Chapter 105

Chapter 105
Eloise’s POV

I walked into the room, my heels clicking at the marble floor as I settled into the hard wood bench, the wood cold unyielding under me. The air in the courtroom feels stale, like it’s been recycled through too many breaths of people waiting for something ugly to happen. There’s that faint, metallic smell in the air, maybe from the polished brass fixtures, maybe from nerves — and the low hum of whispers that sounds like a restless hive. Today was Jennifer's trial.

Jennifer sits at the defense table, her hair perfectly smoothed into a glossy curtain, her blouse white, a deliberate performance of innocence. But her jaw is too tight, lips too polished. She’s playing the role for the gallery, but I can already see the cracks in the mask.

I smooth the skirt of my black dress, not because it needs it but because it gives my hands something to do. My expression is a mirror of indifference. Inside, there’s a quiet, thrumming satisfaction, not joy, not glee,  just the certainty of watching a tower that’s been teetering finally begin to fall.

Lucian is here. I felt him before I saw him, the shift in the air, the faint scent of his cologne, with the edge of something sharp, like pepper. But I don’t look. Not once. His guilt clings to his face, but I keep my eyes trained on the bench ahead, on the judge as she enters, robes flowing, her gavel cracking the air.

“All rise.”

The room stands in a collective motion, the shuffle of feet and scrape of chairs breaking the silence. I remain upright until the judge is seated again, her presence commanding the air to still.

“This is the bail hearing for Jennifer Sinclair,” the clerk announces, voice even, and professional.

Her lawyer, a man in a gray suit with slicked-back hair and the sort of false confidence that comes from believing charm is a shield — stands first. He begins talking about her upstanding community record, her roots in the city, and volunteer work. Every sentence feels like an insult to the truth.

But when the prosecutor rises, the balance of the room changes.

He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and his voice is steady in a way that doesn’t need volume to be heard. “Your Honor, the State has substantial reason to believe the defendant poses a flight risk and is a danger to the public. We will be presenting preliminary evidence.”

Jennifer’s hand curls into a fist on the table. The nails — pale pink and perfect — dig into her palm until the skin blanches.

The first exhibit clicks onto the large monitor.

A medical report.

“Your Honor, this is the toxicology result from tests conducted on the minor, Max Kingsley True. The results show the presence of ethylene glycol — the active component of antifreeze — in his system. At levels that, if exposure had continued, could have resulted in death.”

The words slice through the room. A few gasps ripple from the gallery. I kept my breathing slow, my face still, but inside I was shaking.

The prosecutor continues. “Evidence will show the defendant had access to the household and opportunity to introduce the substance into the victim’s drinks over a period of weeks.”

Jennifer’s lawyer objects, something about lack of proof of direct administration, but the judge overrules, allowing the report to remain in evidence.

Jennifer’s mask doesn’t shatter yet, but I see her swallow. Hard.

The second exhibit lights the screen.

Design schematics, the ones she stole from me. My work, my signature curves, the detailing, every line pulled from my drafts and passed off as her own.

“These,” the prosecutor says, “are original design blueprints submitted by Ms. Eloise Sinclair to her firm’s archive, dated and time-stamped. The second set”—he clicks—“is from the defendant’s recent product release, marketed as her own intellectual property. The similarities are not coincidental.”

Jennifer’s lips press thin. Her lawyer shifts in his seat, pen tapping.

“Furthermore,” the prosecutor says, “surveillance footage recovered from the firm’s security cameras shows the defendant entering Ms. Sinclair’s secured office after hours without authorization.”

I had no idea Jennifer had entered my office herself. She’s so brazen.

The video plays.

There she is — Jennifer — in dark jeans and a hoodie, her hair tied back, glancing over her shoulder before sliding a USB drive into my computer. The timestamp glows in the corner.

Her head drops slightly at the table. The jury for her eventual trial will see this in high definition.

I lean back, crossing one ankle over the other, still unreadable. Let her stew.

Then comes the third exhibit. The moment my breath catches.

“Your Honor, this is CCTV footage taken from a book antique cafe store in downtown. It shows the defendant physically assaulting Ms. Sinclair.”

The screen fills with grainy video. And then — Jennifer running.

The silence in the courtroom now is absolute. Not a cough, not a shuffle.

The prosecutor lets it play twice, then pauses on the frame where I’m on the ground.

“This assault,” he says, “was not reported to police at the time because the victim was focused on medical care for herself and her unborn child. But it establishes a pattern of aggression and dangerous disregard for human life.”

I was not pregnant though…But my lawyer insisted we rule out as loss of a child to teach Jennifer a lesson.

Jennifer’s hands shake now. Her lawyer whispers to her, but she doesn’t nod. She’s blinking too fast, lips parting as if she wants to speak but can’t find the script.

I let my eyes rest on her for a fraction of a second longer than necessary — not with gloating, not with rage. Just a flat, cold acknowledgment that the world now sees her for what she is.