Another image takes its place.
Still him, still unmistakable. This one is harder to ignore, the act displayed in all its rawness.
Jon David’s hand twitches toward the screen remote, his composure fraying at the edges.
“Your Honor, there appears to be?—”
But the next photo is already loading. The image blinks into place before Jon David can kill the feed. Same bed. Different man. Different angle. Jon David’s eyes are half-lidded, head tilted back, expression raw enough to scorch.
The room teeters on the edge of chaos. Whispers ripple through the courtroom, and I watch it all—the stunned faces, the flicker of horror crossing Jon David’s eyes.
He’s controlled every room he’s ever entered. Here, not a single second is his.
The judge’s voice cuts through the rising noise. “Turn it off. Now.”
Jon David fumbles with the remote. His composure, once a practiced armor, lies cracked at his feet.
The screen goes black, but it’s too late.
Those images aren’t gone. They’re burned into the minds of everyone here, into every juror who now questions more than the narrative, into every reporter who is already imagining tomorrow’s headlines.
Objective: rattle the bastard.
Status: enthusiastically complete.
Turns out he does fluster. Good to know.
Across the aisle, I catch Laurette’s profile. She’s composed, but the tension behind her eyes is enough to read without words.
The courtroom hums again. Quiet, but electric. Something has snapped.
Jon David’s jaw tightens. His voice drops to a register that’s supposed to project control, but I hear the strain under it.
“My apologies to the court.”
The gavel cracks again. Sharp enough to make a few jurors flinch.
The judge’s tone is steel.
“We’ll take a fifteen-minute recess. Mr. Bellamy, in chambers. Now.”
Jon David doesn’t look at the gallery or Laurette. But the tips ofhis ears burn red as he crosses the well, every step another fracture in the armor he’s spent years polishing.
It was too easy. That’s the truth of it. Matt said the firewall on Jon David’s computer was laughable. More for show than for security. One clean breach. All it took was one disguised file transfer, and the pictures were waiting in his evidence folder to be presented.
Jon David believing he uploaded them himself? Pure artistry.
I didn’t expose them for shock value. I showed them because he violated Laurette and never once owned it, never once apologized. He tried to make her think she was crazy. No one does that to my girl and gets away with it.
Better still, there’s no path that leads back to Laurette. He can never hang this on her. All he’ll have is the gnawing belief that he must have done it to himself—grabbed the wrong files, dragged them into the wrong folder, handed the rope over for his own hanging.
This wasn’t about exposing Jon David’s sexuality. I don’t give two shits about what he gets off on in the bedroom. I have my own kinks.
This was about wiping that smug-as-fuck smile off his face. It was about flustering him. It was about shaking his belief in himself. The man built his entire persona on being untouchable. I’ve reminded him he’s not.
He drugged my girl. He isn’t innocent.
Someone escorts the jurors away. The courtroom murmurs, restless and electric. I move with it, sliding toward the back doors. People crowd into the hallway and stand in hushed circles.
