Chapter Eighteen

I made it to the courthouse twelve minutes late. Not bad, all things considered.

I parked illegally, the old Subaru coughing hard when I killed the engine. Let them tow me. It didn’t matter. My hands shook as I yanked the keys free, the faint sting of cleaning solution still burning under my fingernails.

I'd scrubbed until my skin felt raw in the gas station bathroom. The blood clung anyway, ghost traces hidden deep in the cuticles, under the edges of my nails.

I told myself no one would notice. That it didn't matter even if they did. I was here. I was still standing. That was all that mattered after what had happened.

The courthouse security guard barely looked up as I passed through. I felt certain he would see the blood, but he didn’t. The guard's bored expression never changed as I passed through.

I exhaled slowly and entered the marble labyrinth beyond, the halls a blur of polished tile and official echoes. I knew the way too well by now—had walked it so many times these past months that my feet carried me automatically, muscle memory guiding me while my mind raced ahead.

I pushed the door to the judge’s chamber open without knocking, the solid weight of it giving way beneath my palm.

Heads turned. The bailiff stepped forward before recognizing me. 

The judge glanced up sharply, mouth already tightening with irritation at the interruption. His silver-framed glasses caught the overhead lights as he stared me down, silent judgment radiating from his weathered face.

“Miss Brooks,” he said. “You are late. I was moments away from issuing a ruling in your absence.”

The chambers were close and too warm, the air sharp with toner and old paper. No gallery. Just the judge, Denise, Naveen’s lawyer, and the court reporter’s quiet clack-clack behind her mask of neutrality. No place to hide.

Denise turned at the sound of the door—slow, deliberate. No relief crossed her face. No flicker of concern or surprise. Just a cool assessment, her eyes sweeping over me like she was updating a file. She had been fighting alone for almost twenty minutes, and whatever sympathy she might have once offered was long gone. What remained was protocol, polished to a mirror sheen.

Across the aisle, Naveen froze.

It was quick—a flicker no one else would have noticed—but I caught it. The brief, incredulous flash of shock. The widening of his eyes. The moment where, for the first time since I'd known him, he looked afraid. They had told him I was dead. They had promised. They probably took pictures as proof. And here I was, still breathing.

Naveen leaned over and said something quietly in the ear of his lawyer.

"I apologize for the delay, Your Honor," I said, voice steady. Too steady. Practiced. Hollow. "My car broke down just outside the city. No cell service. I had to wait for a tow truck before I could reach anyone."

The lie slid easily off my tongue—mundane, believable, unimpeachable. Bianca would be proud of me. Nothing that could be easily verified or disputed. Nothing worth investigating. Just bad luck on a bad day, the kind of minor disaster that happens to normal people. People who haven't spent the morning dead on the floor of the kitchen.

The judge studied me for a long, silent beat, glasses low on his nose. I could feel the weight of that look—cataloging my posture, my voice, the way my coat sleeves were still damp at the cuffs. After a long moment, he sighed and set his pen down.

Before he could speak, Naveen’s attorney cleared his throat.

“Your Honor, given the circumstances—and our team’s understanding that Ms. Brooks would not be appearing today—we request a short continuance. Two weeks. To allow time for proper review.”

The judge blinked, surprised. Then narrowed his eyes.

“You’re asking for a delay.”

“Yes, Your Honor. It’s our first request.”

A pause. The room held its breath.

“You seemed so eager to have this decided today.”

The opposing counsel shifted slightly. “Given the unusual circumstances... we believe it’s in the best interest of the child that all parties be given time to prepare their closing positions thoroughly.”

The judge made a show of checking the docket. The silence stretched.

“Very well,” he said at last, though his tone made it clear he thought the whole thing smelled off. “Two weeks. Final arguments. No exceptions.”

His gaze flicked to me. “That includes you, Ms. Brooks.”

I met his eyes, steady. “Understood.”

Denise didn’t exhale. Didn’t smile. Just stacked her files with the same brutal efficiency she'd probably use to strip wallpaper.

The judge banged his gavel once, a sharp, irritated crack that echoed across the wood-paneled room. Case adjourned.

Denise leaned in, her voice low and precise. “You got lucky. Don’t mistake that for a win.” She didn’t wait for a reaction. Just zipped her folio closed, knuckles white. “He was about to hand custody over. You walk in late, and suddenly they’re asking for a continuance?”

I blinked like I didn’t understand the question. “Car trouble.”

She looked at me too long. Then gave a tight nod.

As I followed Denise out the door, I felt Naveen’s gaze dragging across my skin like a cold blade—too steady, too certain.

