Cruel Infatuation (Underground Kings 3)

I know that’s where I’m going.

I loosen my tie when the room starts to get hot. I’m sweating.

“Are you okay?” my lawyer whispers out of the side of his mouth.

Is he an idiot? Do I look okay? Does anything about this situation seem okay? How the hell did he pass law school?

“Well, he didn’t like that answer. He tossed me on the bed and ripped off my clothes and pinned my wrists above my head.” She pulls her long sleeves away from her wrists and shows the jury the faded bruises that are now yellow instead of the deep blue in the photos. “Then he slapped me across the face.”

“Bullshit,” I mutter under my breath when she touches her cheek, as if remembering the pain I caused her.

“Then he lifted up my skirt and ripped my panties off, and then he…” She swallows and looks away from her lawyer.

“And he what, Ms. Johnson?”

“And then he unzipped his pants and forced himself on me.”

“What does ‘force himself’ mean? Did he kiss you? Hold your legs? What did he do exactly, Ms. Johnson?”

Her lips wobble as her eyes search the room, and when they land on me, her lips part. Nothing about her looks beautiful to me anymore. Her brown hair I was once so obsessed with looks like a tangled rat’s nest, and her eyes are too small for her face. Or I’m just seeing how ugly she really is on the inside, and it’s making her outside match.

I meet her stare, and years of memories play in front of me. The moment we first met, our first kiss, the sound of her laugh, our first Christmas, the happiness… Everything was a lie.

The hesitation in her answer tells me she knows what she is doing is wrong, but if she knows, why is she doing it?

“And then he put his penis inside me, even after I said no. He kept on. I couldn’t fight him off. I mean, look how big he is!” She points to me as another tear falls down her cheek. This tear is real. I can tell. Her eyes always get squinty when she is actually sad, and her face gets blotchy.

Like it is right now, and her face has been clear as day the entire trial.

I’m six-five and in shape. The jury is having no problem imagining me overpowering her.

“I thought we would be together forever. I thought he was my one true love. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him, but after what he did, no way. No woman deserves that.”

“Thank you. No further questions, Your Honor.” Her lawyer smirks at mine as he walks back to his table.

My attorney stands and ambles forward, unbuttoning his bl

azer and shoving his hands in his pockets. “Ms. Johnson, you said that you loved him, correct?”

“That’s correct,” she says in the microphone, and it takes all I have not to laugh. She never loved me. If she did, she wouldn’t be doing this. It all makes sense now. She’s a girl from the wrong side of the tracks, and I’m the rich guy she dug her claws into, and like a fool, I let her.

“But you and Mr. Campbell have been in a serious relationship for years. He has no criminal record, no other women have come forward to corroborate your story or have similar situations. Nothing in his behavior says that he is the kind of man to do such crime. Now, on the day you accused Mr. Campbell of rape, you were seen with another man—” The jury whispers to one another, and my lawyer turns his head and winks at me over his shoulder.

I sit up straighter from this news. This is the first I’ve heard of it. Finally, fucking hope flares in my chest. Maybe he is worth the hefty price tag.

My attorney grabs a file off the desk and hands it over to the jury, then he offers a copy to Kendall. “This is a photo of you leaving a gas station with an unidentified man two hours after your sexual intercourse with Mr. Campbell. Who is this man, Ms. Johnson?”

“That’s my friend David. I called him after it happened. I didn’t know who to turn to or what to do.”

“Gas station shows a record of you buying condoms with this man. Is it possible that you were having an affair with David? Is it possible the man in the photo was the one who hurt you, but you’re blaming my client because he has money? Isn’t that true, Ms. Johnson!”

“Objection. Badgering the witness, Your Honor.”

“Sustained. Mr. Alkroy, please rephrase your question without attacking the witness,” Judge Parcel says, a strong older woman with a backbone for no bullshit. I know I'm going to be found guilty. A woman judge, mostly women on the jury, and more evidence to convict me than Charles fucking Manson.

“Of course. Apologies, Your Honor. Ms. Johnson, are you accusing the wrong man of rape for his money?”

“No, I would never do that. I do expect a settlement fee, though.”