The courthouse didn't feel like a building. It felt like a stage.
Elara stood at the bottom of the stone steps, her hand gripping the railing as if the entire structure might collapse beneath her. Above, cameras flashed in erratic bursts—lightning without thunder—and journalists shouted her name like they had the right to it.
Elara! Over here!
Elara, did you plan the embezzlement?
Elara, look this way!
She didn't look. Couldn't. Her face had frozen somewhere between the car and this moment, muscles locked into a mask of composure that felt nothing like her.
Elara! Elara! Elara!
The name bounced off the limestone walls, echoing until it lost all meaning. She heard it like she might hear a stranger's name called in a crowd—distant, unrelated, belonging to someone else entirely.
Lucas appeared at her elbow. Not touching her. Never touching her in public anymore. But close enough that his presence carved a path through the chaos.
