“You’re going to want to step back,” I said.
He blinked.
Not because I had threatened him.
Because I hadn’t.
Marcus knew yelling.
He knew crying.
He knew bargaining.
He knew women throwing wine, reporters shouting questions, board members begging for another quarter.
But calm scared him.
Calm meant information.
And information was the only thing Marcus Vale respected.
His lead attorney, Bennett Ashford, rose from the defense table with a face like polished stone.
“Your Honor, may the record reflect that Mrs. Vale is refusing medical assistance and attempting to dramatize a minor contact incident?”
A minor contact incident.
The phrase floated through the room like poison dressed in silk.
My attorney, Claire Donnelly, stood so fast her chair struck the railing behind her.
“Objection. Counsel is characterizing an assault on a pregnant woman as—”
“Sit down, Ms. Donnelly,” Judge Whitmore said.
Claire froze.
So did I.
