The storm came sooner than expected. Three days later, the defense called Alistair Thorne Vale to the stand.
Amelia did not go to the courtroom. She and Adrian had agreed: she would be a lightning rod, a distraction. Her presence would only fuel the defense's narrative of a romantic catalyst, a seductress who'd poisoned the heir against his birthright. Instead, she sat in the window nook of her apartment, laptop open to a live legal blog with a stark, text-based feed. Sophie sat beside her, a silent sentinel with a bag of salt-and-vinegar chips.
"He's taking the stand," Sophie reported, her eyes on her phone where a friend was texting from the gallery. "Black suit, silver tie. Looks like he's about to accept a lifetime achievement award, not defend himself against fraud."
Amelia refreshed the blog. The words were dry, clinical.
DEFENSE COUNSEL: Mr. Vale, did you ever intend to defraud anyone?
