Lahat ng Kabanata ng Ashes of Love; Fire of Vengeance : Kabanata 41 - Kabanata 50

More voices rise above the rest, chanting, “Long live Damien Shaw!”The slogan spreads fast, loud, and rhythmic, pounding against the car like a drumbeat. It’s more a command than support, vibrating through my chest.Still... amidst this chaos, I hear the sound of someone's boot coming towards us. Each step thuds with authority.Then, cutting through the noise, a deep, magnetic voice, smooth, controlled, and firm, asks, “Mr Watson, are you hurt?”Watson’s voice is steady, clipped. “No, I’m fine.” His words carry quiet authority, reassuring, yet I can feel the muscles coiled beneath the overcoat, ready to react. His hand tightens on my arm.The deep voice comes again, deliberate, probing. “I assume… this is Miss Smith?”“She is. But you must understand, Mr Shaw, she is not guilty until proven so. You cannot harm her,” Watson replies, low and protective, each word heavy with caution. My body leans instinctively into him, seeking the stability his tone provides.“I never said she is guil

Mr Shaw laughs, light and dismissive. His shoulders lift slightly with it, but the sound fades faster than it should, leaving his expression carefully neutral.“You make it sound like I’m a murderer.”Then his tone shifts. His jaw tightens, the faint crease between his brows deepening as he looks past me for a moment, as if grounding himself.“Nicholas raised my sister and me after our parents died. I do want justice.”The air inside the ambulance feels suddenly heavier, the low hum of the engine pressing into the silence. His gaze returns to me, steady but no longer casual.“But Miss Smith has nothing to do with this case. She’s been dragged into it because of her father’s foolishness.”I interrupt. “I don’t think we have time for this.” My voice comes out firmer than I feel, cutting through the stillness. “We need to go to court. Now.”Silence falls among us. He studies me without blinking, his face unreadable, fingers flexing once at his side. Then he nods once.“Come with me,” he

“You can come out now.”Mr Shaw’s voice is steady, serious.For the first time, I look outside the car, my hands trembling, fingers twitching uncontrollably.Pushing the fear aside, I take a step out. One hand grips the edge of the seat; Mr Shaw takes the other, firm and grounding, helping me to straighten fully.“I… thank you,” I murmur, the words scraping against a dry throat. I swallow, focusing on the motion so I don’t think.The cold air hits my skin, and fear clamps down again, tight, suffocating. My eyes dart instinctively.A short distance away, Watson stands with his assistants, deep in conversation. He notices me staring, lifts a hand briefly, then turns back.“This place is safe,” Mr Shaw says quietly. “My security team chose it carefully, behind the courthouse. Only judges use this gate.”I don’t answer. I force myself to breathe, gathering what little courage I have.In twenty-three years, I’ve never set foot inside a court. This is my first time. And I am here as an accu

“Your father and brother will be brought in shortly,” Watson whispers close to my ear. His breath brushes my skin, warm and faintly scented with coffee. “Don’t react. The media will use even the smallest expression against you.”I give a slow nod to show I understand. My eyes stay locked on the judge’s bench, elevated and domineering. I force myself not to look away, then finally let my gaze sweep across the courtroom, tasting the stale air, feeling the scratch of my chair against my thighs.Mr Shaw isn’t looking at me anymore; he’s speaking with the prosecutor instead. Another middle-aged man has joined them, leaning in, serious. Beside them sits Mr Shaw’s ever-polite assistant, hands folded, posture perfect.I don’t see any of their bodyguards in the room.The room is loud, too loud. Voices overlap, chairs scrape, cameras click. It isn’t just the public. Journalists are everywhere, packed tightly with their cameramen. Flash after flash explodes in my direction. The bursts of light s

“Your Honour, an important piece of evidence came to my attention, which is why I was delayed.”Thomas Nelson steps forward to the judge's table. The same faintly mysterious smile from yesterday rests on his lips, unmoved.“Mr Nelson,” the judge says, his voice heavy, measured. “You are a senior lawyer. Better judgement is expected of you.”“Your Honour, I am sincerely sorry.” Nelson inclines his head, but the smile never fully leaves his mouth.He passes a few documents to the court clerk. The clerk scans them quickly, fingers flipping pages, then places them on the judge’s desk. As paper brushes against wood, the room holds its breath.“I represent Mr Peter Smith, Mrs Sofia Hale, and Mr Richard Hale.”Nelson speaks again. “Convicting my clients based solely on a single video is entirely unjust. My client merely agrees to the discussion shown. There is nothing in that footage that proves involvement in the murder.”I look at Dad. At Aunt Sofia. At Uncle Richard. Their faces don’t fli