I give the security guard a broad smile, and he lets me through. I’m nauseous with nerves, feeling like I may be sick, but I can’t miss today for anything, not when it’s one of my last chances of seeing Ian. I’d risk getting caught for this opportunity, which is exactly what I do as I slink inside with the rest of the crowd after being searched and take a seat in the gallery behind a tall man at the back.
The defense attorney is already at his place. The prosecutor enters with a stack of files and a briefcase. According to the media, she’s a lioness in court, but in this trial, she doesn’t have to go for the kill. Ian already confessed. Delivering the verdict is just a matter of formality. Every news channel is questioning why Ian didn’t make a deal. What they can’t know is that he did. He made a deal for my freedom, which left him with no room for negotiation for himself. The time he’ll be sentenced to serve depends on how sympathetic the judge is to the mitigating factors of his case. At least that’s what’s said in the news. Legal reporters reckon the minimum he’ll get is two life sentences.
A murmur runs through the crowd as the door in the back of the room opens. I grip the back of the bench in front of me. A tall, imposing form fills the frame. Excited whispers rise as a man in an orange jumpsuit enters. His broad shoulders are square and his back straight. His features are set in hard lines, but the light shining in his brown eyes is mocking. His rebellious haircut is gone, his hair shaved short. His hands are handcuffed in front of him.
Proud and arrogant, the most wanted man on the continent enters the courtroom. Chains rattle when he crosses the floor with small steps to take his place next to his defense attorney. The sight of him twists invisible chains around my heart and strangles the breath from my lungs. I don’t give in to those feelings of hopelessness. He’s too magnificent, too big for pity. He looks over the courtroom like the incredible specimen he is, untamable, even in chains.
Chapter 19
Ian
The courtroom is packed. All eyes are trained on me. I sent a message to Damian via his lawyer, telling him not to come. It’s better my family is kept out of the spectacle. It’s bad enough they have to deal with the media attention. What I never wanted for them happens as our family history is dissected in every printed and online newspaper and magazine.
The articles had already started when my identity was first discovered. It was bad enough then, but it’s nothing compared to the present. Peters showed me what’s been published. The public has always loved a rags to riches story. Damian is being made out to be some kind of prince and Zoe as South Africa’s own Cinderella. Leon, with his false history of backpacking, has come off the lightest. I’ve gathered quite a following, most of those being eligible women who want to marry me and have my babies.
Have my babies. Fuck. What must Cas think of that? My only consolation is that she must be well over the border by now.
The sheriff calls, “All rise.”
A buzz runs through the crowd as everyone gets to their feet. The judge makes his appearance, wearing the customary black robe. He calls for order as he takes his seat on the bench.
“How have they been treating you?” Peters asks in a hushed voice.
“Well.” Surprisingly.
“I appealed the decision not to let you attend your trial in civilian clothes,” he says from under his breath. “Hopefully, you’ll wear a suit tomorrow. Even if you’ve admitted guilt, this is highly irregular.” He waves at my prison clothes.
Nothing about my case is regular, and I doubt a suit is going to win me some slack, but Peters is of a different opinion. To him, the clothes maketh the man in all circumstances.
The proceedings are set in motion. The prosecutor gets to deliver her opening speech first. She cuts me a cold look as she crosses the floor to address the judge. I get as comfortable as I can on the hard, wooden chair. It’s going to be a long day.
Her performance is good. She lists my crimes and the damages I’ve caused to companies and individuals, as well as the costs the State has incurred in investigations. She’s using hard facts, but also elicits emotions of injustice and unfairness. Fucking brilliant. By the end of that speech, everyone with a heart must hate me.
Peters’s opening statement focuses on corruption within the police force and how those circumstances turned a thief into a murderer. The public hates crime, but they hate corruption more. That’s the angle Peters goes for. The public already appears divided.
I won’t be put on the stand. Since I’ve already given my statement, testimony isn’t necessary. For now, my job is to keep my mouth shut, my eyes down, and act tormented. It’s just a great, big show. We may as well fast forward to the verdict and spare everyone the agony of sitting through the formalities for days, but procedures have to be followed. That’s how the law works. I grit my teeth and bear what I’ve signed up for.
At lunchtime, the court adjourns. I stand like I’m ordered to and move when I’m told to. That’s when I see her—a redhead sitting in the backrow on the left. I only spot her because the tall guy in front of her got up and is moving outside with the other spectators. My heart jolts in my chest. Unable to help myself, I hold her gaze. She looks right back. The connection jabs straight into my soul. I feel it in a place where logic doesn’t exist. It comes from the inexplicable seat where hunches and premonitions are born.
I slow my pace. It’s her. It’s the way she holds herself, in the lift of her chin and the subtle dip of her shoulder. It’s in the slight quiver of her lips. It’s in the way my body takes notice, even in leg irons and a jumpsuit. I swear she’s the only woman I’ll ever get hard for again. She put a spell on me. She bewitched me from the moment I set eyes on her. Now I’ll suffer the consequences for the rest of my life. Gladly.
I shouldn’t draw attention to her by staring, but I can look away from her as little as I can stop loving her. The fact that she’s here and not miles away is a love declaration like no other. Greedily, I grab the offering. She’s only said it once, and this may be the last chance I’ll get. When this is over and they lock me away, I’ll never see that gorgeous face again.
The moment is as heavy as the one on the day when I stood in front of her hotel door in Pretoria and decided to steal her life. I regret nothing, not then and not now. I’ll give my freedom ten times over for her happiness. I’ll give my life. Anything.
Our gazes remain locked as I shuffle to the door. In my peripheral line of vision, Peters, who’s walking next to me, frowns. He follows the direction of my gaze. The guard waiting at the door says something. Peters replies. I hear nothing except the thumping of my heart in my chest. In a crowd of people, we’re isolated. Just her and me like it was always meant to be.
Every step I take tears a hole in my soul. It’s both the longest and shortest walk of my life, long because time has frozen and too short because it can never be enough. Another three seconds, and I’ll be at the door. Her eyes are the wrong color, but the message in them is right. Even as distress is painted over her face, her eyes offer me serenity. Her lips part. They’re painted a bright shade of plum, my favorite color on her.
I love you, she mouths.