The courtroom smelled like old paper, polished wood, and restrained breath.
That was the first thing I noticed when I stepped inside that morning, the air itself felt held back, as though even oxygen knew better than to move freely in a place like this. The benches creaked beneath shifting bodies, lawyers whispered in corners, and the low hum of murmurs wrapped around the room like a living thing.
Damian sat a few feet away from me, dressed in neutral colors that made him look smaller than he was. Not weak, just reduced. Like a man stripped of context. His hands were folded tightly in his lap, his jaw clenched, eyes forward.
He didn't look at me.
I wasn't sure if that hurt more than if he had.
Amanda sat beside me, spine straight, expression controlled. The version of her that entered this courtroom wasn't my friend, wasn't a grieving sister, wasn't a woman chasing truth. She was a lawyer now. Precise. Sharp. Prepared.
I held onto that thought like a rope.
The judge entered, and everyone rose.
The sound of benches scraping against the floor echoed sharply, then died as we sat again. Silence followed, thick, expectant, fragile.
The court was officially in session.
My heart started pounding so loudly I wondered if anyone else could hear it.
Amanda stood when it was time. I watched her walk forward, heels clicking softly against the floor, and something about the calmness in her movements made my chest ache. She looked like someone who believed in systems. Like someone who still thought truth mattered.
"Your Honor," she began, voice steady, "the defense would like to submit new evidence."
A ripple moved through the courtroom.
I felt it, an invisible wave of attention shifting direction.
Amanda turned slightly, gesturing toward the screen. "This footage was retrieved from a dash camera belonging to a vehicle parked within visible range of the crime scene on the night of the incident."
The prosecutor's head snapped up.
Whispers followed immediately.
I clasped my hands together so tightly my fingers hurt.
Amanda continued, unshaken. "The footage shows the defendant, Damian,"
She paused, deliberate.
"with another individual, alive, at the time the murder was alleged to have taken place."
The screen flickered.
Then the video played.
Gasps.
I heard them clearly. Sharp intakes of breath, chairs shifting, people leaning forward. The grainy footage filled the screen, night vision tinted everything in muted green and gray.
There he was.
Damian.
And her.
I felt my stomach drop even though I had already seen it.
The angle wasn't flattering. Nothing was hidden. Their bodies close. Too close. His hand on her waist. Her head tilted up toward him.
Someone whispered loudly, "That's his wife's husband?"
Another voice followed, judgmental and amused. "Cheating and still playing victim."
I swallowed hard.
My chest burned.
The footage continued. Them walking further into the corner. Kissing. Pressed against the shadows.
I forced myself not to look away.
This wasn't about me.
This wasn't about betrayal.
This was about time.
About where he was.
About where he wasn't.
Amanda spoke again. "As the court can clearly see, the defendant was engaged elsewhere at the exact time the victim was killed."
The judge leaned forward.
My breath hitched.
The video froze at the timestamp.
The judge nodded slowly. "This establishes an alibi."
The words rang in my ears.
An alibi.
Hope surged so fast it scared me.
A ripple of murmurs followed, different now. Less judgment. More calculation.
The prosecutor stood abruptly. "Your Honor, the footage does not show the defendant exiting the location."
Amanda responded immediately. "The absence of exit footage does not negate presence at the time of death."
The judge raised a hand.
Silence returned.
He studied the screen again. Long. Thoughtful.
Then he spoke.
"The evidence suggests the defendant could not have been at the crime scene at the time of death."
I felt my vision blur.
Damian finally turned and looked at me.
For the first time in weeks, something like relief crossed his face.
My hands started shaking.
The judge continued, "This court will adjourn until tomorrow to review the evidence and conclude proceedings."
The gavel struck.
Just like that.
Tomorrow.
Hope settled in my chest like a fragile glass ornament.
Outside the courtroom, people talked openly now. Journalists scribbled notes. Lawyers argued strategy. Even strangers looked at me differently, curious, uncertain.
Amanda squeezed my hand. "We're close."
I nodded, unable to speak.
That night, hope followed me home.
It sat beside me on the bed.
It breathed with me.
It whispered maybe.
Maybe tomorrow he would walk out.
Maybe this nightmare would end.
Maybe justice still existed.
But hope has a way of lying gently.
The next morning, the courtroom felt different.
Colder.
Sharper.
I felt it the moment I stepped inside, a tightening beneath my ribs, a quiet warning crawling up my spine. My eyes scanned the room automatically.
Something was wrong.
Amanda noticed it too. Her brows knit together as she checked her notes again. "The judge isn't here yet."
When the doors finally opened, it wasn't the same man who walked in.
The face was different.
New.
Unfamiliar.
A hush fell instantly.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
The bailiff announced the name, and the sound echoed like a crack through glass.
Amanda's hand tightened around mine.
"This isn't right," she whispered.
The new judge took his seat with ease, too much ease. He didn't study the room. Didn't scan the faces. Didn't ask questions.
He already knew how this would end.
My stomach churned.
Proceedings resumed, but the air had shifted. The way the judge leaned back, fingers steepled. The way his eyes skimmed over Amanda without interest.
When she rose to speak again, something in her tone had changed. Still strong, but now edged with urgency.
She presented the evidence again.
The dashcam footage replayed.
The same gasps. The same whispers.
But this time, the judge didn't lean forward.
He leaned back.
When the prosecutor objected, the judge allowed him to speak uninterrupted.
"Your Honor," the prosecutor said, "the footage fails to prove the defendant exited the location alive after the timestamp."
I felt my nails dig into my palms.
Amanda responded sharply. "That does not invalidate the alibi."
The judge raised a hand.
I held my breath.
He spoke slowly. Carefully. As though choosing each word for impact.
"The absence of exit footage means the possibility remains that the defendant returned to the scene."
My heart slammed violently against my ribs.
Amanda stepped forward. "With respect, Your Honor,"
"The evidence is inconclusive," he cut in.
A murmur rose.
"Inconclusive?" I whispered.
The judge's gavel struck once.
"This court finds that the defense has failed to establish innocence beyond reasonable doubt."
No.
My ears rang.
"The defendant is hereby sentenced to twenty-five years in prison."
The room exploded.
Shouts. Cries. Chairs scraping violently. Someone yelled, "This is unfair!"
I stood abruptly, fury tearing through me. "You can't, this isn't,"
Amanda grabbed me.
"Jade!" she hissed, wrapping her arms around my waist as I struggled forward.
Damian was being restrained now, guards pulling him back as he shouted my name.
"Jade!"
My scream ripped out of me, raw and broken.
"This is wrong! You're wrong!"
The gavel struck again.
Order. Order.
My body shook violently in Amanda's hold.
As they dragged Damian away, I caught a movement from the corner of the room.
A woman.
Sitting alone.
Her posture relaxed.
Face hidden in shadow.
And she was smiling.
Not wide.
Not openly.
Just enough.
Enough to haunt me.
Enough to tell me
This was never about justice.
And whoever is behind this had already won.