Semua Bab UNTIL YOU REMEMBER ME: Bab 151 - Bab 160


 (Alessa) The courtroom feels colder than the hospital ever did. Not in temperature, but in precision—everything measured, sanitized, turned into evidence under unforgiving fluorescent light. Marble floors, dark wood panels, the seal of the court looming above us like an impartial god that has already decided none of us are innocent. I sit behind the counsel tables, hands clasped so tightly in my lap that my knuckles ache. The faint tremor in my fingers betrays what I refuse to show on my face. The gallery is filling—reporters, observers, strangers who will soon know the most intimate fractures of my life in clinical detail. Manhattan’s gray light filters through high windows, turning the room into something washed-out and merciless. At the front, Adrian stands at the respondent’s table. Posture straight. Shoulders squared. Every inch of him composed in a way that would look unbreakable to anyone who doesn’t know him the way I do. But I see the strain—the tightness in his jaw, the


 ( Alessa) The courtroom empties in waves, but the weight of it stays behind. Reporters slip out first, already murmuring into phones. Observers linger, casting sideways glances like they’ve witnessed something sacred being dissected under fluorescent light. I remain seated for a long moment, fingers still gripping the edge of the bench, the wood cool and unforgiving beneath my palms. The video’s afterimage burns behind my eyes: Adrian’s face in that hospital room, the exact second he chose the lie, the whisper that wasn’t meant for me but for the truth he buried. My body feels heavy, anchored by grief and something quieter—something that feels dangerously like understanding. I hate that I understand. I hate that part of me still wants to cross the room and let him pull me against his chest, let his warmth remind me why I haven’t walked away yet. My body reacts before I can stop it: that confused, aching awareness of him standing near the respondent’s table, gathering his notes wi


 (Alessa) The days after the courthouse blurred into a quiet kind of war. Manhattan moved on—bright, loud, indifferent—but inside our penthouse, everything felt suspended. Elena’s words lingered like smoke: Margaret’s forces still pulling strings from behind bars, Victor’s shadow lengthening. I spent hours at the drafting table near the windows, sketching skylines that no longer felt like mine. Every line reminded me of the philosophy I once held so tightly: every collapse is the result of miscalculation. My life had become the ultimate proof. Adrian gave me space, but he never went far. He worked from the other side of the room, voice low on calls about Reyes Holdings, handling cases with the same no-loss precision that had defined him. Yet every time he looked at me, I saw the fracture—the man who had admitted in open court to deliberate misrepresentation, who had buried truths about Margaret’s seduction attempt, her alliances with Victor, and the hospital lie. His love had alwa


 ( Alessa) The courtroom felt smaller on the third day, as if the walls had drawn closer to hear every word. The judge had allowed limited cross-examination to continue, and Daniel Cortez was relentless but precise, circling Adrian like a man who knew exactly where the weaknesses lay. “Mr. Reyes,” Cortez said, voice calm but cutting, “you’ve spoken at length about protection. Let’s be very clear. During the expansion of Reyes Holdings—the period when you built the Institution for Law Students in London—you were frequently in London with Margaret Lawson. Correct?” Adrian stood at the witness stand, tie perfectly knotted, shoulders squared. To the gallery he looked unbreakable. To me, he looked like a man holding himself together with nothing but will. “Yes,” Adrian answered, voice steady. Cortez stepped closer. “Your wife remained in New York. Alone. While you and Ms. Lawson worked on the London project.” A pause. Adrian didn’t look away. “Yes.” The ripple in the gallery was


 ( Alessa) The courtroom empties slower today. No one rushes out. Not after him. The presence in the back row lingers even as people stand, gather files, whisper into phones. It’s like the air itself has learned a new shape and hasn’t decided whether to release it yet. Victor doesn’t move. Not while the judge exits. Not while Cortez speaks quietly with his team. Not while Adrian gathers his documents with that precise, controlled efficiency that always meant he was holding something violent beneath the surface. I feel him before I see him rise. A shift. Subtle. But my body reacts instantly—pulse quickening, breath shortening, something instinctive tightening low in my chest. Not fear alone. Recognition. The kind that lives beneath memory. “Stay with me,” Adrian murmurs beside me, voice low, controlled. I don’t answer. Because I’m already turning. Victor stands now, adjusting his cuffs with unhurried precision. Every movement is deliberate. Measured. As if he knows exa