Chapter 143

Chapter 143
Alina's POV

By the third day after the complaint was filed, things had spiraled beyond anything I could bear.

Adams hadn't let the matter stay on paper. He'd arranged for reporters to trail the story, deployed a PR team to keep it churning across every platform, and even reached out to several heavyweight figures within the judicial system, pushing the court to move several times faster than the normal process would allow.

That morning, I'd barely stepped into my office when I saw the notice sitting on my desk. Court personnel would come by that afternoon to collect evidence, requiring my cooperation in an interview as the plaintiff.

I stood at my desk holding the notice, a numbness spreading from my chest, tracing along my veins all the way to my fingertips.

Out in the corridor, the staff murmured to one another in lowered voices. Now and then someone would pass my door, their gaze sweeping toward me through the glass before darting quickly away.

I set the notice down and walked to the window. Down below, several vehicles bearing news media logos were already parked outside. A man with a camera on his shoulder stood at the entrance to the lobby, adjusting his equipment. Adams had turned this into a public event, a spectacle that demanded an audience. He didn't just want to win the case—he wanted Lowell nailed to the wall in front of every camera.

And I was the plaintiff standing before those cameras, the sharpest blade Adams had to drive into Lowell.

I turned and walked out of my office, heading down the corridor toward the elevators. I didn't return to my desk, and I didn't go to see Adams. I stepped straight into the elevator, pressed the button for the top floor, then strode down the hallway and shut myself inside the lounge.

The moment the lock clicked into place, I leaned back against the door and closed my eyes. In the silence of the room, the sound of my own heartbeat was startlingly clear.

I couldn't go out to face those people from the court. If they asked me directly for the specific details of the allegations—asked whether Lowell Vadalishi had ever unlawfully detained me, whether he had ever subjected me to psychological control, whether the transaction at the auction had gone against my will—what could I possibly say? If I told the truth, I'd be denying everything in the complaint. If I followed Adams's script, I'd be plunging a knife into Lowell with my own hands.

I couldn't do either.

Footsteps approached beyond the door, followed by a knock. "Miss Alina, the court personnel have arrived. Mr. Adams asks that you come down."

I didn't answer. The knock came again, a little harder this time. "Miss Alina?"

"I'm not feeling well. I can't see anyone today. Tell them to come back another day."

The silence outside stretched for a few seconds, then footsteps retreated and the corridor fell quiet again. I was just about to go into the lounge's washroom to splash water on my face when the sound returned.

This time the footsteps carried a weight to them, the sound of leather shoes pressing into the carpet reaching me through the door. I didn't need to think twice—it was Adams.

Before I could react, I heard the metallic scrape of a key sliding into the lock. The handle turned, and the door was pushed open from the outside.

Adams stood in the doorway, two men in black suits behind him, one of them carrying a briefcase.

"Come down with me." His gaze settled on me, his tone level, betraying little emotion. "The court's people are waiting downstairs. As the plaintiff, you need to be present."

"I told you I'm not feeling well." I didn't move from where I stood. "I'm not up to it today. Have them come back another day."

Adams didn't respond. He simply tilted his head slightly toward the men behind him. One of them stepped forward, reached out, and gripped my arm, steering me toward the door.

The corner of Adams's mouth curved faintly. "Let's go, Alina. Don't keep our guests waiting too long."

He came over and personally dragged me out the door, hauling me down to the reception room.

Three people were seated inside. A middle-aged man in a dark suit sat on one side of the long table, a folder spread open before him. Beside him sat a young woman holding a voice recorder, apparently an assistant. Next to her was a man with graying hair, his head bent over the materials in his hands. At the sound of me entering, all three sets of eyes turned toward me at once.

Adams pulled out a chair for me. I stood there, looking at the three of them, then slowly sat down.

The lights in the reception room were bright, sharp enough to make every word on the documents legible. I could see a copy of the complaint laid open on the table, my name printed in the plaintiff's column.

"Miss Alina, we're personnel assigned by the court. We've come today to verify some of the details in your complaint, so the case can proceed to trial." The man in the middle spoke, his voice steady. "Are you willing to cooperate with us?"

I said nothing. The silence spread through the room for a few seconds. Then I lifted my head and looked into his eyes. "I don't remember it very clearly."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, the things written in the complaint—some of the details, I can't remember clearly. My mental state wasn't good during that time. A lot of it is a blur."

The middle-aged man glanced down at the folder in his hands, then looked back up at me, his tone shifting slightly. "But the complaint states it plainly: 'Lowell Vadalishi removed the plaintiff from the auction premises through unlawful means, and over the following months subjected the plaintiff to psychological control and physical confinement.' Is this content you personally confirmed?"

"That was written by the lawyer." I clenched my teeth, my mind sluggish, unwilling to elaborate. "I signed it, but I didn't read it carefully at the time."

The room went quiet for an instant.

The young woman beside the middle-aged man wrote something in her notebook. The gray-haired man on the other side lifted his eyes to look at me.

"And regarding the part about 'psychological control,'" the middle-aged man continued, "can you provide any specific examples? For instance, did he ever restrict your freedom of movement? Did he ever, through words or actions, cause you to feel fear or dependence?"

I clenched the fingers resting on my knees, knuckles going white, nails digging into my palms. I knew that the moment I said "yes," these three people would write on their report that the plaintiff's statement is consistent with the complaint, and this testimony would become official material in court.

But when I opened my mouth, the words that came out were: "I feel like he treated me well."

"He saved me." I lowered my eyes to the complaint spread open on the table, the text glaringly clear under the lights. "If he hadn't taken me away from the auction that night, I don't know where I'd be now. He stayed with me in the hospital, cooked for me, took a bullet for me. He never restricted my freedom—whenever I wanted to leave, he never once stopped me."

"The things written in the complaint—I can't remember them clearly."

The room was silent for several seconds. Across the long table, the three exchanged glances. The middle-aged man closed the folder in front of him, slid his pen back into his breast pocket, then stood. "All right. That concludes today's interview. If there's anything that needs to be added, we'll be in touch again."

I kept my head down. Adams stood right beside me, and I could feel the pressure and the low, dark energy radiating off him.

The court personnel left, the glass door sliding shut behind them. Their footsteps faded down the corridor, and the reception room fell quiet once more.

I rose from the chair and turned to leave. Before my hand could even touch the door handle, my arm was seized in a violent grip.

Adams's hand clamped around my upper arm, the force strong enough to crush the bone, and wrenched me around to face him. Before I could react, a slap landed across my face.

Crack—!

As the sharp blow struck, my vision went black for an instant, my whole face whipping to the side. My cheek burned, my ears rang, and the taste of iron spread from the corner of my mouth.

I clenched my teeth and made no sound. Before I could recover from the first blow, another vicious slap came down.

The taste of blood in my mouth grew stronger.

Adams said not a word. He walked past me and out of the reception room, leaving the scent of tobacco lingering in the air.

I stood where I was and raised a hand to touch my numbed face. My fingers brushed the corner of my mouth, and when I looked, a faint smear of blood clung to my fingertip.