Page 58 of Motion to Dismiss

SCARLETT

Jameson

I should be back in Manhattan tonight in time for your show.

Good luck. (Accept my rose delivery)

Thank you. (I already did.)

Rain pours over Pennsylvania’s capitol as I jump out of a cab and race toward the courthouse, splashing through every puddle along the way.

My umbrella gives up halfway across the street, and by the time I reach the courthouse steps, the bottom of my dress is soaked and my heels are making an embarrassing squeaking sound.

I can’t believe Jameson thought I would want to miss this moment with him.

I rush through security and follow the growing sound of reporters down the hall, where camera crews are stationed outside the courtroom and journalists are fighting for space near the doors.

A giant television screen above them flashes the same headline over and over.

JAMESON TATE SR. EXPECTED TO WALK FREE TODAY

I stop long enough to read it twice, my heart swelling at the thought of Jameson finally seeing those words after twenty-eight years of fighting for them.

I start toward the courtroom again, but Peter Hansel catches my attention.

He’s standing alone near the wall, running a hand through his hair, looking nothing like the bestselling author whose face was plastered across a dozen screens the night I met him.

There’s no long line of readers waiting for his autograph or assistants hovering nearby, and the reporters seem far more interested in getting inside the courtroom than talking to him.

“Good morning.” I smile.

“Is it?”

“Yes.” I glance at the headline above us. “An innocent man gets out of prison today.”

“Unfortunately, your boyfriend won’t be taking his place.”

“You should be grateful you’re not taking his place, Mr. Hansel.”

His eyes narrow, and he steps closer. “Do you have any idea what this does to my reputation? My book sales?”

“No, but I hope it’s far worse than anything I could ever imagine.”

His jaw clenches.

“Have a good morning.” I smile again and move past him before he can respond.

The courtroom is already packed when I step inside, with reporters filling every seat in the back rows and several people standing along the walls.

I barely manage to find an empty spot before the doors are locked behind me.

Jameson is sitting beside his father at the defense table, looking perfectly composed in one of his usual suits, but the second he looks over his shoulder and sees me, he arches a brow.

I wanted to come, I mouth.

His lips curve into a smile before he turns around.

“All rise for the Honorable Judge Harris!” the bailiff announces.