Misty Kilmer had once walked through palaces with the assurance of someone who believed influence could be stitched into a hemline or secured through whispered favors. She had kissed the rings of power and pretended they belonged to her. But today, she sat in shackles. Beige fabric, state-issued and too stiff, clung to her arms. Her wrists ached from the cuffs. Her throat itched from silence.
And every eye in the courtroom was watching her fall.
Christian's army of lawyers had turned paperwork into weapons, each affidavit and certified copy a blow to her name, her dealings, and her carefully cultivated illusion of control. Words like "forgery," "coercion," and "contractual fraud" were thrown across the chamber with clinical precision, and Misty couldn't find her footing in any of it.
She had built her empire out of half-truths and borrowed favors. She had promised her son as a commodity, not a child. And now?
