Chapter Thirty-Five — Into the Room
(Amira Rivera — first person)
The courthouse smells like old paper and cold authority.
That was the first thing I noticed as I walked through the metal detectors — the way the air itself felt judgmental, like it had already decided who belonged and who didn't. I handed over my bag, my phone, my dignity, and stepped through when they waved me on, heels clicking too loudly against the polished floor.
Too loud.
I hated that I was aware of everything. My posture. My breathing. The faint tremor in my hands I kept hidden by lacing my fingers together like prayer.
This wasn't supposed to be how I arrived.
Julian was supposed to be here.
I told myself that again as I followed my attorney down the hallway, past courtroom doors and stern-faced clerks who looked at me with the kind of neutrality that felt like contempt. I'd imagined walking in with him at my side — not touching, not intimate, just present. A quiet declaration that I wasn't alone.
Instead, there was only empty space where he should've been.
"Eyes forward," my lawyer murmured under her breath. "You're doing fine."
I nodded, though my stomach twisted.
The courtroom doors opened, and the noise hit me all at once — murmurs, shuffling papers, the scrape of chairs. I scanned the room automatically, my gaze betraying me as it darted to the table on the other side.
Cassandra was already seated.
Of course she was.
She wore ivory — tailored, understated, expensive in a way that didn't ask for permission. Her hair was smooth, her expression calm, lips set in a polite line that suggested she was here for a charity luncheon, not a legal reckoning. Two attorneys flanked her, both sharp-eyed, both already leafing through documents with practiced ease.
She didn't look at me right away.
That was deliberate.
I felt the first crack then — not a break, just a fissure in my composure. The realization that she had entered this room already victorious in posture, already centered, already in control.
We took our seats.
The chair felt too small. The table too bare.
Julian's seat remained empty.
I stared at it for half a second too long before forcing my gaze away. I could feel people watching me — not openly, not crudely, but with that quiet curiosity reserved for public unravelings.
That's her, I imagined them thinking. The secretary. The girl.
The judge entered. We stood. Sat.
Formalities blurred together. Case number. Names. Jurisdiction.
And then Cassandra's attorney rose.
"Your Honor," he began smoothly, "before we proceed, the plaintiff would like to note the absence of a key individual whose testimony has been referenced repeatedly in the defense's filings."
My pulse spiked.
Julian.
I kept my face neutral, but my chest tightened like a fist had closed around my lungs.
"Mr. Julian Archer," the attorney continued, tone polite and precise, "has failed to appear, failed to respond to deposition requests, and has not made himself available to the court in any formal capacity."
I felt eyes on me again.
Cassandra finally looked my way.
Just briefly. Just long enough.
Her gaze was cool — not triumphant, not cruel. Assessing. Like a chess player confirming a piece had moved exactly where she expected.
My attorney stood. "Your Honor, we've made multiple good-faith efforts to secure Mr. Archer's participation—"
"Efforts that have yielded nothing," Cassandra's attorney interjected smoothly. "Which raises serious concerns about the credibility of the defense's narrative."
My face warmed.
This was the embarrassing part — the part no one warns you about. Not the shouting. Not the drama.
The quiet implication that you are unreliable because someone else didn't show up for you.
The judge leaned forward slightly. "Ms. Rivera," he said, looking directly at me now, "do you have any explanation for Mr. Archer's absence today?"
The room went still.
Every instinct in me screamed to look for Julian — as if he might materialize in the doorway at the sound of his name. Instead, I met the judge's gaze.
"No, Your Honor," I said clearly. "I don't."
The honesty stung.
"You're aware," he continued, "that your case relies significantly on corroboration from Mr. Archer?"
"Yes," I replied.
"And yet you proceeded today without confirmation of his appearance?"
I swallowed. "Yes."
A murmur rippled through the gallery.
I felt small then — not because I was wrong, but because I was exposed. Cassandra's attorney smiled faintly, already moving in for the kill.
"Your Honor," he said, "the plaintiff would like to request that the court consider the implications of this absence when weighing the credibility of Ms. Rivera's claims, particularly given the pattern of—"
My attorney cut in sharply. "Objection. Speculation."
"Sustained," the judge said, but his eyes lingered on me, thoughtful. "However, the court does note the absence."
There it was.
Not a ruling. Not a loss.
A note.
Sometimes, that's worse.
Proceedings continued, but I felt like I was underwater — words muffled, time distorted. I answered when spoken to, nodded when appropriate, kept my spine straight even as something in me curled inward.
At one point, Cassandra leaned toward her attorney and whispered something.
They both smiled.
The humiliation came in waves — not dramatic enough to cry over, not obvious enough to protest. Just enough to make me feel like a cautionary tale unfolding in real time.
This is what happens, the room seemed to say. When you reach too far.
When the judge finally adjourned for recess, my legs felt weak as I stood. My lawyer leaned close.
"You held," she whispered. "That mattered."
"Did it?" I asked softly.
She didn't answer right away.
As we exited the courtroom, Cassandra stood as well. She didn't block my path — she didn't have to. Her presence alone felt obstructive.
"Amira," she said pleasantly, as if we were acquaintances at a gallery opening. "I hope you're taking care of yourself. These things can be… taxing."
I met her gaze, refusing to flinch. "I'm managing."
"I'm sure you are," she replied. "You always have."
Her eyes flicked, just once, to the empty space beside me.
Then she turned and walked away, heels measured, posture flawless.
I stood there longer than I meant to, heart pounding, a familiar unease crawling up my spine.
Where are you? I thought, not for the first time.
And for the first time, a darker thought brushed against the edges of my mind — unwelcome, intrusive.
What if he didn't leave by choice?
I shook my head almost immediately.
No. That was desperation talking. Excuse-making. The kind of thinking that turns women into jokes and men into myths.
Julian was a grown man. Powerful. Resourceful.
People like him didn't just vanish.
I forced the thought down, straightened my shoulders, and followed my lawyer out of the courthouse into the blinding afternoon sun.
The world went on.
Traffic moved. Phones rang. Lives continued.
And somewhere between the courthouse steps and the curb, I understood something quietly devastating:
Whether Julian had disappeared or not, the court didn't care.
And neither, it seemed, did Cassandra.