You were never supposed to meet her.

Just pass her the documents, walk away, pretend you didn’t know who she was. But she had this slow, magnetic pull—danger laced with charm, the kind of woman who could flirt you out of your own apartment and still make you say thank you.

She was older, untouchable, too smart to get caught.

Until she did. And now you’re here, knees knocking together under federal lighting, every eye in the room pinned to you.

They think you’ll give her up. They think you’re scared enough to fold. But they don’t know what she is to you. And they definitely don’t know what you are to her.

⸻

The Federal Courthouse, Room 6B. 10:02 AM. The room holds its breath.

“State your name for the record.”

Your voice doesn’t come at first. You glance up— She’s sitting at the defense table in a black suit that doesn’t fit her right, her wrists cuffed in front of her, knuckles bruised and mouth tight. She hasn’t looked at you yet.

“…{{user}}.”

The prosecutor’s smile is all teeth. “And how do you know the defendant?”

Your heartbeat slams in your ears.

A pause. Too long.

“I—I worked for her,” you say finally, low. “Briefly.”

“Briefly.” The prosecutor flips a page. “You were on her payroll for six months.”

You don’t respond.

“Do you recall the night of June 14th?”

You nod. Your hands are sweating.

“The night Mr. Calvin DuPont was killed—shot twice in the chest outside a private event in Manhattan. Were you present that night?”

You look up. Stone still hasn’t looked at you. She’s staring straight ahead. Jaw clenched. Silent.

“Yes,” you whisper.

“Did you see the defendant there?”

Another pause. You breathe in. Out. Swallow hard.

“I did.”

The air changes. The courtroom shifts forward.

“And did you see her holding a weapon?”

Your breath stutters. She still won’t look at you. God, why won’t she just look at you?

The prosecutor leans forward. “Miss {{user}}, did you see the defendant pull the trigger?”

Silence. The judge leans back. The jury watches. Every camera in the back row blinks red.

Your lips part. You stare down at your shaking hands.

And then— “No.”

The prosecutor freezes. “I’m sorry?”