Hell Hath No Fury (ReWrite)

Diagnosis of Deceit

The courtroom was suffocating. The air felt thick, as if the weight of everyone's eyes was pressing into me, sinking deep into my bones. I could hear the polished wood of the benches creaking as people shifted in their seats, their whispers low but sharp, cutting through the silence. They weren't just here for justice—they were here for a show. The Monroe trial had become their spectacle, and I was the main act.

Everywhere I looked, I could feel the eyes of the reporters, their fingers poised over keyboards, waiting for me to slip up. Their cameras were trained on me, catching every twitch, every breath. Beyond these walls, the media painted their version of me—a woman who either schemed her way into Jonathan's life for money or a helpless victim. Neither was true, but it didn't matter. The country was watching, and everyone had an opinion. Did I marry him for his fortune? Was I lying about who I really was?

Outside, they debated it like some kind of twisted drama. Headlines speculated about my motives. Online forums buzzed with people dissecting every piece of evidence, convinced they knew the truth. Some thought I was a victim, trapped in a marriage I couldn't escape. Others saw me as an opportunist, playing the long game until I could get everything after Jonathan's death.

But none of them really knew. None of them understood what it was like inside that house, inside that marriage.

I glanced at the reporters again, their faces eager, waiting for today's revelations. They knew this case was more than just a trial. It was about setting a precedent—for me, for women like me, for how the public judged a woman who stood up and said she'd had enough. They would twist every word to fit whatever story sold best. The tension in the room only made it worse. Everyone here—journalists, analysts, even the sketch artists—was waiting for me to unravel.

That empty seat where Jonathan should have been—it haunted me. His death meant he wasn't here physically, but his presence filled the room anyway. Every word said, every piece of evidence introduced, was shaped by him, even from beyond the grave. He was the ghost that lingered over all of this.

But it was my story on trial, not his. And the pressure, the expectations, were crushing me.

The prosecutor was ready. The defense, too. Today felt heavier, like something was about to break.

The air in the courtroom felt heavier today, as if the walls themselves were bearing witness to the unraveling of my past. My hands rested on my lap, fingers entwined, knuckles white. I tried to still my breathing, but each exhale felt jagged, torn from a chest that had held too much for too long. This was the moment I dreaded—the moment when the pieces of my life, the ones I had fought so hard to keep hidden, would be laid bare for all to see.

Today, it wasn't just about Jonathan. It wasn't about the years of control, the manipulation, the fear. Today, they would be pulling apart the pieces of me—the me I had tried to hold onto through everything. They'd talk about the one thing Jonathan couldn't quite control, no matter how hard he tried: my desire for an education. And how even that had become another battleground in our marriage.

Elaine had warned me. She told me this would be brutal, that the prosecution would twist my ambitions, make it look like I was more interested in building a life for myself than being the obedient wife Jonathan wanted. And then, there was the pregnancy—the miscarriage. The loss that still left a hollow ache inside me, one I hadn't quite learned to live with.

The gavel struck, sharp and commanding, bringing the room to order. But even through the noise, I could feel the eyes of the jury on me, their curiosity palpable. They didn't see a woman fighting to survive; they saw someone they couldn't quite figure out. They couldn't understand why I stayed, why I wanted more.