Chapter 155 - Nova

Chapter 155 - Nova
All the time I’d spent in court had started to blur together, dissolving into one long, punishing stretch of days that bled into weeks. There was no clean line between one testimony and the next, no distinct edges to separate moments. Everything became a single, heavy mass of time—like being trapped underwater for too long, where every sound is warped and every breath takes effort. What I remember clearly, even now, is that Pedro’s team came armed. Not just with documents, but with a narrative they had crafted meticulously. They’d rehearsed it, polished it, and when they delivered it, they did so with a confidence that was terrifying. They weren’t just defending him—they were performing, weaving their story like seasoned actors. And the worst part was that it worked.
I didn’t know who was winning anymore—if “winning” was even the right word for what was happening in that courtroom. It wasn’t a game; it was a slow, methodical dismantling of lives, of reputations, of truths. But damage had been done, and it was irreversible. Things were said on that stand that sank into my bones and stayed there. Santiago’s voice. James’s words. Even Levi, though he said less, didn’t stop the momentum. Together, their statements cracked something inside me that I hadn’t realized was so fragile.
They didn’t call me weak. They didn’t call me broken. But what they did say was somehow worse. They called me a responsibility. Or rather, they implied it. Santiago said it like it was fact—like I was something that had been placed in his hands to manage, not a person who had walked into his life with her own desires and fire. James echoed it with his silences and his careful phrasing. Even Levi’s soft-spoken honesty couldn’t hide it. And Olivia—God, Olivia—she was the one who drew it out of them. She asked the right questions, pressed the right nerves, and made them say it aloud in front of everyone.
Hearing it wasn’t just humiliating. It was infuriating. It hollowed me out and lit a flame inside me at the same time. A responsibility. As if I were a stray animal they’d taken in. As if what had existed between us—the heat, the danger, the power play—was nothing more than caretaking. It was too little. It was insulting.
And yet, I stayed silent. What could I have done? Leapt up in the middle of court and screamed that I wasn’t their project, that I wasn’t a burden? That I had chosen, fought, clawed my way out of darkness and that my submission didn’t erase my agency? That was the paradox of it all—I had no power there. Not in that sterile, echoing room where words were used like scalpels, cutting away everything that was human.
Since that day, the tension between us had become something thick and tangible, like fog you could chew through. It filled every hallway, every glance, every unspoken word at night. We lived in that courtroom, even when we weren’t physically there. Our days were consumed by it—testimonies, preparation, debriefings. There was no time for softness. No time to peel back the layers of what was festering between us. And honestly, I didn’t even know how to start. What was I supposed to say? You hurt me when you said I was just a responsibility? It sounded petty in the face of everything else that was collapsing. So I let it simmer, a low, constant burn that lived just beneath my skin.
Eventually, it became too much. The walls of the house were closing in, every breath felt recycled, and I couldn’t take the weight pressing down on my chest any longer. So I slipped outside without telling anyone, following the familiar path toward the pasture. The air hit me like a rush of cold water—fresh, sharp, and real. I inhaled deeply, holding it in my lungs until it almost hurt. Watching the ponies grazing in the field gave me a strange kind of grounding. They were so utterly unaware of courtrooms and betrayals and leaked videos and fathers who weaponized shame. They just existed.
For a few moments, standing there with the breeze lifting the hair off my neck, the tension loosened. Not completely—it never did—but enough for me to remember what it felt like to have my own space, my own air. Enough to remember that I wasn’t just the sum of what had been said about me in that courtroom. I was still here.

The sound of hooves in the distance faded into a soft rhythm, almost like a heartbeat. I was leaning against the wooden fence, watching the ponies graze lazily, trying to let the late afternoon breeze cool the tension simmering in my chest. My mind was a tangled knot of courtroom words and Santiago’s voice on the witness stand — and James’s, and Levi’s. Each word had cut like glass.
“Here you are.”
