Chapter Four – The Shattering Gavel

Adrian's POV

The chill in the air was metallic, cold, as I walked out of the holding cell. Two officers accompanied me, their arms pinning mine as if I would suddenly fly away, although my legs weighed far too much for me to carry myself anywhere. My throat ached with restraint, my voice still absent, and each movement caused the recollection of the scars cutting across my face. It had been only days ago that the attack, and now the world desired for me to be buried under a different type of wreckage.

As the courthouse doors opened, flashes erupted like a storm. There were reporters pushing forward, their microphones held out for me to answer them.

"Adrian, was it true you were dealing drugs?"

"Did you steal music from Marcus Hale?"

"Were you ever actually married to Ethan Cross?

The last question cut the deepest. My heart pounded so hard I almost stumbled. They didn't know. Not really. But they suspected.

And then, as if fate wanted to twist the knife, a black car pulled up. The crowd parted, cameras whirled around, and out stepped Ethan. Spotless suit, spotless hair, his hand already clasped with Marcus's.

The crowd erupted.

"Ethan, did you really date Adrian Cole?"

"Mr. Cross, how do you respond to the rumors that you were secretly married to him?"

Ethan raised his hand high, grinning, his green eyes as cool and polished as glass. "No comment. And for goodness' sake—don't bother my boyfriend." He wrapped Marcus tighter against him, kissing his forehead like a man protecting the love of his life.

I couldn't breathe. That word—boyfriend—zapped through me like a knife against bone.

Within the courtroom, everything was chilly and wood-paneled.

The bailiff called out the case: State of California vs. Adrian Cole. I sat at the defense table, my attorney—a thinning-hair, gray-haired man—a nervous shuffler of papers. On the other side of the aisle, the prosecutor was a picture of self-assurance, her suit crisply pressed, her voice knife-sharp.

The judge, a silvery-haired woman with a serious expression, peered over the rim of her spectacles. "Mr. Cole, you stand accused of narcotics trafficking, fraud, and intellectual property theft. How do you plead?"

My lawyer responded for me: "Not guilty, Your Honor.".

The trial cut through like a guillotine. Witnesses strode to the witness stand, each sentence laying bricks on my grave. An executive from a record label testified that he'd observed inconsistencies in my songwriting credits. A technician testified that my recordings showed "extensive autotune manipulation." None of it was true, but without my voice to speak up for me, each lie rang louder.

Ethan showed up later.

He walked to the stand with the confidence of a man who had the globe bending at his feet. Hand on Bible, words of oath spoken, he sat, reclining in his chair as if this were another business conference.

"Mr. Cross," the prosecutor began, "can you affirm your knowledge of the nature and activities of Mr. Cole?"

"Yes," said Ethan flatly. "Adrian never excelled at originality. He was always asking me for cash, doing anything to maintain the illusion he was a honest and struggling up comer. I didn't know, at first, what depths he'd go to." He paused long enough for both ears in the room to incline forward. "But yes, I do believe he would be capable of stealing songs. And the drugs? I'm not really surprised."

I slammed my fist on the table. The bailiff growled at me to sit down. My lawyer placed a trembling hand on my arm and murmured, "Don't react."

Then Marcus took the stand.

His youthfully naive face looked nearly innocent, but his voice was redolent of practiced sincerity.

Lies. Every syllable Marcus uttered was a a sword, stabbing and twisting my already broken and bleeding heart.

My lawyer tried to cross-examine, but his questions were weak, unspecific. He flubbed, behind the prosecutor's beat. I wanted to scream, tear my throat out until someone believed me. But nothing escaped, only the trembling of my hands.

After closing arguments, the judge's eyes fell upon me.

"Mr. Cole," she stated, her voice hard, icy, unyielding, "the proof presented to us leaves no room for doubt. You are guilty of fraud, theft of intellectual property, possession with intent to distribute narcotics. You are hereby sentenced to ten years in state prison."