Chapter 11 - THE TRIAL THAT ENDED THE FANTASY
Christian’s trial began eighteen months after the attack.
By then, the public already believed they knew the story.
They didn’t.
Trials strip drama into evidence.
Dates.
Payments.
Records.
Testimony.
The truth became worse precisely because it sounded less cinematic.
Daniel Crowe testified that Christian hired him.
Dr. Lawson admitted medical sabotage.
Gabriel authenticated recordings.
Sabrina described years of coercion and secrecy.
Sarah testified about Evie.
Warren Pike described Richard’s attempt to protect the baby.
Then investigators presented evidence connecting Christian’s security chief to Claire Donovan’s fatal crash.
The prosecution could not prove Christian directly ordered Claire killed.
But they proved he paid the security chief seventy-five thousand dollars two days before the crash and another fifty thousand afterward.
The defense called it coincidence.
Nobody believed them.
Christian watched all of us testify.
Some days angry.
Some days bored.
Some days almost charming.
That was the strangest part.
Monsters don’t always look monstrous when sitting still.
Sometimes they adjust their cuffs.
Whisper to attorneys.
Smile at former fans in the gallery.
That frightened me more than rage ever had.
My testimony lasted two days.
Rebecca prepared me for weeks.
“Do not argue.”
“I know.”
“Do not volunteer.”
“I know.”
“Do not insult his attorney.”
“I know.”
“You are going to insult his attorney.”
“Only if he earns it.”
She closed her eyes.
On the stand, I told the jury about our relationship.
The pregnancies.
Dr. Lawson.
The attack.
The hospital conversation.
The secret daughter.
I did not cry until the prosecutor asked about the third miscarriage.
“What did Mr. Prescott do after you were told the pregnancy had ended?”
“He held me.”
My voice broke.
“He cried.”
“Did you believe those tears?”
“Yes.”
“What do you believe now?”
I looked at Christian.
“That he was grieving inconvenience.”
His face changed.
The defense attorney attacked my credibility carefully.
He suggested I had become financially successful because of the scandal.
True.
He suggested my cosmetics campaign benefited from public sympathy.
True.
He suggested Gabriel and I had started a romantic relationship.
Also true.
Then he asked whether Gabriel had a financial motive to destroy Christian.
“No.”
“Mr. Collins managed Christian Prescott for decades.”
“Yes.”
“He receives no income from Mr. Prescott now.”
“Correct.”
“And he is romantically involved with you.”
“Yes.”
“So by helping destroy Mr. Prescott’s career, he became closer to you.”
I almost admired the strategy.
Almost.
“Gabriel lost most of his professional identity when he turned against Christian.”
The attorney smiled.
“But gained you.”
I looked at him.
“You say that like I’m a prize Christian owned first.”
The prosecutor objected.
Sustained.
But the jury heard it.
The defense’s biggest mistake came when Christian insisted on testifying.
His attorneys reportedly begged him not to.
He did anyway.
Of course he did.
Christian believed he could charm a room.
For years, he had been right.
He testified that Crowe misunderstood his instructions.
That Lawson acted independently.
That Sabrina manipulated him.
That Gabriel stole recordings.
That Richard fabricated evidence because of family resentment.
That Evie had been hidden from him.
Then the prosecutor played his own words.
If she’s left scarred, even better.
Christian explained he had been “venting.”
The prosecutor played:
I told Crowe not to hit your eyes.
Christian said the statement was taken out of context.
Then:
They were never children to me.
Christian’s face changed.
The prosecutor asked, “What context makes that sentence better?”
No answer.
The jury deliberated three days.
I spent those days at Sarah’s house.
Evie was five now.
Leo was almost six.
They played in the yard while adults pretended not to check phones every thirty seconds.
Gabriel cooked badly.
Sabrina ordered pizza secretly afterward.
Sarah caught her.
Nobody cared.
Normal life had become the thing I valued most.
At 2:17 p.m. on the third day, Rebecca called.
“Verdict.”
We drove to court.
My hands shook.
Gabriel reached for one.
I held it.
The jury entered.
Christian stood.
Guilty.
Conspiracy to commit aggravated assault.
Guilty.
Solicitation.
Guilty.
Obstruction.
Guilty.
Witness tampering.
Guilty.
Conspiracy connected to medical fraud and unlawful reproductive interference.
Guilty.
Kidnapping.
Guilty.
Several financial crimes.
Guilty.
Not guilty on one attempted-murder enhancement.
The prosecution had always said that charge would be difficult.
I felt nothing dramatic.
No triumph.
No sudden healing.
Just air leaving my lungs.
Christian sat down.
For the first time, he did not look at me.
Sentencing came six weeks later.
Twenty-eight years.
Possibility of additional federal time related to financial crimes.
Dr. Lawson received a reduced sentence for cooperation and permanently lost his medical license.
Christian’s security chief received seventeen years.
Crowe received twelve.
Several civil cases remained.
I stopped following every detail.
At sentencing, Christian was allowed to speak.
He apologized.
To fans.
To his mother.
To his employees.
Then finally to me.
“Genevieve, I loved you badly.”
I stared at him.
That phrase annoyed me.
Love badly.
As though love and cruelty were versions of the same thing.
When given a chance to address the court, I stood.
“I don’t believe Christian loved me badly.”
He looked up.
“I believe he controlled me successfully for a long time.”
Silence.
“I once needed him to admit what he did.”
I touched my scar.
“I don’t anymore.”
His face tightened.
“I once needed everyone to understand I wasn’t foolish for loving him.”
I looked at the judge.
“I don’t anymore.”
Then at Christian.
“I was deceived.”
A pause.
“That is his shame.”
I sat down.
Outside court, reporters screamed questions.
I answered one.
“Genevieve, do you forgive him?”
“No.”
Gasps.
People love forgiveness because it creates clean endings.
I continued.
“I also don’t spend every day hating him.”
That confused them.
“Those are not the same thing.”
I walked away.
Gabriel waited beside the car.
He kissed my forehead.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
This time, it was true.
That evening, we met Sarah, Sabrina, Evie, and Leo at a small Italian restaurant.
No private room.
No security spectacle.
Just dinner.
Evie complained about broccoli.
Leo knocked over water.
Sarah threatened to remove dessert.
Sabrina bribed both children with bread.
Gabriel argued with the waiter about wine.
I sat there listening.
Nobody knew who we were.
Or perhaps they did and were polite enough not to care.
Evie climbed into my lap after dessert.
“Mama Genny?”
“Yes?”
“Are you marrying Gabriel?”
Gabriel nearly inhaled wine.
Sabrina laughed loudly.
Sarah covered her face.
I looked at my daughter.
“Why?”
“Because he looks at you.”
I frowned.
“How?”
She demonstrated an absurdly dreamy expression.
Everyone laughed.
Gabriel turned red.
“I do not look like that.”
“You do,” Sabrina said.
“Constantly,” Sarah added.
Traitors.
I kissed Evie’s hair.
“Maybe someday.”
Gabriel looked at me.
Not pressure.
Not expectation.
Just possibility.
That night, walking home, he asked, “Was that answer for her?”
“No.”
“For me?”
“Partly.”
He stopped beneath a streetlight.
I stopped too.
“Genevieve.”
“Yes?”
“I will never ask you to need me.”
My chest tightened.
“I know.”
“I will ask you to choose me someday.”
Tears burned unexpectedly.
“Not tonight.”
“No.”
“Good.”
He kissed me.
Then we kept walking.
No photographers.
No stage.
May you like
No one directing where I should look.
For the first time, love felt quiet enough to trust.
