The air in the courthouse the next morning felt denser, heavier, as if truth itself had been dragged through molasses. Protesters outside had doubled; their signs screamed: PROTECT ELLA. JAIL BLACKWELL. The hashtags flashing on reporters' tablets cut sharper than chants: #CarterConfession, #BlackwellFraud, #TrustElla.
I walked in between Ethan and a bodyguard, spine stiff, face forward. My hands ached from clenching. Don't show fear. Don't give them the angle.
Inside, the courtroom brimmed with heat and eyes. Daniel sat smug at counsel's table, Tara beside him, cream blazer immaculate, chain at her throat shining like a trophy. Adrian sat across the aisle, impassive, stone-carved. TRO kept him anchored—no touch, no word, no direct shield.
But when I caught his gaze, it was steel and fire all at once. A silent tether. Rule Four. Trust no one but me.
The judge cracked her gavel. "Ms. Carter, please return to the stand."
My knees wobbled but held. The oath tasted bitter the second time around.
Daniel's lawyer approached with predatory grace. "Ms. Carter. Yesterday you denied that the recordings and video were genuine. Today, we ask you to clarify your knowledge of Mr. Blackwell's business practices. Did he ever discuss non-public financial information with you?"
"No," I said firmly.
Her brow arched. "Never?"
"Never."
She paced. "And yet, trades in Blackwell's portfolio align suspiciously with confidential data—data you had access to, Ms. Carter. Orientation slides. Internal briefings. Emails copied to interns. Are you asking this court to believe you never repeated anything you saw to Mr. Blackwell?"
The room buzzed. My throat locked.
Before panic swallowed me, Adrian shifted slightly in his chair. Just one movement: his pen tapping the table twice.
Two taps. Two words. Don't break.
Air filled my lungs again. "Yes," I said. "That's exactly what I'm saying."
The lawyer's smile thinned. "Ms. Carter, is it true you were in Mr. Blackwell's office when market rumors were discussed?"
"Yes, but I didn't—"
"Just yes or no."
"Yes."
"And afterward, trades occurred in alignment with those rumors?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know, or you refuse to admit?"
Heat crawled up my spine. "I don't know. I'm an intern. I don't make trades. I don't approve them. I don't even see them."
Murmurs rippled. Some nods. Some scowls.
Then Tara took the stand again. Her smile was martyrdom painted pretty.
"I only came forward because I care about Ella," she said sweetly. "She told me she was afraid. She told me she couldn't say no. And she mentioned hearing numbers—earnings forecasts—straight from Adrian Blackwell."
Gasps. Pens flew.
I shot up. "That's a lie—"
The judge barked, "Order."
Tara glanced at me with wounded eyes. "I wanted to help her. But she's too scared to tell the truth."
My father rose dramatically. "Ella, sweetheart. Look me in the eye."
I refused.
"You don't have to protect him," he said, voice dripping paternal sorrow. "You don't have to choose a stranger's rules over your own blood."
My chest burned. I could hear whispers in the gallery: blood over rules… father vs. daughter…
And then—two more taps. Adrian's pen. Calm. Steady. Trust me.
I inhaled. My voice shook but rose. "I already chose. And I didn't choose you."
The room gasped. Reporters scribbled like mad. Hashtags were being born by the second: #SheChose, #NotAFather.
Daniel's mask cracked. For a blink, I saw raw fury before he smoothed it away.
Adrian's lawyer seized the moment. "Your Honor, we move to compel forensic review of these so-called financial records. Already, our team has flagged impossible timestamps, market holidays where trades allegedly occurred, and misaligned fonts inconsistent with Blackwell's systems."
The judge leaned forward. "Submit the analysis by tomorrow. Until then, the records remain provisional."
Daniel's lawyer tried to object, but the judge shut her down. "Enough. We will not convict on smoke and mirrors."
Recess. The hallway was chaos. Reporters swarmed, cameras hungry. I tried to keep my head high, but inside I shook.
Ethan pulled me aside, whispering fast. "Good hit. You turned it back on him. Social's split—half screaming fraud, half calling you brave. But it bought us time."
Time. That was all we ever seemed to buy.
I caught sight of Tara across the hall, whispering to my father, her smile cracked at the edges now. She saw me watching. Her lips shaped words without sound: You'll regret it.
My blood chilled.
Back in the courtroom, the judge returned with a new order. "Given the gravity of these accusations, tomorrow we will hear final witness testimony. The restraining order remains in effect until then."
My father stood smoothly. "Your Honor, the final witness will be decisive."
The judge nodded. "Very well."
He smiled, eyes locking on mine. "Tomorrow, Ella will see the truth for herself."
A ripple swept the room. Confusion. Anticipation.
Ethan whispered in my ear, "He has another card. Not Tara. Someone else."
My stomach dropped. "Who?"
Across the aisle, Adrian's jaw tightened. For the first time, I saw a flicker of something I'd never seen on him before. Not fear—no, he didn't fear.
Recognition.
He knew who was coming.
And whatever it was, it was worse than Tara, worse than fakes, worse than files.