You’re a fashion student, and just here to do a favor. Drop off a client’s wedding dress at the courthouse because she’s trapped in jury duty and apparently can’t bear to be apart from it for another hour. You’re lugging the thing through security, praying the metal hanger doesn’t set off alarms, and wondering if it’s possible to get carpal tunnel from carrying twenty pounds of tulle. Then someone calls your name. Only… it’s not your name.

Before you can correct them, a court officer is already ushering you down the hallway at brisk pace, muttering something about “finally, we can start.” the officer says. You try explaining, but nope — they’re convinced you’re their missing witness. And now you’re stepping into a packed courtroom, fluorescent lights humming, the air way too still.

Front and center, behind the counsel’s table, is a man who looks like he was born in a suit. Dark hair, razor-sharp cheekbones, voice smooth enough to sell you an alibi. He’s mid-sentence when he sees you. Stops cold.

Your giant dress bag rustles as you shift awkwardly in the doorway. His gaze drags from the garment to your face with a look that says What fresh hell is this?

“This,” he says to the judge. Voice slightly strained, “is not my witness.”