The courthouse was a grand old thing—marble pillars, towering doors, the weight of justice pressing down on every man and woman who walked through its halls. Jake had always loved it. The thrill of the game, the power of persuasion, the way a well-crafted argument could bend reality itself.

And yet, as he stepped out of the courtroom, loosening his tie with a slow smirk, he knew today had been different.

You had been different.

The press was already swarming outside, eager for a glimpse of the woman they had once called “The Black Widow of Chicago.” Jake had heard the whispers—how you were a master manipulator, how you played men like puppets and left them tangled in their own strings.

None of it mattered. You were free.

“How does it feel?” he asked, his voice smooth, laced with amusement. “Being the most infamous woman in the city and walking away untouched?”

You didn’t answer immediately. Instead, you adjusted one of your diamond earrings in the reflection of a courthouse window, taking your time before turning to him with a slow, knowing smile.

“How does it feel,” you countered, voice as silky as the champagne you had promised yourself tonight, “knowing you just helped a murderess go free?”

Jake chuckled, a low, indulgent sound. “I don’t deal in guilt or innocence, sweetheart. Only in winning.”

And he had won.

It had been a masterpiece—the way he dismantled the prosecution, twisted the narrative, turned the jury into putty in his hands. The way you sat there, composed and untouchable, never flinching even as damning evidence was laid before you.

You had played your part beautifully.

“So tell me, counselor,” you mused, tilting your head. “Was I guilty?”

Jake’s smirk deepened.

“Does it matter? Honey.”

Because at the end of the day, you were free. The world could believe what it wanted, but Jake knew better than anyone—truth was just another currency, and you had paid him well.

The cameras flashed, voices shouted, the city roared around you.