VANESSA
I stared at the amber liquid in my glass, watching it catch the dim light of the hotel bar. Around me, the low hum of conversation and the gentle clink of glasses created a cocoon of white noise that matched my numb state of mind.
Bianca Hayes had been found guilty.
Not that I'd expected anything else—she'd confessed to her crimes, after all. But somehow, I'd thought fighting for her, speaking my truth in that courtroom, would bring some sense of justice. Some closure.
It didn't.
Instead, I felt hollow. Empty. The image of Bianca in shackles, her eyes finding mine across the courtroom as they led her away, haunted me. She'd nodded once, a silent acknowledgment that felt too much like goodbye.
I'd gotten what I wanted—she would live out her sentence rather than face execution—but victory tasted like ash in my mouth.
I took another sip of whiskey, welcoming the burn.
"This seat taken?"
