(Ronan’s POV)
They told me to be honest.
Not with facts—those had already been twisted in filings and filtered through press briefings—but with tone. With presence. The court didn’t want truth. It wanted confession dressed as sincerity, apology without consequence.
So I gave them that.
I stood as instructed, adjusting the hem of my jacket with the precision of a man who still believed appearance meant something. Every line of my suit had been selected to signal restraint, remorse, duty. Nothing too regal. Nothing too new. The image was curated to thread the impossible line between power and penitence.
“I never intended for it to become this,” I began, my voice pitched carefully—low enough to imply gravity, soft enough to suggest pain.
No one interrupted.
They let me speak.
“When Vi
