The air in the courtroom didn't smell like justice; it smelled of stale coffee and the metallic tang of expensive, practiced lies. Samarth stood with his back too straight...a suit of armor tailored to hide the hollow ache in his chest. His left hand felt surgically light; the absence of his wedding ring left a ghost of a weight, replaced now by the deep, indelible fingerprints he’d burned into the manila folder clutched at his side.

Across the aisle, Smita sat with a composure that bordered on the lethal. She crossed her legs with deliberate, theatrical slowness, the silk of her designer skirt whispering a sharp shhh against the leather chair. She adjusted the hem just enough to reveal a flash of skin, causing the bailiff to clear his throat.