Page 60 of His Verdict

The fury has evaporated, leaving behind a raw, wounded stillness. He looks at me and finally sees me. Not as the idealistic girl he broke, not as the beautiful possession he fought for, but as the monster he created. His equal.

“I was…” he starts, his voice rough, scraped raw. He has to clear his throat. “When my father… with the gun… I came back here and I saw you moving on your own, and I reacted. Badly.”

It’s not an excuse. It’s a confession. An admission that his rage came from a place of fear—not fear for me, but fearofme. Fear of my independence.

“I said things,” he continues, his gaze unwavering, intense. “Things that were not the truth. The real truth.” He takes a breath, and the next words feel like they are pulled from the deepest part of him, a place he keeps locked and guarded from the world. “I was wrong.”

My heart gives a painful lurch. It’s the closest I have ever come to hearing an apology from this man. It’s more than an apology.

I don’t speak. I just watch him, waiting for the rest.

“You asked me what you were,” he says softly, his thumbs stroking my skin. “This is the answer.” He leans down, his forehead pressing against mine, his eyes closing for a fractionof a second. “You are my partner. And I will never make that mistake again.”

He seals the promise with a kiss.

We are aligned.

I lift a hand, my fingers tracing the fading bruise on his cheekbone.

“I know,” I whisper. And I accept.

Six months later

The air in the courtroom is thick with a tension so palpable you can taste it on your tongue—the metallic tang of anxiety and ambition. I stand before the jury, a black-clad figure of calm authority in a sea of nervous energy. The room is my colosseum now. The law is my weapon. And I have never been more skilled in its use.

I am dismantling the prosecution's star witness. Not with shouting or theatrics, but with a series of quiet, precise questions, each one a surgical incision that bleeds his credibility dry, drop by drop. He’s a former executive from a rival company, the cornerstone of their case against a Sinclair subsidiary accused of corporate espionage. By the time I’m done with him, the jury will believe he’s a disgruntled, incompetent liar who couldn’t find his own ass with two hands and a map.

The black diamond on my left hand catches the light as I gesture toward a piece of evidence. It doesn’t sparkle like a traditional stone. It absorbs the light, a small, perfect void on my finger. A beautiful, dark promise. An engagement ring.

I spent the last six months becoming indispensable. I am very, very good at my job.

The case lasts two more days. My closing argument is a masterpiece of legally dubious but brilliant rhetoric. I don't prove our client's innocence. I simply make their guilt impossible to prove beyond a reasonable doubt. I create a fog of technicalities, procedural missteps, and alternative theories so thick the jury can’t see the truth on the other side.

The verdict comes back in under three hours.

“Not guilty on all counts.”

A ripple of relief goes through my legal team. The client, a man who is absolutely, unequivocally guilty, claps me on the shoulder, his face split in a wide, grateful grin.

I pack my briefcase, my movements economical and precise. The courtroom empties out, a river of dark suits and relieved faces. I walk out into the grand, marble hallway, past the throng of reporters shouting for attention, their cameras flashing like a volley of machine-gun fire. I ignore them completely. They are just noise.

And then I see her.

She’s standing at the top of the sweeping courthouse steps, watching me. ADA Brown.

The crowd instinctively parts around her, as if recognizing the silent, high-stakes gravity of the moment. We are two queens on opposite sides of a chessboard, the battle over, the victor decided. Her face is a complex mask of emotions. I see the frustration of a lost case. I see the anger of a righteous fight thwarted by money and power.

We hold each other’s gaze for a long, silent moment. She is the last remnant of my old life. A walking, breathing "what if." The embodiment of the choice I did not make.

I offer no apology with my eyes. No flicker of regret. I don’t flinch. Let her look. Let her see exactly what I have become. This is my verdict on my own life, and it is final.

Finally, she gives a slow, almost imperceptible shake of her head. The silent question hangs in the air between us.Was it worth it?

I turn away without answering. The question is irrelevant.

A black town car is waiting for me at the curb, its engine a low, quiet purr. Anton stands by the open rear door, his face as impassive as ever. He nods at me. “Ms. Sutton.”

I walk down the steps, get into the car and I don't look back.

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