Semua Bab Contract Marriage with the Disabled Billionaire : Bab 61 - Bab 70

Isadora’s POVThe first witness takes the stand at 9:12 a.m.His name is Grant Leland. I remember him vaguely—one of Richard’s friends from the gala. Sharp suit. Loosened tie. Fake charm. He hugged me that night like he knew me, when in truth he only knew the version of me Richard had painted in his stories.Now he sits up straight with his right hand raised, swearing to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but.But that’s the problem with truth, isn’t it?It looks different depending on where you’re standing.Darren sits beside me, still and unreadable, jaw set, one good hand resting over his thigh. The courtroom is quiet as the prosecutor steps forward.“Mr. Leland, thank you for joining us today.”“Of course.”“You were at Mr. Barlowe’s annual gala the night of the incident?”“I was.”“Did you know Richard personally?”“Yes. We went to college together. Stayed close.”“And how would you describe his demeanor that evening?”Leland shifts slightly.“He was… frustrated. Tense.

Isadora’s POVThe third morning of the trial dawns gray, and the sky hangs low over the city like it knows something we don’t. We arrive at the courthouse earlier than usual, hoping to avoid the heavier part of the media crowd, but they’re already gathered in clusters by the time the black SUV rolls to a stop.Cameras flash the moment the doors open.I’ve stopped hearing the shouts. They’ve become a background hum, like white noise in a too-quiet room. Only one voice breaks through this morning.“Do you still think your husband is innocent, Isadora?”I don’t respond. I’ve learned that silence wounds them more than words ever will.Darren doesn’t flinch. His hand brushes mine briefly, not to grasp it, but just to let me know he’s aware of me, that we’re walking into this fire together.We pass through the courthouse doors, and the outside world evaporates behind us.The courtroom is colder than it was yesterday. The air-conditioning hums louder today, or maybe it just feels that way be

Isadora’s POV I learned something today: you don’t need a lie to break someone’s credibility.You just need a story vague enough to feel true.And a witness confident enough to deliver it.Court starts the same way it always does—cool air, rustling papers, the faint scent of burnt coffee and polished floors. The judge enters. The jury files in. The bailiff calls the session to order.But everything else feels… off.Carrington’s usually calm posture is tighter today, as though bracing for something.Alex’s jaw is rigid. His knee bounces beneath the bench.And Darren, beside me, is too quiet. His right hand clenched into a fist where only I can see it.The prosecution calls their next witness.“Your Honor, we’d like to call Mr. Raymond Greene.”My stomach tightens the moment I hear the name.Greene. Security staff. A name I only ever saw on staff rosters — hired last minute through one of the mayor’s private contractors for overflow support.He had no direct interaction with me that ni

Isadora’s POVIt begins with the tapping of Carrington’s pen.Tap. Tap. Tap.The rhythm isn't random. It’s surgical. He’s planning. Running calculations in his mind faster than any of us can speak them aloud. He always does this before his most important moves.We’re in the defense’s private conference room. It’s just us—no judge, no jury, no cameras. Only the thick silence that comes before a possible turning point.Carrington looks between Darren and me.“They’ll counter again—expect it. But we need to move forward now. It’s time we remind the jury what this is really about.”He doesn’t mean guilt or innocence.He means perception.Darren remains quiet.Alex nods tightly. I sit straighter.“Who’s the witness?” I ask.Carrington’s eyes settle on mine.“Dr. Ezra Mahoney. Clinical trauma specialist. He saw Darren within hours of the gala incident.”My heart lifts just slightly.Dr. Mahoney. I remembered the name but not the details. When I first saw him enter the emergency waiting room

Isadora’s POVI didn’t think it could get louder.I was wrong.By the fifth day of the trial, the crowd outside the courthouse has more than doubled. What used to be cameras and whispers has become shouting, microphones, protest signs. There are chants now. Rhythmic. Angry.“Justice for Richard!” “Murderer with Money!” “Barlowe Belongs Behind Bars!”And then—beneath the noise, just loud enough to make me sick—“Stand with Isadora.”Like I’ve become two things: victim or traitor. Saint or accomplice. And everyone outside has already decided which side I belong to.Alex reroutes us through a side corridor to avoid the press. No more walking in through the front. No more Darren shielding me with his frame like a wall. Now we slip in like fugitives, ducking through a loading dock entrance beside dumpsters and back stairwells.We move quickly. Heads down. Breathing shallow.It helps, but only for a moment.Inside, the courtroom is still. Cold. The kind of silence that feels like judgment