The prosecutor straightened his tie, his eyes flickering briefly toward Dante. It wasn't unusual by now—most of the courtroom knew who Dante Montgomery was, though no one dared acknowledge it aloud. Dante's mere presence shifted the balance of the room, a reminder of power outside the law.
At Dante's subtle nod, the prosecutor gestured to the bailiff, who opened the side door. A young woman entered, blonde hair tucked behind her ears, her steps hesitant and small. Her hands clenched together tightly, the knuckles pale as if she was holding herself together by force.
Anastasia's chest tightened at the sight of her. The woman looked fragile, not just physically, but like someone who had lived with fear pressed against her skin for too long. She couldn't even glance toward Rogers, who sat shackled at the defense table.
