Rivera clicked to another photo. Valentina in her wedding dress during the final fitting. Radiant. Doomed.
"That was taken three days before you discovered the truth," Rivera said. "Tell us about that moment. The exact moment you realized."
Valentina's breathing went shallow. I leaned forward, every muscle tense, wanting to burst through that glass and stop this.
"I saw the email," she began, voice shaking now. "Miguel Cordero confirming weapons shipments. Two hundred AR-15 rifles. Forty kilograms of Semtex." She closed her eyes. "I remember thinking it had to be a mistake. That there was some explanation. Because the man I was going to marry couldn't be—"
Her voice broke completely.
The prosecutor waited. Professional. Patient. Brutal.
"He couldn't be running weapons for cartels," Valentina finished, tears streaming now. "Couldn't be using me as cover for crimes that were getting people killed. But he was. And my father was helping him. And I was just… I was just the pretty trophy that made them both look legitimate."
She was sobbing now, shoulders shaking, years of trauma pouring out in that sterile room while strangers took notes.
I couldn't take it anymore.
I stood, ready to end this session myself, but Morris stepped into the doorway.
"She needs to get this out," Morris said quietly. "This is part of her healing, not just testimony."
"She's falling apart—"
"She's processing. Let her."
Through the glass, Rivera was offering Valentina tissues, water, and a break. She shook her head, wiped her eyes with trembling hands.
"I'm okay," she said, voice raw. "Let's continue."
They kept her another two hours. Each answer scraped her rawer than the last.
When they finally released her, she was hollowed out in a way that frightened me. I got her to the car, back to the safe house, into the scalding shower she needed before she could stand to be touched. Then I held her on the couch while she shook through the aftershocks, and I said nothing, because there was nothing to say that would undo what she'd relived..
"I kept seeing his face," she whispered in to my chest. "Richard's face when I said I'd marry him. He looked so happy. And I believed it was real." She turned to look at me. "How could I have been so stupid?"
"You weren't stupid. You were trusting. There's a difference."
"I should have seen the signs—"
"They were professionals at deception." I cupped her face, made her meet my eyes. "You survived, Valentina. You saw the truth, and you ran. That's not stupid. That's brave."
Fresh tears spilled. "I don't feel brave. I feel broken."
"You're not broken. You're healing." I kissed her forehead, her closed eyes, her trembling mouth. "And I'm here. Every step. I'm not going anywhere."
When the trembling had finally stopped and she lay curled against me in the dark, I asked the question I'd been turning over all day.
"Why are you doing this?" I kept my voice low. "Testifying. Reliving everything. We could have just run. Disappear."
She pulled back to look at me. "Because running means always looking over our shoulders. Always waiting for Marco to findus. Always afraid." Her hand found mine, interlaced our fingers. "I'm doing this so we can actually have a future. A real one. Where our children don't grow up in hiding."
Our children.
The words hit me like a physical blow.
"You think about that?" I asked carefully. "Our future. Kids."
"Every day." She managed a watery smile. "Especially when I'm sitting in that room destroying my father. I think about the life we're building. The family we could have. The peace we're fighting for." Her eyes held mine. "That's what gets me through it. Not revenge. You."
