Chapter 33

• The hushed courtroom felt colder than the November rain lashing against the tall windows. Cleo sat rigid, her hand clasped tightly in Rowan’s, the warmth of his touch a fragile anchor in the storm raging around them. The air hung thick with the scent of antiseptic and fear, a stark contrast to the lavender-scented sanctuary they’d painstakingly built. Across the room, Mr. Harding, her former husband, sat with a chilling calm, his eyes devoid of any remorse, his lawyer, a shark in a tailored suit, whispering into his ear.
• Their lawyer, Ms. Evans, a woman whose sharp intellect was only matched by her unwavering dedication, leaned in. "Remember," she said, her voice low, "stick to the facts. Let the jury see the truth in your eyes." The truth – a brutal tapestry woven from years of abuse, fear, and finally, desperate acts of self-preservation.
• The prosecution painted a lurid picture: a vengeful lover, a scorned wife, and a carefully orchestrated plot to frame a wealthy, powerful man. They presented evidence – meticulously documented financial transactions, subtle inconsistencies in Rowan’s alibi, even the faintest trace of gunpowder residue found on his clothing, a detail that seemed inconsequential until spun into a sinister narrative. Each piece of evidence, seemingly innocuous on its own, was meticulously woven together into a suffocating web of incriminating details. The prosecution's strategy was clear: paint Rowan as a dangerous criminal, a manipulator, and Cleo as a willing accomplice who had manipulated and coerced Rowan into participating in a carefully planned crime of revenge.