My husband whipped me two hundred times for his mistress—she sat there correcting his count after every strike.

Sophia called my lawyer three days later.

She wanted to meet.

Alone.

I agreed, on the condition J was in the next room, listening.

We met at a quiet coffee shop downtown.

Sophia sat across from me, no makeup, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, a faded hoodie on.

She looked nothing like the polished, perfect woman who’d counted my strikes.

She looked tired.

Scared.

“Thanks for meeting me,” she said, voice quiet, stirring her coffee.

I didn’t say anything.

Just waited.

“I know you hate me,” she said, looking up at me. “And you have every right. I was awful to you. I helped him hurt you. I counted every single strike. I laughed at you. I’m not here to make excuses. I’m here because I want to make it right.”

I leaned back in my chair.

“What do you want, Sophia?”

“I want to testify against him,” she said, fast. “At the criminal trial. I’ll tell the jury everything. How he forced me to count. How he told me if I didn’t, he’d beat me too. How he planned to kill you next month, make it look like a suicide, so he could collect the life insurance. I have the emails. The text messages. All of it.”

I stared at her.

“Why?” I said. “Why are you doing this?”

She laughed, a bitter sound, wiping a tear off her cheek.

“Because the night you left, he hit me. Backhanded me so hard I fell. And in that second, I saw him. Really saw him. I realized I wasn’t special. I was just the next girl he was gonna destroy. And I didn’t want to end up like you. Or worse.”

She reached into her bag, pulled out a thick envelope, slid it across the table to me.

“Everything’s in there. Emails, texts, bank records showing him moving money out of the company into offshore accounts. Proof he forged your signature. Everything you need to put him away for a long time.”

I picked up the envelope, heavy in my hand.

“What do you want in return?” I said.

“Immunity,” she said, voice small. “For the assault. For the embezzlement I helped with. I know I don’t deserve it. But I’ll do anything to make up for what I did. I’ll do community service at domestic violence shelters. I’ll talk to other women who are in the same situation. I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make it right. Just… don’t make me go to prison with him.”

I thought about it.

Thought about her voice, counting every strike.

Thought about her yanking my hair, telling me I’d be sleeping under a bridge.

Thought about the fear in her eyes when she talked about Ethan.

I knew what it was like to be scared of him.

To do things you hated just to survive.

“Okay,” I said.

She stared at me, eyes wide.

“Really?”

“Really,” I said. “My lawyer will draw up the deal. You get full immunity for everything related to Ethan, in exchange for your full testimony at the criminal trial, and five thousand hours of community service with domestic violence organizations. And you have to apologize. To me. In person. And mean it.”

Tears spilled down her face.

She reached across the table like she wanted to hold my hand, then pulled back, like she knew she didn’t have the right.

“I am so sorry, Lila,” she said, voice breaking. “I am so, so sorry for everything I did to you. You didn’t deserve any of it. I was weak. And stupid. And I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you, I promise.”

I nodded, standing up.

“Testify truthfully,” I said. “And we’re even.”

I walked out of the coffee shop, envelope in hand.

J was waiting by the door, leaning against the wall.