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หน้าหลัก / Romance / UNTIL YOU REMEMBER ME / บทที่ 151 - บทที่ 160

บททั้งหมดของ UNTIL YOU REMEMBER ME: บทที่ 151 - บทที่ 160

338

The File That Changes Everything


 ( Alessa) The mist never quite lifts. It clings to the glass like something unfinished, softening Manhattan’s edges until the city looks almost unreal—lights diffused, movement blurred, everything held at a careful, painful distance. Inside Adrian’s office, the silence left by Daniel Cortez lingers, pressing against my skin, waiting for the next fracture. My hand is still loosely linked with Adrian’s. I don’t remember deciding to keep holding on. His grip is steady but not tight, thumb brushing once across my knuckles before stilling, as if even that small touch risks shattering what little remains between us. We stand suspended between what was said and what comes next. Then the secure terminal flickers. A soft chime. Almost nothing. But in the quiet, it cuts like glass. I turn instinctively. Adrian’s hand slips from mine as we both move toward the desk. The man who broke in front of me last night is gone. In his place is the empire-builder—sharp, focused, every line of his
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Opening Statements


 (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
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The First Cut


(Alessa) The courtroom doesn’t settle after the gavel. It tightens like a wire pulled taut, ready to snap. People shift in their seats, lean forward, the low murmur of the gallery like static before a storm. The air changes when something private is about to be made public—when memory stops being yours and becomes evidence under unforgiving fluorescent light. I feel it in my bones before anyone speaks. “Call your witness,” the judge says. Daniel Cortez rises with that same measured calm, but there’s a new edge to him now—an edge sharpened by certainty. “The respondent, Your Honor. Mr. Adrian Reyes.” Every muscle in my body locks. Adrian doesn’t look at me as he walks to the stand. Not because he doesn’t want to. Because he can’t. If he does, the fracture I saw last night might widen into something neither of us can contain here. He’s sworn in. Seated. Composed in the way only he can be—shoulders squared, jaw set, every inch the corporate lawyer who has dismantled empires in ro
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The Space Between Truth And Choosing


 ( 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
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The Sister Who Was Never Supposed To Return


 ( Alessa) The mist had finally lifted by the time we left the courthouse, but the city felt heavier than before. Manhattan’s streets glistened under the returning sun, reflecting the gray sky like broken mirrors. Every puddle held a fractured version of the skyline I used to design with such precision—structures that looked perfect until you saw the cracks. I walked beside Adrian in silence, our hands brushing occasionally but never quite holding. The almost-touch was its own kind of torture: that confused, aching awareness of him. Of how easily I could slip my fingers into his and let him steady me. Of how dangerous that steadiness had always been. We didn’t go back to the penthouse. Instead, we took the long way through Central Park, the paths still damp, leaves clinging to the ground like secrets that refused to be swept away. Elena had sent a single message with a location—a quiet bench near the Bethesda Terrace. Neutral ground. No corporate towers. No courtroom marble. Just
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Threads That Still Pull


 (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
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The Weight Of Witness


 (Alessa) The second day of preliminary proceedings felt heavier than the first. The courtroom air was thick with anticipation, the kind that made every cough, every shuffled paper, every creak of the wooden benches feel like a judgment. Manhattan’s gray light slanted through the high windows, casting long shadows across the marble floor. I sat in the same seat behind the counsel tables, hands clasped tightly in my lap, the tremor in my fingers the only thing I couldn’t hide. The gallery was fuller today—more reporters, more observers, more strangers ready to witness the unravelling of our private world. At the front, Adrian stood at the respondent’s table again, posture straight but shoulders carrying the invisible weight of everything the court had already seen. The video. The lie. The deliberate choice. He didn’t look at me often, but when he did, the look was raw—grief, love, quiet desperation. The man who had once held all the power was now exposed, and I felt every second of
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The Accusation That Never Died


 ( 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
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The Man In The Back Row


 (Alessa) The courtroom felt different before anything even began. It wasn’t louder. It wasn’t fuller. If anything, it was quieter—like something had slipped into place that no one had named yet. The air sat heavier in my lungs. The hum of voices in the gallery carried an edge I couldn’t quite define. Instinct prickled along my skin, sharp and unrelenting. I felt it before I saw him. My gaze drifted—not to the bench, not to Adrian—but to the back row. And everything inside me went still. Victor Salazar. He sat like he belonged there. Like he had always belonged there. One leg crossed over the other, hands loosely clasped, posture relaxed in that deliberate way powerful men perfect. He wasn’t hiding. He wasn’t avoiding attention. He was simply… present. Watching. Waiting. My breath caught. Memory didn’t return in a rush—it seeped in. Fragments. A voice too smooth. Eyes that lingered too long. The subtle pressure of conversations that felt like negotiations even when they w
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The Man Who Doesn’t Let Go


 ( 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
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