Chapter 122

Chapter 122
Eloise

The next day….

I sat on the second row, hands folded over the leather strap of my purse, listening to the shuffle of shoes, the murmured chatter, and the squeak of pens dragging against notepads. It had been trial after trial, one courtroom after another, and my body had grown used to this place, almost as if my ribs had sprouted their own wooden benches.

I didn’t mind. No, not anymore. So far every soul that had left scars on me, physical, emotional, spiritual, had been made to choke down their share of the poison they brewed. Today would be no different.

Today belonged to Jennifer.

She stood at the front, just beyond the polished oak barrier that separated the public from the professionals. She was thinner than before, her once-gleaming blonde hair dulled and tied in a hasty knot. She had tried to wear confidence like a perfume, but it didn’t stick. Her navy suit hung on her as though it belonged to someone else, someone more solid. She kept her chin tilted, eyes darting between her lawyer and the jury box, but every so often, they would flick to me. And when they did, her mask slipped.

The bailiff announced the judge’s entrance, and all of us rose. My knees creaked faintly, the ache reminding me how much these past months had demanded. I smoothed the hem of my black skirt as Judge Harmon took her seat, glasses sliding down her nose.

“Be seated,” the judge said, her voice sharp enough to slice the murmurs in the room.

The trial had stretched for weeks. I had heard Jennifer’s lawyer weave threadbare excuses, desperate attempts to paint her as misunderstood, pressured, misguided. I had sat through testimonies that pulled my patience. And I had given my own, staring directly at her when I recounted the betrayals, the deliberate cruelty, the web she’d spun around me.

Now, there were no more words left to twist. Only sentencing.

Judge Harmon adjusted her papers, eyes skimming. “We are here to deliver sentencing in the case of the State versus Jennifer Sinclair” Her gavel tapped lightly once. “The jury has found the defendant guilty on all counts presented—attempt of murder on minor, fraud, design theft, and intentional infliction of emotional distress, among others.”

The courtroom held its breath.

Jennifer shifted her weight, jaw twitching.

“I have reviewed the evidence,” Judge Harmon continued, her voice steady but firm. “The CCTV footage, the financial trails, the testimonies of witnesses, and the corroborating documents all paint a clear picture. This was no accident. No single misstep. This was a series of deliberate actions intended to harm, deceive, and profit.”

Her words cracked against the air like lashes.

Jennifer’s lawyer rose. “Your Honor, if I may—”

“You may not,” Judge Harmon cut sharply. “Sit down, Counselor. You have exhausted your opportunities. Now, as for sentencing…”

My heartbeat thudded in my ears.

I thought of all the nights Jennifer had smirked while I cried. Of the whispers she dropped into Lucian’s ear. Of the laughter she shared with Jadeline at my expense. Of the way she had stood over me once, the tilt of her head like a queen admiring her ruin.

The judge’s voice lowered, deliberate. “The defendant will receive the maximum sentence permitted by law. Twenty years in state prison with no chance of parole within the first twelve. Restitution is also to be paid to the plaintiff, Miss Eloise Sinclair, for damages both financial and psychological. This court believes accountability must be as sharp as the harm inflicted.”

The gavel cracked. “Sentence delivered.”

The sound was thunder and release all at once.

Gasps fluttered through the room, papers rustling like startled birds. A woman behind me whispered, “Twenty years?” in disbelief. A man near the door muttered, “That’s unheard of…”

The public was shocked, but I sat still. Still and steady as stone. Relief seeped into my bones, but so did something heavier, a deeper sadness that weighed differently.

Because no number of years behind bars could erase what had been done. No gray uniform, no locked gate, no cold cement wall could return what was stolen, or wipe away the nights of torment.

Jennifer froze, her lips parted, eyes widening as if she hadn’t expected the hammer to fall this hard. Her lawyer touched her elbow, but she jerked it away, panic twisting her face. For once, she wasn’t in control.

Two guards moved toward her, firm hands guiding her wrists into cuffs. She snapped her head around, searching the gallery, until her gaze landed on me.

I didn’t flinch.

I let her see my calm. My acceptance. My endurance.

Her mouth opened like she wanted to spit venom, but nothing came out. Just silence.

I stood when the judge dismissed us. My legs felt wooden, but they carried me forward, one step at a time. The scent of strong coffee drifted from the hall outside, mixing with the sterile scent  of disinfectant. People shuffled past, murmuring in clusters. Some looked at me with pity. Others with awe. But none of them knew the full weight of carrying scars invisible to the eye.

I pulled my coat tighter around me and walked out, the winter air biting my cheeks the second I stepped onto the courthouse steps.

Snowflakes drifted lazily, catching in my hair. Reporters clustered near the barricades, microphones bobbing like weapons, cameras flashing.

“Miss Sinclair, how do you feel about Jennifer’s sentence?”

“Do you believe justice has truly been served?”

“Will you comment on the restitution ordered in your favor?”

Their questions stabbed, overlapping, too many to answer. I kept walking, chin high, boots crunching on thin ice.

Justice. What a strange word. It tasted metallic, sharp, half-satisfying.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I knew before I even looked. Mike.

He’d been calling since yesterday, his name lighting my screen again and again. He hadn’t come to the trial, though he knew it mattered. He hadn’t wanted to stand in the crowd, maybe out of guilt, maybe out of cowardice.

The phone buzzed again.

I didn’t pick up.

Instead, I slipped it back into my coat and let the cold swallow me whole.

My driver, Carl, stood waiting near the curb. His gloved hand tipped his hat slightly when he saw me. “Miss Sinclair,” he greeted softly, opening the car door.

“Thank you, Carl,” I murmured, sliding inside.

The warmth hit me instantly, the scent of leather and faint scent from the air freshener grounding me. As the door shut, the world outside muffled into a distant hum.

I exhaled. My reflection in the window looked both foreign and familiar. A woman who had fought and survived, but also one who carried shadows beneath her eyes.

Carl pulled into traffic. “Straight home, Miss?”

“Yes,” I said, though part of me wanted to drive until the roads ended.

As the city rolled by, brick buildings, snow-dusted sidewalks, the glow of shop windows, I thought about Jennifer.

About the way her face had crumpled when the sentence dropped. About the silence that wrapped her once-loud presence.

And I thought about myself, sitting there, unmoving, unflinching.

Relief, yes. But also grief. Because punishment didn’t undo pain. Justice didn’t erase history. And healing, healing was its own trial, one that never ended in a gavel’s fall.

My phone buzzed again, persistent. Mike’s name glowed on the screen.

This time, I didn’t even look twice. I turned the device face down on the seat, letting it vibrate into nothingness.

Outside, the snow kept falling, covering the city in a fragile, temporary silence.