The temporary holding room felt cold and suffocating. Behind the glass wall, police officers moved back and forth. They had just finished examining the crime scene repeatedly, with meticulous care, as if the slightest negligence could let the truth slip through their grasp.
Amara was questioned again. Since the incident, she had not even been allowed to return home. Her baby was still separated from her.
"Why don't you believe me at all? Did they all testify that I was the one who killed him? Did they see it?" Amara snapped, driven by anger.
Her voice trembled—not only from rage, but from exhaustion. Her eyes were swollen, her face pale, her body not yet fully recovered after giving birth.
"We are gathering as much information as possible, starting from the statements of all your household staff, the sequence of events before the incident, to the physical evidence we obtained. Everything points to you—"
"How is that even possible? I already told you, I only went downstairs to get a drink of water!"
Amara's voice rose. Her hands clenched, holding back the pain in her abdomen that had yet to fully heal.
"But from your phone records, we found messages indicating that the victim said he was going to come to your house."
"Yes, he did say he was coming. But there's no way I had the strength to kill someone. Can't you see? I had just given birth the day before!"
The room suddenly fell silent. Several officers exchanged glances. No one responded right away.
"We're sorry, ma'am. You don't have strong evidence to refute this."
The words fell like a hammer. Merciless.
Amara swallowed hard. Her chest felt tight.
"I have to go home and see my baby. Vero is alone. He still needs his mother. I can't end up here because of something I didn't do. Please, let me go home," Amara pleaded, looking at them one by one.
There was no empathy on their faces. Only procedure.
"We're sorry, Mrs. Amara. We can't grant that request."
Everything collapsed at that very moment.
On another occasion, Richard was finally allowed to see Amara. He came as a witness. He had already given additional statements—whatever they were, Amara never knew.
They had hired lawyers. The trial was only a matter of time.
"You need to stay calm, Amara. I'm always on your side," Richard said.
Amara looked at him with reddened eyes.
"I just want to go home. I want to hold my child." Tears fell every time Amara mentioned Vero. "How is he at home? Is he drinking his milk? Does he cry a lot?"
"He's fine. The new nanny you chose is taking good care of him. Last night, he slept soundly. He also finished a lot of his milk."
The answer didn't comfort her. Instead, Amara lowered her head and cried even harder.
"I don't want to end up in prison. I'm not the one who killed him."
The sentence came out again. Over and over. Yet it still felt meaningless. Every housemaid in her home had given statements that worked against her. Every piece of evidence seemed to stand firmly against her.
"I'll do everything I can to get you out of here, Amara. We've hired so many lawyers—there's no way they can't fight for you," Richard said, gripping Amara's hand.
The grip felt cold.
"I have to get out of here."
"Yes, you will get out. I love you …."
Those words eased the tightness in her chest, at least a little—though Amara herself was no longer certain of anything.
When Richard finished seeing Amara, his father was already waiting in the car.
"Did you see her? How is she now?" Mr. Charlie asked.
"She's completely devastated." Richard took a few tissues from the dashboard and wiped his hands, which felt dirty. "We have to keep monitoring this case."
"You're right." Mr. Charlie turned to look at his son. "If she can't get out of there, will her business become yours?"
Richard fell silent for a moment.
"Do you want me to take over her business, Daddy?"
"She can't do anything anymore."
Richard opened the window and tossed the tissues outside. His expression hardened.
"I have to persuade her first, because the business we run is still under her name," Richard said coldly.
When the trial arrived, for the first time in her life, Amara sat in front of the judge—not as a witness, but as the alleged perpetrator responsible for her own uncle's death.
The courtroom felt oppressive. People's stares pierced her from every direction.
Her lawyers tried to defend her. Amara gave her testimony in a weak voice. Her face was pale as she listened to the arguments that would decide the course of her life.
The ceiling was high, making Amara feel small and alone.
The wooden bench she sat on was hard, her back aching from sitting too long. Her hands trembled—not only from nerves, but because her body had not fully recovered after giving birth.
All eyes were on her. Some were curious, some judgmental, others seemed already convinced of her guilt.
The judge looked at Amara from behind the tall bench.
"Ms. Amara Gabrielle, did you know the victim?"
"Yes, Your Honor. He was my uncle."
Her voice was soft, nearly choking. Every word felt heavy as it left her lips.
"Is it true that on the night of the incident, you were at home when the victim arrived?"
"Yes … but I didn't meet him. I only went downstairs briefly to get a drink of water."
Amara remembered that night—the quiet house, her exhausted body, her mind focused only on her baby.
"However, several witnesses stated that they saw you downstairs for quite some time. Is that statement true?"
Amara shook her head quickly. Her chest tightened.
"They're lying. I was only there briefly."
The judge opened the file in front of him. The sound of turning pages echoed clearly in the silent courtroom.
"You stated that you did not have the strength to commit the act because you had just given birth. Do you have medical evidence stating that you were completely unable to move on that night?"
The question made Amara fall silent. Her tongue felt stiff. She knew the answer.
"No … but my condition had not fully recovered."
"You also cannot present a witness who saw you return to your bedroom after getting the drink, correct?"
"Yes … there isn't one."
The words felt like a confession, even though that wasn't what she meant. The judge nodded slowly, as if everything had already been made clear.
"Based on the testimony of the witnesses, the communication history between you and the victim, and the absence of evidence supporting your alibi, the panel concludes that you were at the scene at the time the incident occurred."
Tears fell from Amara's eyes uncontrollably. Her chest throbbed with pain. None of her explanations ever seemed enough.
"Your Honor, I swear it wasn't me who killed him …"
The sentence came out as a final plea. As a hope that was nearly extinguished.
The judge did not raise his voice. His expression remained flat.
"The court rules based on facts presented in the trial, not on feelings."
He picked up the small gavel in front of him.
"Therefore, the panel of judges declares the defendant, Amara Gabrielle, legally and convincingly guilty."
The gavel struck.
The sound rang loudly in Amara's ears. In an instant, the world she knew collapsed. The only thing left in her mind was Vero Julian Hart—her beloved son, the baby she had only been able to hold for two days after his birth.
After the trial, people who didn't know her looked indifferent. Some even appeared proud of having succeeded in the case they handled—as if Amara truly were guilty.
From a distance, Amara saw Richard, her father-in-law, and her mother-in-law. Nearly all of her family had come. Yet in this situation, why did Richard do nothing? He didn't even show sadness or disappointment after his wife was declared guilty.
"I hope this is just my feeling, Richard. You wouldn't stop caring about me just because I've become a prisoner, right?" Amara murmured.