Chapter 91 You May Be Seated
“It’s not.” He kept his voice low, calm. “But there’s nothing to worry about.”
He started toward the porch. Amelia fell into step beside him, one hand slipping into his.
“Is this Maggie’s doing?” she asked as they climbed the steps.
“Yes.” He pushed the door open; warm light from the foyer spilled out. “But you don’t have anything to worry about. Apparently she claims she remembers me pushing her down the stairs the day she fell and lost her memories. But she has no evidence to prove it. In law, before someone is convicted, the prosecution has to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. They don’t have that. No witnesses, no physical evidence, no alibi to corroborate her story. It’s just her word against mine.”
He walked straight to the living room and sank into the deep leather couch. The cushions sighed under his weight. Amelia settled beside him, tucking one leg beneath her.
“Where’s Pete?” Andrew asked, gaze sweeping the room.
“He’s in his room sleeping.”
Andrew blinked. “So quick?”
“It’s almost eight.” She gestured toward the grandfather clock in the corner.
Andrew glanced at his wristwatch— newly retrieved from the precinct. “Oh. That’s true.”
Amelia reached over and placed her palm on his thigh. She rubbed slow, soothing circles. “Should I be worried?”
“You shouldn’t.” His hand covered hers, squeezing once. “They’ll be the ones who are sorry. I’m going to countersue them for defamation and reputational damage. I’m going to bleed them dry.”
Amelia’s eyes lit. “So as long as there’s no evidence to back their claims, the fools can’t really do any damage to us?”
“Exactly.” He nodded once— slow, certain.
A slow, sharp smile spread across Amelia’s face. She leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr.
“Good. Let’s destroy them before they have the chance to destroy us.”
Andrew’s gaze darkened. His voice dropped dangerously low, almost a growl.
“That’s my only priority now.”
He stared straight ahead at the cold fireplace. His free hand flexed into a fist again— slowly, deliberately.
Amelia watched him for a long moment. Then she rested her head on his shoulder.
The house settled around them— creaks of old wood, distant hum of the furnace, the soft tick of the clock.
Outside, the woods pressed close against the windows, dark and silent.
Inside, the air felt charged, electric with the promise of retribution.
Andrew’s lips curved— just the barest hint of a smile.
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'TWO MONTHS LATER'
The courtroom in Queens was small, windowless, and smelled faintly of old paper and polished wood. At 3:02 p.m. the air-conditioning hummed low, doing little to cut the tension that had thickened the room over the past thirty minutes. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, throwing harsh shadows across the dark oak benches and the raised judge’s dais.
Andrew Lock sat at the respondent’s table on the left, charcoal suit immaculate, tie knotted with surgical precision. His hands rested flat on the table, fingers splayed, but the knuckles were bloodless white. Beside him, Marcus— his attorney— leaned forward slightly, pen tapping once against a legal pad. Andrew’s face was composed, almost serene, the same mask he had worn through the first two hearings that week. Only the faint tic at the corner of his left eye betrayed anything at all.
Across the aisle, at the petitioner’s table, Maggie Moon sat very still. Her navy blazer was buttoned to the throat; her hands were folded in her lap so tightly the tendons stood out along the backs. Her lawyer, Aisha Patel— mid-thirties, brown skin glowing under the lights, black hair pulled into a sleek bun— stood in the center of the well, addressing the bench.
“Your Honor,” Aisha said, voice clear and measured, “at this point my client should come to the witness stand and tell her story— everything she has suffered at the hands of the respondent, her ex-husband, Mr. Lock.”
Marcus was on his feet in an instant. “Objection, Your Honor. This is narrative testimony without foundation—”
The judge— a woman in her late fifties, silver hair cropped short, wire-rimmed glasses low on her nose— raised one hand without looking up from her notes.
“Overruled. The court will hear from the petitioner.”
Maggie rose slowly. Her chair scraped back an inch. She smoothed the front of her skirt with both palms, took three measured steps to the witness stand, and climbed the two shallow steps. The wooden rail was cool under her fingers. She turned to face the judge.
“Good afternoon, Your Honor.”
“Good afternoon, Ms. Moon.” The judge’s voice was calm, almost kind. “Please raise your right hand.”
Maggie did.
“Do you solemnly swear that the testimony you are about to give is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”
“I do.”
“You may be seated.”
Maggie lowered herself onto the hard wooden chair. She folded her hands in her lap again, lifted her chin, and began.
“A little over a year ago I found an explicit video on my husband’s phone. A woman— I didn’t know her name then— was with him. Intimate. I confronted him that morning in the bedroom. The argument escalated quickly. We threw words at each other— ugly ones. He didn’t deny it. He didn’t apologize. He told me the woman was his soulmate. That he had only married me for the influence and power my father could give him.”