He turns and walks back to his seat, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. Because he didn’t need to prove anything.
Just plant the doubt.
Chapter 33
Bastien Montclaire
Laurette has it handled—technically—butevil men never play by the rules. And I’ve never been one to sit in the bleachers.
The back doors of the gallery ease open, and I slip through unnoticed. No one turns or looks my way. My timing is perfect. I enter during a witness transition. All attention focuses on the well of the court, not the fringes.
I was here yesterday—back row and silent—cataloging every word and glance. Jon David worked the jury with smooth ease, his performance rehearsed down to his tone.
But today, I’m not here to watch.
Today, I’m here to rattle this motherfucker.
At the prosecution’s table, Laurette holds the room. Her posture is exemplary. Shoulders square, chin set, every paper aligned as if precision can hold the chaos at bay. She looks composed. She always does. But I know the tells—the muscle that jumps near her temple, the subtle tightness in her grip.
She’s holding the line. And she’s winning.
Jon David began the trial with slick composure and arrogantpolish. His suit is pristine, his smile almost lazy. But when the video finished, that image fractured, and his smug mask slipped.
Evan, once brimming with entitlement, now sits rigidly. The practiced twist of his mouth softens. His eyes dart, not outwardly with challenge, but inwardly, betraying uncertainty under the weight of what unfolded. They no longer radiate control.
Now, both of them appear afraid. And they should be.
They don’t know it, but they’ve got a wolf loose in the gallery.
When the assault video played yesterday, along with the brutal cross-examination that followed, the court adjourned for the day. Well played, Laurette. Ending on that kind of evidence wasn’t just strategy. It was precision.
Nothing else could follow what we’d just seen. And no doubt every juror spent the night thinking about it. Because once that video played, once the sound of those men laughing bled through the speakers and the image of Emily Westbrook’s limp body filled the screen, there was no going back. The case changed in that moment. It stopped being theory and testimony and started being truth.
Undeniable. Unforgivable.
The footage punched straight through doubt and hit something primal. And when the screen went black, it didn’t bring relief. It brought silence—heavy, stifling silence—the kind that doesn’t lift, even overnight.
This morning, the courthouse halls buzzed more quietly. Even the reporters kept their voices low. No one had to say it out loud. Everyone was still carrying the weight of yesterday’s final blow—the video, testimony, and sheer, inescapable reality of what Evan did to Emily Westbrook.
It’s the second day of trial, and Jon David’s playing it cool. But I know better. The video gutted whatever narrative he thought he was building.
He stands with deliberate calm, every detail locked into place. He’s not shaken. This fucker is sharpening. Today, he comes for blood.
“This will help put the defense’s case into perspective,” Jon David says.
He gestures toward the courtroom screen, and the lights dim.
The first image is a group photo. It’s Emily, mid-laugh, a red plastic cup in hand, and people are milling around her.
Jon David strolls a few steps closer to the witness stand, one hand tucked in his pocket.
“Do you recognize this?”
The victim glances at the screen and back at him. “Yes.”
“That’s you in the picture?”
“Yes.”
