days I’m okay and some days I’m not.”
“I can handle that.”
“Can you? Because it’s not always easy—”
“Nothing worth having is easy. And you’re worth it.”
I cry.
He holds me.
And for the first time since Ethan, I feel safe with a man.
Eight months after sentencing.
I get another letter.
This time from Everett.
No return address.
Just my name on the envelope.
Inside, one sentence:
*”You think you won. You didn’t.”*
I call Rebecca.
“He’s trying to intimidate me from prison.”
“I’ll file a complaint. He’s not supposed to contact you.”
“What if he gets out and comes after me?”
“He won’t be eligible for parole for twelve years. And if he does get out, the restraining order is permanent. He can’t touch you.”
“He touched me before. When there were laws against it.”
“This time we’ll be watching. I promise.”
I frame the letter.
Hang it on my wall.
Not as a threat.
As a reminder.
That I survived.
That I’m still here.
That he’s in prison and I’m free.
He thinks he won.
But look who’s living their life.
And who’s in a cell.
Nine months after sentencing.
I speak at a survivors’ conference.
Tell my story to a room of a hundred people.
All survivors.
All fighters.
All still here.
“My name is Sloane and I’m a survivor of sexual assault by deception, gaslighting, and psychological abuse. For months, I thought I was going crazy. But I wasn’t. I was being systematically destroyed by two men who saw me as a game.”
“I fought back. I got evidence. I went to court. I won.”
“But winning doesn’t mean I’m healed. It doesn’t mean I’m okay. It doesn’t mean the trauma is gone.”
“It just means I survived. And some days, that’s enough.”
“Some days, survival is victory.”
Standing ovation.
Tears.
So many tears.
But healing tears.
Not breaking tears.
Ten months after sentencing.
I visit Dr. Morgan.
“I think I’m ready to cut back on therapy.”
“To how often?”
“Once a week instead of three times?”
“That’s progress. How do you feel about it?”
“Scared. But good scared. Like I’m ready to trust myself again.”
“You are. You’ve done the work. You’ve faced your trauma. You’ve rebuilt your life.”
“I’m not healed.”
“No one ever fully heals. But you’re healing. And that’s all we can ask.”
One year after sentencing.
I throw a party.
At my condo.
Small. Intimate.
Jade, Heath, Owen, Rebecca, Dr. Morgan, Amanda, Cassidy.
All the people who helped me survive.
“What are we celebrating?” Jade asks.
“One year free. One year alive. One year of choosing myself.”
We toast.
To survival.
To healing.
To the future.
That night, Owen stays over.
For the first time.
I’m nervous.
“We don’t have to do anything—”
“I know. But I want to. If you do.”
“I do. But I might panic. Or freeze. Or—”
“Then we stop. No questions asked. You’re in control.”
And I am.
For the first time in over a year, I’m in control.
Of my body.
My choices.
My life.
Later, lying in his arms, I think about everything.
The twins. The trial. The trauma.
The abortion. The therapy. The healing.
And I realize:
They didn’t destroy me.
They tried.
But they failed.
Because I’m still here.
Still fighting.
Still living.
Still choosing myself.
Every single day.
My phone buzzes.
A text from an unknown number.
My heart races.
Is it them?
But no.
It’s a woman.
*”I saw you speak at the conference. I think the same thing happened to me. With twins. Can we talk?”*
I stare at the message.
Another victim.
Another survivor.
Another person who needs to know they’re not alone.
I text back:
*”Yes. Call me anytime. You’re not alone. We’re going to get through this.”*
Because that’s what survivors do.
We survive.
And then we help others survive too.
One year and one day after sentencing.
I wake up.
Make coffee.
Look out at the ocean.
And smile.
Not because I’m healed.
Not because it’s over.
But because I’m here.
I survived.
And today, that’s enough.
END OF CHAPTER 20 / END OF ACT TWO
Reader Reactions