Molly
Before panic can fully wrap its hands around my throat, Charles moves.
He steps in front of me, close enough that I feel the heat of him immediately. One arm comes around my shoulders, firm and protective, pulling me into his side. The other lifts just enough to create space. His presence alone shifts the crowd.
“Move,” he says calmly.
The reporters hesitate, then part as he pushes us forward. I grip the front of his coat, fingers curling into expensive fabric tightly.
“Is it true your father was poisoned after visiting you?’
“Miss Bennett, are you a murderer?”
My heart hammers harder, but Charles keeps moving steadily.
By the time we reach the courthouse doors, my head is spinning.
Inside, the noise drops instantly. The heavy doors close behind us, sealing out the chaos.
