Court resumed the next morning under brighter lights, harsher lenses. The press benches were packed, hashtags already alive outside: #CarterConfession, #TBWitness, #TraitorTara. My chest burned just reading them on a scrolling ticker.
I sat stiff in the witness pew, Ethan at my side like a buffer. Adrian remained across the aisle, hands folded, posture still—a man caged by the restraining order but unbroken by it. His eyes didn't move to me, yet I felt them, like gravity.
"Call the witness," the judge said.
The bailiff opened the door. Tara walked in.
Her heels clicked sharp, her blonde hair gleaming under the fluorescents. She wore a cream blazer, understated jewelry, the delicate chain at her throat glinting like a signature. She looked like innocence wrapped in ambition.
I tasted bile.
"State your name for the record," the clerk prompted.
"Tara Bennett."
"And your connection to the parties?"
"I'm an intern at Blackwell Capital," she said smoothly, folding her hands. "I shared orientation with Ms. Carter." She glanced at me, smile sweet enough to rot teeth. "We became… close."
Liar.
Daniel's lawyer rose first. "Ms. Bennett, can you describe what you observed during your internship?"
Tara tilted her head, voice syrup-soft. "From the beginning, Ella was singled out. Private meetings with Mr. Blackwell. Long hours in his office. Locked doors."
My fists clenched. Locked doors?
"Objection," Adrian's lawyer snapped. "Speculative."
"Sustained," the judge said. "Stick to what you observed."
Tara adjusted, practiced. "I observed Ella being escorted to the CEO's office more than once. I observed her absence from group assignments. I overheard—" She paused delicately. "—conversations where she seemed… afraid."
The words slid through the room like poison.
"She told me," Tara continued, eyes wide with mock sympathy, "that she didn't feel she could say no. That she was scared of losing everything if she spoke out."
Gasps rustled. Reporters scribbled faster.
I shook my head violently. "I never—"
"Order," the judge barked.
Across the aisle, Adrian's jaw was a razor's edge. He still didn't look at me—TRO forbade even that much attention—but the sharp calm in his posture said enough. He would dismantle this.
His lawyer stood. "Ms. Bennett, you claim Ms. Carter confided in you. Can you produce any written record of these alleged statements?"
Tara's smile held. "No. It was private."
"Any texts? Emails? Notes?"
"No. She trusted me. Until she didn't." She let her gaze flick to me again, a wounded doe.
The lawyer paced. "And yet, within days of these alleged confessions, a DM from your initials—T.B.—was traced to the account that distributed doctored media. Care to explain?"
The room buzzed. Cameras leaned forward.
Tara's smile trembled just slightly. "Coincidence. T.B. could be anyone."
The lawyer pounced. "And the USB activity traced to a guest machine during orientation? Security footage shows a slim wrist with a chain bracelet identical to yours."
Daniel's lawyer objected. The judge frowned but allowed the record to stand.
Tara shifted, but her mask never slipped fully. "If someone used my workstation, I can't control that."
"Convenient," the lawyer said dryly.
While the lawyers sparred, my phone buzzed in my pocket—Ethan's doing, a live feed of social media reactions.
#TraitorTara had already begun trending.Of course it's the blonde with the chain.She's selling Ella out for a promotion.#ForbiddenGame plot twist: bestie betrays her.
I almost laughed, bitter and wild. The world could turn a trial into entertainment faster than truth.
Then Daniel himself rose, asking to question his "witness." The judge hesitated, then allowed it.
"Ms. Bennett," my father said, his voice dripping approval, "in your opinion, is my daughter safe in Adrian Blackwell's world?"
Tara clasped her hands tighter, eyes shining. "No. She's being used. Just like she told me. And I couldn't stay silent."
Her voice wavered at the edges, just enough to look human.
I wanted to scream.
Finally, Adrian's lawyer stood again, calm where I was fire. "One last question, Ms. Bennett. You testified that you're concerned for Ms. Carter's safety. And yet yesterday, you approached her hotel room alone, offering coffee, insisting she open the door. Why would you encourage a vulnerable young woman to break her CEO's security protocols if you feared she was in danger?"
The question landed like a blade.
Tara's mask cracked. Just for a second.
"I—I was trying to help her," she stammered. "She sounded scared—"
The lawyer leaned in. "Or were you trying to get her alone, without Blackwell's protection, so Carter's team could frame her?"
The courtroom erupted. Objections. Shouts. The judge hammered for order.
Tara's eyes darted to my father. His jaw was tight, but his hand stayed steady on the table.
Recess was called. Reporters exploded out the doors, hashtags mutating in real time.
Ethan guided me to the hall. My legs shook, fury and betrayal boiling. "She was supposed to be my friend," I whispered.
"She was never your friend," Ethan said. "She was his."
We turned the corner—and there she was, Tara, speaking softly to a camera crew, crocodile tears glinting. "…I only want what's best for Ella. She deserves freedom. Not fear."
My stomach turned.
Then she pulled something from her bag. A small black recorder. She held it up like a trophy.
"And tomorrow," she told the cameras, "I'll give the court proof she begged me for help."
The microphones surged forward. The crowd gasped.
Proof.
My chest went hollow. If she really had a recording—fabricated or not—it could destroy me.
Across the lobby, Adrian appeared flanked by his lawyer. He couldn't come near, not with the TRO, but his eyes found mine across the chaos.
Steel. Fire. Promise.
We'll break her.