The heavy scent of floor wax and stale air usually gives a courtroom the feeling of a mausoleum—a place where truth is buried under piles of legal motions and dispassionate jargon. But that morning, the air in Department 14 was charged with a different kind of electricity. It was the scent of a hunt.
I sat on the witness stand, my fingers white-knuckled as I gripped the polished oak edge. At seven months pregnant, my body felt like an anchor, heavy and vulnerable. Across the well of the court sat Marcus, the man I had promised to love until death. He looked impeccable in a charcoal-grey suit, the very image of a grieving, misunderstood husband. He had spent the last three years perfecting that mask. To the world, he was a philanthropist, a rising star in the tech sector, a man of “unimpeachable character.” To me, he was the architect of my agony.
The bailiff was mid-yawn, and the court reporter’s fingers were dancing a rhythmic staccato on her keys when the world suddenly tilted.
