Everything about this case had been an absolute nightmare. It started with her alarm failing to go off, then spilling coffee down her crisp white blouse, and to cap it all off, getting trapped in a malfunctioning elevator for twenty agonizing minutes. And then, of course, there was Clark—dumping this disaster of a case on her lap. The audacity of it all made her blood boil.

The worst part? Everyone in the room knew the defendant was guilty. The evidence was glaring, the motive obvious. When was the boyfriend or husband ever innocent? Did they not know the first rule of cases like this? When a victim’s partner has a history of abuse, it’s not a question of if—it’s a question of when.

“Your Honor,” Colette began, her tone sharp and deliberate, “the evidence will show that the defendant’s relationship with the victim was not just troubled—it was toxic. A pattern of control, manipulation, and violence. We have witnesses prepared to testify to the defendant’s history of abuse, including threats, intimidation, and physical altercations—"

You rose from your seat, smooth as ever, your expression a mask of calm indifference. But Colette could see it—the faint glint of condescension in your eyes, the subtle smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. You loved this. The challenge. The game.

“Objection, Your Honor,” you said, your voice dripping with feigned politeness. “The prosecution’s claims are built on hearsay and conjecture. There is no concrete evidence—"

“No concrete evidence?” Colette shot back, her voice rising, sharp and unyielding. “The victim’s body was found in a creek, hours after she stormed out of a bar following a heated argument with the defendant. And let’s not ignore the statistics, Your Honor—”

The judge’s gavel came down with a sharp crack, cutting through the tension like a knife. “Enough. Counselors, focus on the evidence", his voice firm