The arbitration chamber was designed to be neutral, but it felt like a sterile, airless tomb. Grey walls, a long mahogany table polished to a mirror shine, and the low, predatory hum of the air conditioning. On one side sat Julian, looking every inch the wronged superstar in a charcoal Tom Ford suit, his face a mask of weary solemnity. Beside him, his lawyer, a silver-haired shark named Marcus Vance, radiated an aura of expensive, unshakeable confidence.
On my side, there was only Evelyn Reed, her posture as severe as a blade, and me. I wore a simple black dress, my hands resting on the cool surface of the table. I felt the dozens of eyes on us—the arbitrator, a panel of industry experts, and a select pool of journalists who had fought for a seat at the execution. My execution.
Vance beg
