(Alessa) The in-camera review was held in a small, windowless chamber on the fourth floor. No press. No gallery. Just the judge, Cortez, Margaret’s counsel, and us. The air smelled of old paper and polished wood, thick with the weight of decisions that could rewrite lives in a single signature. Adrian sat beside me, his hand resting on my knee beneath the table — steady, grounding, a silent promise that whatever happened in this room, we faced it together. His thumb traced slow, deliberate circles against the silk of my skirt, each pass sending a low, insistent heat curling through me. Even here, in the heart of legal warfare, my body remembered the night before. The slow burn of his touch. The way he had moved with me like the world outside didn’t exist. I wanted him again. Not just the memory, but the conscious, deliberate weight of him claiming me while the clock Victor tried to control kept ticking. I squeezed his hand. He didn’t look at me, but the corner of his mouth tight
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