Chapter 33
Bastien Montclaire
Laurette has it handled—technically—but evil men never play by the rules. And I’ve never been one to sit in the bleachers.
The back doors of the gallery ease open, and I slip through unnoticed. No one turns or looks my way. My timing is perfect. I enter during a witness transition. All attention focuses on the well of the court, not the fringes.
I was here yesterday—back row and silent—cataloging every word and glance. Jon David worked the jury with smooth ease, his performance rehearsed down to his tone.
But today, I’m not here to watch.
Today, I’m here to rattle this motherfucker.
At the prosecution’s table, Laurette holds the room.
Her posture is exemplary. Shoulders square, chin set, every paper aligned as if precision can hold the chaos at bay.
She looks composed. She always does. But I know the tells—the muscle that jumps near her temple, the subtle tightness in her grip.
She’s holding the line. And she’s winning.
Jon David began the trial with slick composure and arrogant polish. His suit is pristine, his smile almost lazy. But when the video finished, that image fractured, and his smug mask slipped.
Evan, once brimming with entitlement, now sits rigidly. The practiced twist of his mouth softens. His eyes dart, not outwardly with challenge, but inwardly, betraying uncertainty under the weight of what unfolded. They no longer radiate control.
Now, both of them appear afraid. And they should be.
They don’t know it, but they’ve got a wolf loose in the gallery.
When the assault video played yesterday, along with the brutal cross-examination that followed, the court adjourned for the day. Well played, Laurette. Ending on that kind of evidence wasn’t just strategy. It was precision.
Nothing else could follow what we’d just seen.
And no doubt every juror spent the night thinking about it.
Because once that video played, once the sound of those men laughing bled through the speakers and the image of Emily Westbrook’s limp body filled the screen, there was no going back.
The case changed in that moment. It stopped being theory and testimony and started being truth.
Undeniable. Unforgivable.
The footage punched straight through doubt and hit something primal. And when the screen went black, it didn’t bring relief. It brought silence—heavy, stifling silence—the kind that doesn’t lift, even overnight.
This morning, the courthouse halls buzzed more quietly. Even the reporters kept their voices low. No one had to say it out loud. Everyone was still carrying the weight of yesterday’s final blow—the video, testimony, and sheer, inescapable reality of what Evan did to Emily Westbrook.
It’s the second day of trial, and Jon David’s playing it cool. But I know better. The video gutted whatever narrative he thought he was building.
He stands with deliberate calm, every detail locked into place. He’s not shaken. This fucker is sharpening. Today, he comes for blood.
“This will help put the defense’s case into perspective,” Jon David says.
He gestures toward the courtroom screen, and the lights dim.
The first image is a group photo. It’s Emily, mid-laugh, a red plastic cup in hand, and people are milling around her.
Jon David strolls a few steps closer to the witness stand, one hand tucked in his pocket.
“Do you recognize this?”
The victim glances at the screen and back at him. “Yes.”
“That’s you in the picture?”
“Yes.”
“And in your hand, you’re holding an alcoholic beverage?”
She shifts in the chair. “It was wine. I’d only had a few sips.”
Jon David nods as if they’re having a pleasant conversation, then turns to the jury. “A few sips.” He clicks the remote.
The next image appears: a group shot. The victim is leaning into Evan, their shoulders pressed, her hair brushing his sleeve.
“That’s you again?”
“Yes.”
“And the man next to you?”
“It’s Evan.”
Jon David lifts a brow. “Your expression there… would you say you appear uncomfortable?”
She hesitates. “No.”
Another click and the selfie fills the screen. She and Evan are cheek-to-cheek, smiling for the camera.
Jon David steps back, so the jury has an unobstructed view. “So this moment right here, you’d describe it as what? Two people enjoying themselves?”
“No. I was being polite. That doesn’t mean I gave him permission to do what he did.”
“But in this picture, you’re smiling. You’re leaning in. You’re on friendly terms with my client.”
“It was before—” she starts, but he cuts in.
“Precisely. And it’s that timeline, ladies and gentlemen, that you’ll need to examine carefully.”
Click.
The next image floods the screen. And it’s not the party.
It’s Jon David, caught mid-kiss with another man. Both of them are shirtless, wrapped in each other. His hand grips the other man’s waist. The other man’s fingers tangle in his hair. It’s undeniably intimate. An image not for public consumption.
And now it’s plastered across the courtroom monitor, towering ten feet wide.
The room goes still, and Jon David freezes mid-gesture. His eyes flick to the screen a second before something in his expression fractures.
Click. Another image replaces the first.
Jon David. On a bed. On all fours. The lighting is harsh enough to make every detail undeniable. His face turned toward the camera, mouth open in a soundless gasp. Behind him, another man grips his hips, the angle leaving nothing to the imagination.
