Brielle’s POV
The courtroom was cold.
Not just in temperature, but in presence. White walls, pale oak furniture, a judge’s bench that towered like judgment itself. It smelled of dust and sweat, of paper and old power.
But above all, it smelled like war.
Adrian sat beside me, his suit sharp, but his jaw tight. Across from us sat the defense: SMIT, now stripped of its glossy armor, looking more like a wounded machine than the empire it once pretended to be.
Sean sat flanked by his legal team, calm but clearly rattled. His eyes found mine only once—and when they did, I didn’t look away.
I wanted him to see what he built.
And what he lost.
The gavel struck. Court was in session.
Our lead attorney stood, opening with a calm but deadly rhythm, outlining SMIT’s theft of proprietary mater
