Morgan
Three months have passed since that awful night.
Jack was denied bail, leaving him to rot in a jail cell while the Georgia fall iced over. Outside, the world is a lightly blanketed wonderland.
My heart races whenever I get to see him, which isnow.
As usual, the jail’s private conference room is packed with our legal team. Daddy seats me and Jack at opposite ends of a long table to prevent us from talking to each other.
At least I get to look at him the whole time.
And I do.
His hair is growing longer. He’s handsome in a blue jumpsuit. It makes his eye color more intense. I love how he cocks his head and watches people with quiet stoicism. Whenever he strokes the line of his strong jaw, I know he’s holding back an insult.
He’s a broody, yet gorgeous man, and I wish I could curl up on his lap. Feel those tattooed arms snake around me and—
“Pay attention,” growls Dad.
The lead attorney repeats a question, and this time, I force myself to listen.
“Uh, huh,” I answer absentmindedly.
The lawyers coach me as a witness, tell me what to say, and perform a mock cross-examination.
After, the team speaks legal jargon, and I resume my staring at Jack.
This time, his gaze is on me, but fixed on my hand, causing his jaw to flex.
My stomach twists.
My engagement ring.
It isn’t new information to him. He’s known for a while, but I still catch him staring at the ring. I wear it more like handcuffs than a symbol of love.
I pray he knows that.
“Monday is the big day, Morgan,” says the lawyer. “Your first day on the witness stand. Are you ready?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll do my best,” I assure.
Then, I look at Jack. “I swear. I won’t let you down.”
His gaze lingers in mine for a moment before veering to the lawyer. “I just want to get out of here and get my brothers back.”
“You will!” I blurt.
It is an unfounded promise, but maybe it’ll give him hope.
He doesn’t acknowledge my comment. Nobody does. I am more prop than participant in this whole act. As I always am.I wonder if he feels the same now that my dad is his puppet master, too.
The big day arrives. Blake and I stride toward the courthouse. I wear a big-brimmed hat, a peacoat, and high heels. The frosty cement is slick under them, but I step with careful determination.
Cameras swarm close, and microphones invade my space. I don’t reply to reporters’ questions.
Fans and protesters assemble in designated areas. Signs are held high. Many religious. Others, the opposite. It’s a circus.
Inside the courtroom, I place my hand on the Bible, and swear an oath to tell the truth.
