Chapter 156
# Chapter 156: After the Storm
The courtroom felt smaller than it had any right to be.
I'd walked into plenty of high-stakes proceedings before—corporate litigations, hostile takeovers, billion-dollar negotiations—but sitting in that witness box, facing Marcus Grant's empty, contemptuous stare from the defense table, was different. This wasn't about contracts or stock options. This was about every scar he'd carved into my childhood.
The prosecutor, a sharp woman named Patricia Reeves, led me through my testimony with clinical precision. She asked about the photographs. The belt marks. The locked closets. The nights without dinner.
I answered each question in the same measured tone I used for depositions. Calm. Factual. Detached.
But my hands, hidden beneath the witness stand's ledge, wouldn't stop shaking.
"Ms. Grant," Reeves said gently, "can you identify the man who inflicted these injuries?"
I looked directly at Marcus. His expression didn't shift—still that same cold, calculating mask he'd worn my entire life.
"Marcus Grant," I said clearly. "My father."
A ripple went through the gallery. Cameras clicked. I kept my gaze steady.
Reeves nodded, preparing her next question, when the courtroom doors slammed open.
"You destroyed everything!"
Vivian's voice cracked through the room like a whip.
She stood in the aisle, hair disheveled, makeup smeared, designer coat hanging crookedly off one shoulder. I barely recognized her—this woman who'd spent thirty years perfecting the image of controlled elegance now looked like she'd clawed her way out of a nightmare.
"Mrs. Grant—" the bailiff started forward.
"He took everything!" Vivian's voice climbed higher, hysterical. "My company, my reputation, my daughter—" Her wild eyes found me in the witness box, and for a split second, I saw something that might have been regret. Then it twisted into rage again. "He used her, he used all of us, and I won't let him—"
She lunged toward the defense table.
Two bailiffs caught her before she reached Marcus, who sat utterly still, watching the scene with the same detached interest he might give a mildly entertaining television show.
"I'll kill you!" Vivian screamed, thrashing against the officers. "You ruined me, you bastard—if I'm going down, you're coming with me—"
The judge's gavel cracked down. "Clear the courtroom! Bailiffs, remove Mrs. Grant immediately—"
They dragged her toward the side exit. She was still screaming, the words dissolving into incoherent sobs.
I sat frozen in the witness box, my heartbeat loud in my ears.
The courtroom erupted—journalists shouting questions, lawyers scrambling, Marcus's defense team moving for a mistrial. But all I could see was the empty space where my mother had stood, the echo of her breakdown still reverberating through my chest.
He destroyed everything.
Yes. He had.
And she'd let him.
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The recess was called. I stepped down from the witness stand on legs that felt disconnected from my body, moving mechanically through the protocol—thank the prosecutor, gather my notes, ignore the stares.
Rowan met me at the side door, his expression unreadable. He didn't ask if I was okay. Didn't offer empty reassurances.
He just said, "Let's go," and guided me out through the staff exit before the press could swarm.
I expected him to drive back to my apartment. Instead, he took a sharp turn onto the highway heading out of the city, hands steady on the wheel, jaw set.
"Where are we going?" My voice came out flat.
"Somewhere you can breathe."
Twenty minutes later, we pulled into a private garage on the outskirts of Silverton. Rowan parked the sedan, then led me past rows of luxury vehicles to a sleek red convertible tucked in the corner—a vintage Porsche 911, cherry-red with cream leather seats.
"Get in," he said.
I blinked. "Rowan—"
"Trust me."
I slid into the passenger seat. The leather was soft, the interior spotless. Rowan started the engine, and it roared to life with a deep, satisfying growl.
He drove us out to the coast road—empty stretches of asphalt that curved along cliffs overlooking the lake. Then he pressed the accelerator.
The world narrowed to wind and speed.
My hair whipped free from its pins. The engine's roar drowned out everything—Vivian's screams, the courtroom whispers, Marcus's cold stare. I closed my eyes and let the wind tear through me, scattering the tightness in my chest.
Rowan didn't speak. Didn't ask questions. Just drove, fast and sure, like he knew exactly what I needed.
We finally stopped at an overlook—a small pull-off where the road met the cliff edge. He killed the engine. The sudden silence felt immense.
I opened my eyes. The lake stretched out below us, gray-blue and endless under the clouded sky.
"Better?" Rowan asked quietly.
I nodded, not trusting my voice yet.
He reached over, and I felt his fingers brush my temple—gently tucking a windblown strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture was so careful, so tender, that my breath caught.
I turned to look at him. His hand was still raised, hovering near my face, and something vulnerable flickered in his expression.
My heartbeat kicked up. I couldn't move. Couldn't look away.
Rowan seemed to realize how close we were. His hand dropped. "Sorry. You had—your hair was—" He cleared his throat, glancing away. "We should probably head to the hospital. Check on Diana."
"Right," I managed. "Yes. Diana."
He started the engine again, and I stared out at the lake, my pulse still racing, the phantom warmth of his touch lingering against my skin.
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