The room is silent, and Jon David freezes. The gallery doesn’t breathe for a heartbeat.
Then the reactions ripple.
Some jurors widen their eyes. Others glance away, discomfort twisting their expressions. A few shift, bodies rigid with disbelief. Then a collective intake of breath.
The judge slams the gavel.
“Order in the court!”
Jon David points the remote at the screen, his face draining of color.
Click.
Another image takes its place.
Still him, still unmistakable. This one is harder to ignore, the act displayed in all its rawness.
Jon David’s hand twitches toward the screen remote, his composure fraying at the edges.
“Your Honor, there appears to be—”
But the next photo is already loading. The image blinks into place before Jon David can kill the feed. Same bed. Different man. Different angle. Jon David’s eyes are half-lidded, head tilted back, expression raw enough to scorch.
The room teeters on the edge of chaos. Whispers ripple through the courtroom, and I watch it all—the stunned faces, the flicker of horror crossing Jon David’s eyes.
He’s controlled every room he’s ever entered. Here, not a single second is his.
The judge’s voice cuts through the rising noise. “Turn it off. Now.”
Jon David fumbles with the remote. His composure, once a practiced armor, lies cracked at his feet.
The screen goes black, but it’s too late.
Those images aren’t gone. They’re burned into the minds of everyone here, into every juror who now questions more than the narrative, into every reporter who is already imagining tomorrow’s headlines.
Objective: rattle the bastard.
Status: enthusiastically complete.
Turns out he does fluster. Good to know.
Across the aisle, I catch Laurette’s profile. She’s composed, but the tension behind her eyes is enough to read without words.
The courtroom hums again. Quiet, but electric. Something has snapped.
Jon David’s jaw tightens. His voice drops to a register that’s supposed to project control, but I hear the strain under it.
“My apologies to the court.”
The gavel cracks again. Sharp enough to make a few jurors flinch.
The judge’s tone is steel.
“We’ll take a fifteen-minute recess. Mr. Bellamy, in chambers. Now.”
Jon David doesn’t look at the gallery or Laurette. But the tips of his ears burn red as he crosses the well, every step another fracture in the armor he’s spent years polishing.
It was too easy. That’s the truth of it. Matt said the firewall on Jon David’s computer was laughable. More for show than for security. One clean breach. All it took was one disguised file transfer, and the pictures were waiting in his evidence folder to be presented.
Jon David believing he uploaded them himself? Pure artistry.
I didn’t expose them for shock value. I showed them because he violated Laurette and never once owned it, never once apologized. He tried to make her think she was crazy. No one does that to my girl and gets away with it.
Better still, there’s no path that leads back to Laurette. He can never hang this on her. All he’ll have is the gnawing belief that he must have done it to himself—grabbed the wrong files, dragged them into the wrong folder, handed the rope over for his own hanging.
This wasn’t about exposing Jon David’s sexuality. I don’t give two shits about what he gets off on in the bedroom. I have my own kinks.
This was about wiping that smug-as-fuck smile off his face. It was about flustering him. It was about shaking his belief in himself. The man built his entire persona on being untouchable. I’ve reminded him he’s not.
He drugged my girl. He isn’t innocent.
Someone escorts the jurors away. The courtroom murmurs, restless and electric. I move with it, sliding toward the back doors. People crowd into the hallway and stand in hushed circles.
Laurette stands near the far wall with two colleagues. I angle behind a pair of bailiffs, using their broad frames as moving cover. My stride is unhurried, each step measured.
I turn to catch her profile in the corner of my eye. Her plump pink lips are unmoving, her gaze fixed on whoever is talking. But I know she’s replaying every second of what happened in there—Jon David choking on his own spectacle, the jury watching it like a car wreck they couldn’t look away from.
I lift my phone to my ear like I’m mid-call. As I brush past her, I say it plainly, like it’s part of the conversation. “You’re welcome, Babygirl.”
I don’t slow down. Don’t so much as glance toward her. If she looks my way—and I’m certain she does—she’ll catch only my retreating form.
I imagine her eyes on my back, tracking the line of my shoulders and rhythm of my stride. She’s watching, trying to match the silhouette slipping down the hallway to the one that’s been fucking her senseless in the dark.
She won’t leave her circle. But if she does step away, I’ll already be gone, a ghost disappearing before she can follow.
The glass doors ahead spill fractured bands of afternoon sun across the floor. I walk through them without pause, letting the courthouse fall away behind me.
She fights evil every day, carving justice from chaos. But even a legal eagle like her needs someone in the shadows, someone to tip the scales when the system wavers. Today, I’m that edge.