The courthouse buzzed hotter than ever. The press swarm outside was thicker, headlines more poisonous: BLACKWELL FRAUD? CARTER PROMISES PROOF.
Inside, the judge's gavel cracked. "Mr. Carter, you may present your evidence."
Daniel rose, tailored and silver-tied, exuding gravitas. "Your Honor, this is not just about my daughter. It is about the integrity of markets. Mr. Blackwell has built his empire on manipulation. Today, we bring truth."
He gestured. His lawyer wheeled in boxes—literal boxes—of files. Cameras snapped.
"This," Daniel intoned, "is documentary proof of insider trading at Blackwell Capital. Emails, trades, timestamps. Clear as daylight."
The courtroom inhaled as one.
Adrian didn't move. Didn't blink. Only his jaw flexed once, then stilled.
Ethan whispered urgently behind me. "This is theater. Half those documents are probably forged, half cherry-picked. But the illusion—it'll play."
I felt sick. "Can we prove it's fake?"
"Not in five minutes."
Daniel's lawyer began reading excerpts. Private memo: expect earnings to miss by 3%. Trade placed one day before release. Profit: $22 million.
The crowd buzzed. The judge's brow furrowed.
My heart thudded. Is it true? Could it be?
No. Adrian wouldn't—would he?
I forced myself to look at him. He stood calm, hands folded, eyes forward. But when the fake email was read aloud, his gaze flicked briefly—to me. Just a breath.
And in that silent look, I read everything: It's a lie. Don't break.
Adrian's lawyer objected. "Your Honor, these so-called records have not been authenticated. They could come from anywhere."
Daniel's lawyer smirked. "They'll be authenticated. Subpoenas will follow. The court deserves to hear what Blackwell has hidden."
"Hidden?" Adrian's voice finally cut, low and clean. The room stilled.
"I've hidden nothing," he said. "Every filing, every quarterly, every disclosure is public. What Carter presents is noise—pages printed without provenance, designed to distract."
The judge raised a brow. "And yet, Mr. Blackwell, the appearance—"
"Appearance is Carter's only product," Adrian said. "He sells lies because truth bankrupted him."
Gasps. A stir of reporters scribbling furiously.
Daniel's mask cracked—just a hair.
During recess, I cornered Ethan in the corridor. "Tell me straight. Is there any chance those records—"
"No," he said firmly. "I've seen Blackwell's compliance. Ironclad. This is forged."
"Then why do I feel like we're losing?"
"Because lies scream louder than truth. But screaming fades. Proof stays."
I wanted to believe him. Needed to.
But across the hall, Daniel stood surrounded by cameras, Tara at his side like a loyal acolyte. His smile was gentle, paternal. "I only want to protect my daughter," he told the microphones. "And protect the market from predators."
The world was eating it up.
Back inside, Adrian's team demanded to examine the files. The judge allowed a partial review. Ethan bent over spreadsheets, fingers flying. He muttered under his breath: "Inconsistent formatting… fonts don't match era… here, look—this trade timestamp is impossible, market was closed."
He slid a page to Adrian's lawyer, who rose instantly. "Your Honor, we have already identified errors. These records are doctored."
Daniel's lawyer countered, smooth. "Minor clerical issues. The core remains."
The judge frowned. "Further review required. The evidence will remain under consideration."
My stomach sank. Not rejected. Not stricken. Hanging like a sword above Adrian's head.
As the session ended, reporters erupted into a frenzy: #BlackwellFraud trended within minutes. Stocks dipped. My phone buzzed with messages I couldn't read.
Outside the courthouse, a protest sign waved: PROTECT ELLA. JAIL BLACKWELL.
I wanted to scream. Instead, I walked stiffly beside Ethan, head high, pretending my world wasn't cracking.
Adrian followed, bodyguards flanking. TRO still kept us apart, but across the crowd his eyes locked on mine. Steel. Fire.
Don't break.
That night, in the hotel, exhaustion drowned me until a new ping pulled me awake.
A message.
From Tara.
T.B.: You think the tape hurt? Wait until you see what's in the files. Tomorrow, I testify again. And this time, I won't walk away without blood.
My hands shook.
Then another ping—unknown number.
Unknown:Choose blood over him, Ella. Tomorrow, you'll swear under oath. And if you don't say what we need—you'll lose more than your internship.
I froze. My father's words in digital ink.
And I knew: tomorrow, they wanted to put me back on the stand.