His voice came from behind me, smooth and low, like warm smoke curling against the nape of my neck. I didn’t turn around. I didn’t need to. Santiago had a way of filling space, of claiming it without saying anything more. A breath later, his body was right behind mine. His presence wrapped around me like heat — not touching yet, but close enough that my skin tingled in anticipation.
“You’re angry,” he said, his tone threaded with certainty, as if he’d reached into my chest and found the emotion hiding there. “But you’re going to let go of that anger.”
I wanted to snap at him, to tell him that he had no right to decide what I would or wouldn’t feel. But before the words could form, his hand slid beneath the hem of my skirt in a single, decisive movement. The fabric bunched up around my hips, and a shiver ran through me. The air hit the backs of my thighs, cool against overheated skin. His palm pressed firmly against my pussy — possessive, unyielding, forcing my breath to catch.
“I wasn’t asking, pet.”
The word vibrated against my spine. His voice had dropped an octave, dark and commanding.
Before I could react, his knee nudged between my legs, firm and deliberate. He coaxed — no, forced — my legs apart just enough to remind me of who he was, of how easily he read my body. It infuriated me that he could sense my need before I even admitted it to myself. It infuriated me even more that he was right.
With one hand, he found my shoulder and pressed down. The pressure wasn’t rough, but it allowed no argument. My palms met the wooden fence rail, and I bent forward slightly, feeling my skirt ride up higher, feeling exposed to the world. The pasture stretched before me, quiet and vast, but the thought that someone could walk by at any moment sent a wicked thrill coursing through my veins.
“Hold on,” he murmured, the authority in his tone brooking no disobedience. My fingers curled around the fence.
He explored me with practiced confidence — not frantic, not tentative, but firm and knowing, tracing circles on my clit that made my body betray me. I bit my tongue, trying to hold back any sound, trying to cling to the anger that had shielded me moments earlier. But the edges of that fury were already softening, fraying beneath the pull of his hands and the heavy way he breathed against my ear.
“I can feel your juices on my fingers,” he said roughly, his breath hot on my neck. “Out here, where anyone could see, you slut.”
I closed my eyes, letting the world dissolve around me. Every breath I took pulled me deeper into the moment, as if my body were tuning itself to Santiago’s touch. The tension inside me tightened, spiraling low in my belly, building into that familiar, dangerous crescendo. My legs trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the unbearable pleasure of anticipation.
“Admit you like it, pet,” he murmured against my ear — low, commanding, knowing.
I tried to hold onto my pride, to keep my breath steady, but he knew exactly how to push me past resistance. His touch changed, deepened, became focused and deliberate, hitting that sensitive spot, and the pressure built until it stole my words entirely. Heat flooded through me in pulsing waves. My head tipped back involuntarily, a soft sound escaping from somewhere deep in my chest.
“See, pet,” Santiago’s voice curled around me, smug and intoxicating. “I know you.”
His rhythm didn’t falter. Every movement of his hands, every press and stroke, felt as if he’d mapped my body long ago and was simply tracing familiar territory. My mind scattered like leaves in the wind. The cool air, the rough wood of the fence beneath my fingers, the sound of his breath right behind me — it all blurred into a single, overwhelming sensation.
My eyes rolled back, and the moans I’d tried to hold in slipped free. It was useless to pretend otherwise; he could read my body better than I could read my own thoughts. I sensed movement behind me — the distinct sound of fabric shifting, the rasp of a zipper — and then the heat of his cock at my entrance, insistent and undeniable.
The moment he pressed his thick, hard cock inside, a shiver tore through me. He fit against me in that infuriatingly perfect way, his cock pressing against every raw, heightened nerve. My breath hitched, my fingers tightened on the fence, and the world narrowed to nothing but him and the delicious, maddening way he knew how to unravel me.
He brought his fingers to my lips, silently demanding obedience. Without thinking, I opened for him. It was instinctive — a surrender my mind might have resisted, but my body welcomed without hesitation. My mouth closed around his fingers, tasting me and my juices, the heat of him, and I let my senses drown in it. His other hand stayed anchored on my hips, keeping me exactly where he wanted me.