The Promotion

Chapter Fifty-Four

Time moved painfully slowly.

Each second stretched as I paced the grand marble halls of the court, my heels echoing against the polished floor. My stomach fluttered violently, a nest of nerves twisting tighter with every step. Sitting still felt impossible—my body refused to cooperate, as though movement was the only thing keeping me from falling apart entirely.

"Louisa," Rebecca said gently, stepping into my path. "You need to breathe. You're working yourself up."

"How can I not?" I snapped, my voice cracking before I could stop it. "They cut me off. I barely scratched the surface of what he did to me. It felt like... like they didn't care. Like my voice didn't matter."

Rebecca's expression softened, but her tone remained steady—anchoring.
"They do care. The jury has far more than just your final outburst to consider. They heard Alexander. They heard me dismantle Charles' financial trail. They heard you. And Viv disappearing? That speaks volumes."

I stopped pacing, pressing my palms against my thighs as if grounding myself there. Rebecca looked confident—hopeful even—but fear still clung to me like a second skin.

I turned to Alexander.

His brows were drawn together, concern etched deeply across his face. When he caught my eye, he didn't say a word—he simply offered his hand.

I took it instantly.

His arm slipped around my shoulders, pulling me close. The warmth of him steadied my breathing just enough to keep me upright.

Then the court usher called for everyone to return.

A cold shiver ran straight through me.

Alexander squeezed my hand once more before letting go. Rebecca placed a reassuring palm against my shoulder.

This was it.

There was no rewinding, no correcting, no explaining further.

The decision had already been made.

⸻

The courtroom felt colder than before.

Everything replayed like a grim loop—the jury filing in, Charles entering under guard, his presence alone tightening my chest. I avoided looking at him, fixing my gaze instead on the desk in front of me.

The judge entered.
We rose.
We sat.

My heart pounded so violently I was convinced it might betray me.

The courtroom fell unnervingly silent.

It wasn't the respectful kind of quiet—it was heavy, oppressive, the kind that pressed against my eardrums until my own heartbeat sounded too loud. I could hear it then, thudding violently in my chest, each beat echoing like a countdown I couldn't stop.

Alexander's hand tightened around mine.

Not enough to hurt—just enough to remind me I wasn't alone.

The forewoman stood.

She didn't look at anyone. Not the judge. Not the jury. Certainly not me. Her gaze fixed somewhere distant, as if she had already stepped away from the weight of what she was about to say.

"Charles Moore," the court clerk said, his voice sharp and final. "Please stand."

I froze.

My breath caught halfway in, refusing to go further. I didn't turn toward Charles—I couldn't. Just knowing he was standing was enough to send a tremor through my spine.