I thought about calling him, but what would I even say? That I missed him? That I was scared something had happened to him?
On the third night around 9:00, my phone finally rang.
“Can I come over?” His voice sounded different. Tired.
“Of course. Is everything okay?”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
When he arrived, he looked worn—still put together, still commanding—but there was something heavy in his eyes. Something darker than usual.
“What happened?” I asked, closing the door behind him.
“The men who were threatening you have been dealt with permanently. They won’t be a problem.”
I knew what that meant. I didn’t ask for details.
“Are you okay?”
He looked surprised by the question, like no one ever asked him that. “I haven’t slept well,” he admitted. “Handling things like this… it requires my personal attention.”
I noticed his knuckles then—bruised, split in one place. Without thinking, I took his hand and led him to the kitchen. I got ice from the freezer, wrapped it in a towel, and gently pressed it against his knuckles. He watched me, his expression unreadable.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly.
“You’ve been taking care of me and Nikia for weeks,” I said. “It’s my turn.”
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. I just stood there holding the ice against his hand, and he just watched me.
“I’m not used to this,” he said finally.
“Used to what?”
“People caring whether I’m hurt.”
My chest tightened. “Well… get used to it.”
He almost smiled.
I made him tea—something my mother always did when someone in the family was going through something hard. We sat together on my couch and he told me bits and pieces about his life. Not the dangerous parts—the lonely parts. How he’d built an empire but had no one to share it with. How protecting people had become his purpose after he lost his family. How he’d learned to bury everything he felt just to keep moving forward.
“You don’t have to do that with me,” I said. “Bury things, I mean.”
He looked at me for a long time. Then he leaned his head back against the couch and closed his eyes.
“Stay,” I said. “Just for a little while.”
He did. And for the first time in days, I felt like I could breathe again.
Two weeks later, I got the call. DeAndre’s plea hearing was scheduled, and I was required to attend to give a victim impact statement. I felt sick the moment the prosecutor told me.
“I have to see him again?” I asked.
“You don’t have to if you’re not comfortable, but your statement could make a significant difference in his sentencing.”
I wanted to say no. I wanted to pretend he didn’t exist anymore. But I thought about Nikia, about every other woman he might hurt if he got out too soon.
“I’ll do it,” I said.
When I told Young Chul, he didn’t hesitate. “I’m coming with you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I’m coming.”
The morning of the hearing, Janelle wanted to come too, but I told her I’d be okay. Young Chul arrived at my apartment in a perfectly tailored suit, his lead bodyguard waiting by the car.
“You ready?” he asked.
“No,” I said, “but I’m going anyway.”
The courthouse was cold and intimidating. I sat at the front with the prosecutor, my hands shaking in my lap. Young Chul sat directly behind me. I couldn’t see him, but I could feel him there—solid, steady.
When they brought DeAndre in, my entire body tensed. He looked thinner, angry. But the moment he saw Young Chul sitting behind me, something shifted in his face. Fear.
His lawyer stood and tried to argue for a reduced sentence, painting DeAndre as a man who’d made mistakes but deserved a second chance. Then the prosecutor presented the evidence: the mall security footage, photos of the bruises on my neck, Nikia’s therapy records documenting her trauma.
When it was my turn to speak, I stood on shaking legs and walked to the front. I read my statement. I described what it felt like to be strangled in public while my daughter begged for my life. I talked about the nightmares Nikia still had, the fear I still carried every single day. My voice shook, but I didn’t break.
When I sat back down, I felt Young Chul’s hand briefly touch my shoulder—just for a second—but it was enough.
The judge didn’t take long to decide.
“Mr. Williams, you violated a restraining order, committed assault in front of a minor, and showed a complete disregard for the safety of your ex-wife and daughter. I’m sentencing you to eight years in state prison with a permanent restraining order upon release.”
Eight years. I could finally breathe.
As they led DeAndre away, he looked back one last time—not at me, at Young Chul—and I saw it clearly. He was terrified.
Outside the courthouse, I finally let myself cry. Young Chul pulled me into his arms right there on the steps, and I buried my face in his chest and let everything out.
“It’s over,” he said quietly. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”
And for the first time since I left DeAndre, I actually believed it.
Two weeks after the sentencing, Young Chul asked me to dinner. “Just me, without Nikia. I want to take you somewhere,” he said over the phone. “Just the two of us.”
My heart jumped. Like a date. Yes, like a date. I hadn’t been on a real date in years. My mother agreed to watch Nikia, and I spent an hour trying to figure out what to wear. I finally settled on a simple black dress Janelle had bought me for my birthday last year that I’d never worn.
