La Novels
I don’t remember
The plaintiff’s lawyer paced before the jury, his voice rising like a prosecutor from an old noir film, dripping with accusation. “Mr. Knight,” he began, his index finger pointedly directed at the defendant, “the rape case came in not as a surprise.” He paused for effect, letting the words hang heavy in the air. His gaze swept across the room, locking eyes with each juror. “You have had so many scandals in the past about changing women like you were changing your underwear.”
Murmurs skittered through the courtroom, but Xavier’s steel gaze never wavered, fixed on the one person who mattered: Cathleen, his wife.
“Language!” barked the judge, a stern admonition that momentarily stilled the whispers. But the lawyer pressed on, undeterred.
“This man was found butt naked in his own hotel with my client, your honor,” he continued, brandishing the photographs like a victorious gladiator. The images flashed before the court, explicit and damning-a tableau of flesh and guilt. “And he had the guts to announce that he doesn’t remember. If he doesn’t remember, he can at least remember forcing himself on my client.”
Xavier felt the heat of a hundred eyes upon him, but he remained as cold and immovable as marble. The only thaw in his icy facade was the silent exchange of pain and strength with Cathleen, whose resilience shone like a blade. She fought back tears yet stood steadfast, her inner turmoil betrayed only by a fleeting touch to her tummy.
Cathleen, with her sharp tongue and unbeatable record in the courtroom, now faced her greatest challenge yet: uncovering the truth of a night that Xavier could not remember. Despite his vow to never love her, he was desperate to shield her from the destruction caused by his past mistakes. Xavier could tell that this case was hard on her since she was his wife and she had to witness him fucking another woman, whom he knew nothing about.
The courtroom bristled with anticipation as Cathleen, the celebrity lawyer with a mind as sharp as her tongue, rose from her seat. Her heels clicked against the polished floor-a metronome of impending cross-examination-as she fixed her gaze on Anastasia Brown. “I’d like to call Miss Brown on the stand, please,” Cathleen declared, her voice cutting through the heavy air.
Obediently, Anastasia made her way to the stand, a lamb to the slaughter, unaware that she was about to be ensnared by Cathleen’s calculated questioning. Cathleen approached, predatory in her precision. “Miss Brown, in your statement, you stated that you arrived at the Knight International Hotel with Mr. Knight, is that correct?” she probed, each word a sharpened blade poised to strike.
Anastasia’s nod might have escaped a lesser attorney, but Cathleen pounced without missing a beat. “We don’t work with sign language here, Miss Brown. Yes or No.” The demand was laced with an unspoken challenge.
“Yes,” came Anastasia’s meek reply, barely above a whisper.
A smirk curled the corners of Cathleen’s lips-victory was hers for the taking. She held up the photograph and displayed the same picture on the screen for everyone to see along with the footage, allowing it to speak its thousand words of deceit to the court. A collective gasp rippled through the room like a wave crashing against the rocks of truth.
Anastasia faltered, her facade crumbling. “This was supposed to be deleted; how did you get this?” she blurted out, her panic palpable.
“Deleted?” Cathleen’s tone was syrupy sweet, yet it dripped with venom. “Miss Brown, how did you know that these pictures were deleted?”
“Logic,” Anastasia stammered, wriggling beneath Cathleen’s unrelenting scrutiny.
“Logic?” Cathleen repeated herself, her voice rising with feigned surprise. “Anastasia, only the CEO and the head of security know about those pictures being deleted. You don’t work for Knight International Group. Who told you that the footage was deleted?”
The question hung in the air, heavy and accusing. Anastasia squirmed, cornered by her own admission. “I’m not going to answer that,” she muttered, defiance lacing her voice, but her eyes screamed terror.
Cathleen’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. They remained cold, and calculating-the eyes of a woman who knew the game and played to win. Xavier, sitting stiff and silent, watched the scene unfold, his own secrets bound tight as a noose around his neck. He felt the tug of war between desire and disdain-for the woman he had vowed never to love was now the very one wielding power in his name.
Cathleen leaned forward, her eyes fixed on Anastasia like a hawk zeroing in on its prey. “Answer the question, Miss Brown,” she demanded, her voice sharp enough to slice through the thick tension that filled the courtroom.Content © NôvelDrama.Org.
Anastasia’s lips quivered, her voice a mere whisper. “I don’t know.”
“Your honor,” Cathleen spun around to face the judge, her ponytail whipping behind her, “footage from the hotel is missing, which means someone deleted it. I need to understand how Miss Brown had knowledge of this.”
The judge, an imposing figure behind the bench, nodded solemnly. “Miss Brown, answer the questions.”
“Your honor,” Cathleen continued relentlessly, “she entered the hotel with a man who categorically isn’t my client and claimed it was him at 8:38 p. m. The evidence shows that my client was still in his office at that time. He left his workplace at 10:51 p. m. Miss Brown needs to explain herself. How did she know the footage was deleted? And who is the man she walked into the hotel with?” Her words were precise, cutting through the lies as cleanly as a whip cracks against flesh.
“Miss Brown, answer the questions,” the judge echoed, his gaze boring into Anastasia.
Her response came out broken, laced with desperation. “I don’t know; I guess I was drugged; I can’t remember anything.” Her confession hung in the air, raw and vulnerable, leaving the court in a collective state of shock.
Cathleen stood back, arms folded, like a predator biding her time. She watched the unraveling of Anastasia’s composure and the way the courtroom held its breath-a dominatrix overseeing the fall of her submissive.