She said nothing more. Just peeled off at the stairwell with a clipped “I’ll be in touch,” her heels striking the tile like punctuation. No backward glance. No warmth.

And then it was just me.

The hallway had emptied while we were inside. The florescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a sterile glow on the floor still damp from the janitor’s mop. I walked the length of it slowly, each step loud in the hush, resisting the urge to turn around.

I pressed the elevator button and waited.

I felt him before I heard him.

The elevator doors slid open with a hollow ding that echoed down the empty corridor. I stepped inside, turning to face the doors. My reflection fractured across the brushed metal paneling: pale skin, ragged edges, eyes like scraped glass. I looked terrible. Life death warmed over, Meg would have said. I almost giggled.

He followed, just as I knew he would.

Naveen said nothing at first. Just stood too close—impeccable in his charcoal suit, not a single hair out of place. His cologne drifted between us, expensive and sterile, like hospital flowers. Only the faint tightness at the corners of his mouth betrayed anything human beneath the mask.

I pressed the button for the first floor, wondering if my car had been towed.

The doors slid closed, sealing us in together.

Then he leaned over—carefully, deliberately—and hit the emergency stop.

The elevator jerked to a halt. A mechanical groan. Lights flickering once, then steadying.

"How?" he asked. Not angry. Not frantic. Just... perplexed.

His dark eyes swept over me like I was some flaw in the marble—a crack that shouldn't have formed.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. He wasn't looking for an explanation. He was recalibrating.

The knot in his tie was perfect. His cufflinks gleamed. The cologne he wore—expensive and imperial—carried notes of mint and old-world expectation. Every inch of him still wrapped in the delusion of inevitability.

He stepped closer, not to threaten, but to crowd. As if proximity could restore order. As if I might remember my place if I would just accept his power.

"You shouldn’t be here," he said softly. "You were supposed to be finished. You were never meant for more than quiet failure."

I reached for the button to start the elevator’s descent again.

His hand came up—not to strike, not to shove—but to claim. He gripped my wrist with the easy confidence of someone who had never been told no. Not by women. Not by courts. Not by consequence.

Ownership.

Control.

Dominance.

The same silent currency he’d traded in for years.

I let him.

Let him believe the story still belonged to him. That I hadn’t changed. That he still set the rules.

Then I moved.

I caught his wrist in mine—quiet, exacting. Not hard. Not fast. Just enough to freeze the moment and turn the tide. His skin was warm beneath my fingers, pulse fluttering.

He didn’t try to pull away. Maybe he thought this was where I would beg—plead for peace, for mercy, for him to stop grinding me down one motion to the next.

Maybe he still thought I was the girl who flinched.

I closed my hand around his and held his gaze, steady and unblinking.

The crunch was slow. Ugly. Wet.

Like stepping on fallen branches after rain.

I felt every bone yield beneath my fingers—each fracture a confession. The magic moved quiet beneath my skin, precise as a scalpel, merciless as judgment.

Naveen’s face drained of color. His mouth opened, but no sound came. His knees gave way, sagging against the wall as the bones crumpled like cheap tin under my hand.

Still, I didn’t let go.

I followed the break up into his arm, the magic guiding me like breath, like instinct. I felt the delicate lattice of joints and sinew collapse beneath the quiet, surgical pressure of my will. The magic whispered of stress points and fracture lines, guiding my hand like a lover.

And beneath it, grief surged—not for him, but for Hugh, and the promise I had made and broken again. Every fracture I delivered came with the ache of what I had once sworn never to become. Hugh had asked me to live gently. To let the world turn without bending it to my will and playing God. But today—today I chose something else. And it broke my heart even as I did it.

When I was done, I let him feel it. Every inch of what I had taken.

There was no blood. No torn skin.

Just ruin.

“You will not touch her,” I said, low and inevitable. “You will not come near her. You will not speak her name.”

He stared at me, pupils blown wide with shock, face pale and sweating. His lips parted—maybe to beg, maybe to curse—but the pain stole whatever words he thought he still owned.

I watched him reach inward—felt the tremor of magic spark and stutter like a faulty fuse—and fail. Whatever spell he called up slipped off me like water on oiled glass. Ineffectual. Unwanted. Denied. And he knew it.

Death had rendered me invulnerable to him.

I reached past him without a glance and hit the emergency release.

The elevator lurched back into motion.

The doors slid open at the first floor.

I stepped out, adjusting my coat, smoothing my hair with steady fingers.

The spring air hit me like a baptism—clean, sharp, full of freshly cut grass and the ocean.

Behind me, Naveen lay crumpled on the floor, cradling the shattered ruin of his arm, staring after me like he had just witnessed something impossible.

Maybe he had.

Maybe I had too.

I didn’t look back.