Married to the Billionaire Who Betrayed Me novel Chapter 256

Chapter 256 Crashing My Own Public Trial

I press my palms against the heavy ak doors of the Senate Judiciary Chamber. The brass handles feel cold against my skin. I draw a breath into my lungs. I push.

The hinges groan under the weight. The doors swing inward.

A wall of noise washes over me. A drone of hushed conversations, rustling papers, and the hum of the air filtration system. The chamber resembles a grand amphitheater. Elevated tiers of polished mahogany desks form a wide semi-circle. Senators sit high above the floor. They look down on the center stage.

Federal Prosecutor Sterling stands at the prosecutor’s podium. He wears a tailored gray suit. The federal seal hangs on the wall behind his shoulders. He holds a stack of printed documents. A microphone bends toward his mouth. An empty leather chair sits at the defense table. The prop for his grand play.

“The fugitive Minerva Hayes proves her guilt through her absence,” Sterling speaks into the microphone. His voice echoes through the massive speakers. “She abandons the rule of law. She hides in the shadows like a coward.”

The heavy oak doors hit the rubber wall stoppers with a loud, resounding thud.

The noise cuts Sterling’s sentence in half.

I step over the threshold. Tristan walks beside me. A living wall of muscle and devotion. He wears his dark charcoal suit like battle armor.

The room goes silent. A dead, suffocating quiet sweeps through the chamber. Hundreds of heads turn.

Then, the explosion happens.

The press gallery sits in the balcony above the main floor. The reporters realize the fugitive Chairman did not run. Hundreds of camera lenses pivot toward the entrance. Flashbulbs ignite. A relentless storm of blinding white light fills, the air. The shutter clicks sound like hail hitting a tin roof. Reporters shout my name.

I do not break my stride. My black heels strike the marble floor. A steady, rhythmic beat. I carry the slim black leather briefcase. It holds the Geneva ledger.

It holds the weapon to destroy the corrupt machine.

I walk down the center aisle.

Tristan stays one step behind my right shoulder. He scans the room. He tracks the armed federal marshals stationed at the exits. He measures the distance

between our bodies and the threats. He protects my flank. His presence calms the racing beat of my heart. I do not walk into the fire alone.

I look at Sterling.

The gallery noise reaches a deafening pitch. Reporters push against the wooden railings. They scream questions over each other.

The Committee Chairman grabs his wooden gavel. He strikes the sound block. The sharp cracks echo through the large room.

“Order” the Committee Chairman shouts into his microphone. He is an older man with white has Confusion paints his features. “I demand order in this chamber!”

The marshals in the balcony move to push the reporters back. The shouting dulls to a frantic hum. The cameras continue to flash.

Sterling recovers his voice. The panic bleeds into his tone. He abandons his calculated calm. He points a shaking finger at me.

“Marshals!” Sterling yells. “Seize the fugitive. Place her in handcuffs. She is a threat to the state.”

Four federal marshals step forward from the perimeter of the room. They unhook their metal restraints. They march toward the defense table.

Tristan shifts his stance.

He steps between the advancing marshals and my body. He does not draw a weapon. He does not raise his fists. He expands his chest. He squares his shoulders. The Johnston titan issues a silent, lethal warning. He stares the lead marshal in the eye.