I Won't Hurt You Anymore.

– Verdict of Blood

The jury filed back into the courtroom, faces drawn tight with gravity. Emerie sat motionless, fingers digging into the hem of her blazer. Her heart pounded louder than the murmuring crowd.

“All rise,” the bailiff called out.

The judge returned to the bench. “Madam Foreperson, has the jury reached a unanimous verdict?”

A middle-aged woman stood. “We have, Your Honor.”

Emerie exhaled—barely.

The judge nodded. “On the charge of attempted carjacking with a deadly weapon, how do you find the defendant?”

“Guilty.”

Emerie’s ears rang.

“On the charge of aggravated assault—”

“Guilty.”

She stopped hearing the rest.

The judge’s gavel dropped. “Sentencing is to proceed immediately.”

The prosecutor leaned toward her. “You did it. We all did.”

She nodded numbly, her eyes drifting across the aisle. Antony sat motionless, expression unreadable. No reaction. No blink. Just that same icy stare that cut right through her.

The judge cleared his throat. “Given the severity of the charges, the violent history, and overwhelming evidence, I am sentencing the defendant, Antony Doe, to death by lethal injection.”

Gasps rippled through the courtroom.

Emerie sat stone still.

Blake gripped her hand from the gallery, whispering, “It’s over.”

But it wasn’t.

Because Antony turned his head—just slightly—and looked straight at her. His lips moved.

*You’ll remember me.*

She felt cold crawl up her spine.

---

**Outside the courthouse.**

A storm of microphones blocked her exit.

“Ms. Caldwell! Were you hoping for a death sentence?”

“Do you feel safer now?”

“Do you believe justice was served?”

Emerie kept her voice steady. “The court made its decision. I trust the system.”

She ducked into the waiting car, ignoring the follow-ups. As the door shut, silence fell like a curtain.

---

**That evening.**

The TV blared in the background: news anchors recapping the trial with highlights, commentary, and pundits debating capital punishment.

Blake muted it. “They won’t shut up about it.”

Emerie curled into the corner of the couch. “I didn’t ask for this attention.”

“You didn’t ask to be attacked either.”

She stared at her untouched tea.

“I just wanted to finish my project and go home.”

Blake turned to her. “You’re the face of something now. Survival. Strength.”

She shook her head. “That’s not what I feel.”

“What do you feel?”

Emerie hesitated. “Like I closed a door… but something stayed inside with me.”

---

**In his holding cell.**

Antony sat at the edge of the cot, eyes unfocused. The public defender paced just outside the bars.

“Antony. Did you hear what I said? We’re appealing. Automatic in death penalty cases.”

He didn’t reply.

“New judge. New angle. Maybe we push for mental instability—”

He looked up sharply. “No.”

“No?”

“No insanity defense. No appeal.”

The lawyer frowned. “You can’t be serious. This isn’t the time to play martyr.”

Antony stood slowly, walking to the bars. “They all want to pretend they’ve won. Let them.”

“Then what do you want?”

He looked past her. “To be remembered.”

---

**Three weeks later.**

Emerie walked through her firm’s downtown office, everyone watching her a second too long, pretending they weren’t.

Her boss stepped into her path.

“Emerie.”

She smiled politely. “Morning, Cam.”

“Just wanted to say… proud of how you handled everything. The media. The trial.”

“Thanks.”

He shifted awkwardly. “You think you’re ready to take on the Virelli Pavilion again?”

She paused. “Honestly, I need something smaller first. I want to get grounded.”

Cam nodded. “Whatever you need.”

But as she walked away, she heard the whispers.

**She’s the one from the news.**

**Don’t piss her off—she’s got courtroom experience.**

---

**One month later.**

She was sketching again. Clean lines. Curved angles. Spaces meant to heal.

The nightmares had faded but never left. Sometimes she woke to phantom sounds—slamming doors, ragged breathing.

The phone rang. It was Reyes.

“Hey, detective.”

“Sorry to bother you,” he said. “There’s something you should know.”

Emerie sat straighter. “What is it?”

“Got confirmation today: Antony Doe’s real name is Antony Macadam.”

“Macadam?” she repeated. “Like the shipping company?”

“Exactly. He’s the illegitimate son of Reginald Macadam. Billionaire industrialist.”

Her breath caught. “That… can’t be right.”

“DNA confirmed. Media hasn’t picked it up yet. But something’s coming. We just don’t know what.”

She hung up, pulse racing.

For the first time since the verdict, the fear returned.

---

**Inside solitary confinement.**

Antony was reading. Or at least, pretending to.

A guard approached. “Macadam. You’ve got a lawyer visit.”

He didn’t respond.

“She says she’s from your family.”

Antony frowned.

---

**In the visitation room.**

An elegant woman in a black suit sat calmly behind the glass.

“Hello, Antony.”

He didn’t sit. “You’re not my mother.”

“No. I’m your cousin. Second cousin, technically. I handle things… quietly.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What things?”

“Your release.”

He laughed once, sharp and bitter. “I’m on death row.”

“Not for long,” she said coolly. “Your conviction will be vacated. Procedural failures, chain of custody issues, suppressed evidence. All already in motion.”

He blinked.

“You’re the last male Macadam left,” she continued. “Reginald’s son is dead. The family needs an heir. You’re it.”

His voice lowered. “You’re not doing this for me.”

“No,” she said, smiling faintly. “We’re doing it for power.”