His Secret Mistress, Her Public Shame

Eve Cox POV:

"Objection! Your Honor, I request a recess!" Jonathan' s voice, raw with panic, tore through the stunned silence. He was on his feet again, his face a mess of tears and disbelief.

Dallas' s lawyer shot him a look of pure confusion. Why would the victim's son try to stop the presentation of evidence that proved his father's innocence?

"Sit down, Mr. Charles!" the judge commanded, her patience gone. "One more outburst and I will have you held in contempt." The bailiffs nudged him back into his seat, their grips firm. He slumped down, a broken man in a bespoke suit.

The trial resumed its grim march forward. Dallas took the stand. She was a practiced performer, her voice trembling just so, her eyes filled with carefully crafted tears.

"I… I don' t know what happened," she whispered into the microphone. "I have a medical condition. Spells of dizziness. I must have blacked out."

Her lawyer nodded sympathetically. "Your Honor, we have medical records to corroborate Ms. Galloway' s condition." He passed a folder to the clerk, who displayed the documents on the large screen.

It was a doctor' s note, a diagnosis of a rare inner-ear disorder. All forged. All Jonathan' s handiwork. He had called in a favor from a doctor friend, a man whose career was now in jeopardy.

I watched Jonathan as he stared at the screen, at the lies he had so carefully constructed now being used to save the woman who killed his father. He looked like he was being physically ill.

"And Ms. Galloway was so distraught by this tragic accident," the lawyer continued, his voice dripping with false sincerity, "that she immediately reached out to the victim' s family to try and make amends."

He produced another document. "Your Honor, I present to the court a settlement agreement and a letter of forgiveness, signed by the victim' s next of kin."

My signature. Jonathan' s name. The seventy-five-thousand-dollar offer. It all appeared on the screen, a public testament to his monstrous betrayal.

A wave of shocked murmurs rippled through the gallery. People weren't looking at Dallas anymore. They were looking at Jonathan, their faces a mixture of horror and revulsion. They were looking at him like he was a monster.

The judge peered at the documents over her glasses, her expression unreadable. She took a long, deliberate pause.

"Given Ms. Galloway' s documented medical condition," she finally announced, "and the fact that the victim' s family has already agreed to a private settlement and offered their forgiveness, this court finds no grounds for criminal charges. However, Ms. Galloway is found liable in civil court. She is ordered to pay the agreed-upon settlement of seventy-five thousand dollars to the estate of Gordon Charles. Case dismissed."

The gavel fell.

It was over. Dallas Galloway, the woman who had drunkenly sped through a red light and left a good man to die in the street, was free. And it was my husband, the victim's own son, who had handed her the key.

I felt nothing. Just a vast, hollow emptiness. I stood up, my chair scraping against the floor, and turned to leave.

"Eve!"

Clotilde' s voice stopped me. She rushed to my side, her face a storm of fury and confusion. My parents were right behind her.

"What was that?" Clotilde demanded, grabbing my arm. "That settlement… Jonathan' s name… Eve, what is going on?"

Before I could answer, he was there. Jonathan. He pushed through the crowd, his face pale and blotchy, his eyes wild. He grabbed my other arm.

"You," he hissed, his voice trembling with rage. "You knew. You knew it was him all along. You let me do it. You set me up."

I pulled my arm from his grasp. "I let you do it?" I repeated, my voice dangerously calm. "Let me be clear, Jonathan. I told you a man was dead. I told you it was your father. You were the one who called me sentimental. You were the one who told me to be practical."

I looked past him, at the horrified faces of his aunt and my parents.

"You were the one," I said, my voice rising so everyone could hear, "who said my father wasn't worth more than seventy-five thousand dollars."

A collective gasp went through the small crowd that had gathered around us. Clotilde stared at Jonathan, her mouth agape.

"Jonathan?" she whispered. "Is that true?"

He flinched, unable to meet her eyes. "She' s twisting my words! I didn't know… I thought…"

My father stepped forward. Francis Escobar, the man Jonathan had dismissed as a financial black hole, stood tall and straight, his gaze like steel.

"You thought what, Jonathan?" my father asked, his voice low and cold. "That it was me lying on that slab? Tell me. Tell us all. How much am I worth to you?"

Jonathan stammered, his eyes darting around for an escape. He looked from my father's unforgiving face to his aunt's look of utter betrayal. He had nowhere to run.

"It was her fault!" he finally screamed, pointing a shaking finger at me. "She provoked me! She pushed me! She made me do it!"

His aunt' s face crumpled. The last ounce of love or loyalty she had for him vanished, replaced by pure, undiluted contempt.