Beneath The Verdict

Chapter 1: The Letter

Chapter 1: The Letter

The first thing they taught us in law school was simple.

Facts don't lie. People do.

Professor Brian had repeated those words so many times that the entire class could recite them with him.

He stood at the front of Lecture Hall B, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a thick Criminal Law textbook resting on the podium. The morning sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting long shadows across rows of students already half exhausted despite it being only ten o'clock.

"If your client swears they're innocent," Professor Brian said, writing a single word across the whiteboard—FACTS—"don't believe them."

A few students laughed.

He didn't.

"Believe the evidence."

Silence settled over the room.

"The law isn't built on feelings. It's built on proof."

I stared at the word on the board, my pen motionless over my notebook.

Proof.

If only life worked that way.

If only every question had an answer.

If only every death had the truth buried neatly inside a case file.

Maybe then my father would still be alive.

"Miss Whitmore."

My head snapped up.

Professor Brian was looking directly at me.

"If someone confesses to murder but the evidence proves otherwise, which do you trust?"

"The evidence," I answered automatically.

He nodded.

"Exactly."

The lecture continued, but I barely heard another word.

Three years had passed since my father died.

Three years since New York mourned one of its most respected defense attorneys.

Three years since I watched them lower David Whitmore's coffin into the ground while reporters crowded behind police barricades, hungry for one last photograph.

They called it a tragic accident.

A rainy night.

Faulty brakes.

No suspects.

Case closed.

Everyone accepted it.

Everyone except my mother.

She never stopped blaming the Carter family.

According to her, my father's biggest rival, Victor Carter, had spent years trying to destroy his career.

I never knew whether to believe her.

Hatred had a way of rewriting memories.

The ringing bell finally pulled me back to reality.

Students rushed toward the exit, eager for lunch or freedom or both.

I packed my books into my backpack when Zara slid into the empty seat beside me.

"You were daydreaming again."

"I was listening."

"You answered one question."

"I answered it correctly."

She laughed.

"You always do."

Zara had been my best friend since freshman year.

Where I overthought everything, she spoke without thinking.

Where I saw problems, she saw opportunities.

She was the only person who could make me smile on the worst days.

"You know what everyone's talking about?" she asked as we stepped into the hallway.

"I don't."

"Because you're allergic to gossip."

"I'm selective."

She rolled her eyes dramatically.

"Fine. Mr. Serious News is back."

"I have no idea who you're talking about."

She gasped.

"No way."

"What?"

"You seriously haven't heard?"

"Heard what?"

She lowered her voice.

"Damien Carter."

The name stopped me mid-step.

"The Damien Carter?"

"The one and only."

"I thought he lived in London."

"He did."

"And now?"

"He came back this morning."

I scoffed.

"So?"

"So?"

She stared at me as if I'd committed a crime.

"The entire university is losing their minds."

"I don't see why."

"Because he's rich."

I kept walking.

"Handsome."

I shrugged.

"Future partner at Carter & Associates."

I remained silent.

"And apparently impossible to date because he ignores everyone."

Still nothing.

She sighed dramatically.

"You are impossible."

"I just don't care."

That wasn't entirely true.

I cared because of his last name.

Carter.

The family my mother blamed for every tragedy our family had endured.

The family she refused to speak about without anger filling her voice.

If she heard Damien Carter had returned to New York, she'd probably cancel dinner just to complain about him.

"I've got the library," I said.

"You need a social life."

"I need grades."

"You need both."

"I'll survive."

We reached the hallway lined with student lockers.

Students moved around us in hurried conversations.

Someone laughed down the corridor.

Someone dropped a stack of books.

Life continued as though nothing extraordinary was about to happen.

I stopped in front of my locker.

Something was different.

A cream-colored envelope rested between the locker door and the frame.

No stamp.

No sender.

Just my name.

Aria Whitmore.

Written in elegant black ink.

A strange uneasiness settled in my stomach.

"Who's it from?" Zara asked.

"I... don't know."

I looked around.

No one seemed to be watching.

No one looked suspicious.

Just students walking to their next class.

Slowly, I pulled the envelope free.

The paper felt unusually thick.

Expensive.

Deliberate.

Almost...

Personal.

"Open it," Zara urged.

My fingers hesitated.

Something deep inside me whispered not to.

I ignored it.

Carefully, I tore the envelope open.

A single sheet of paper slipped into my hand.

Nothing else.

No signature.

No explanation.

Just one sentence.

"Your father wasn't killed in an accident. He was murdered."

Everything around me disappeared.

The voices.

The footsteps.

The laughter.

Gone.

I read the sentence again.

And again.

Each time hoping the words would change.

They didn't.

My hands began to shake.

"Aria?"

Zara reached for the paper.

I folded it before she could read it.

"What is it?"

"...Nothing."

She frowned.

"That wasn't nothing."

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

"I said I'm fine."

The words came out sharper than I intended.

Her expression softened.

"I'm sorry."

I took a deep breath.

"So am I."

My phone vibrated inside my pocket.

Unknown Number.

For a moment, I considered ignoring it.

Instead, I answered.

"Hello?"

Silence.

Then a man's voice.

Low.

Calm.

Almost emotionless.

"If you want the truth about David Whitmore..."

Every muscle in my body froze.

"...stop trusting the people closest to you."

"Who is this?"

No answer.

"How do you know my father?"

The line went dead.

I stared at my phone.

Call ended.

My heartbeat thundered in my ears.

Someone had to be playing a sick joke.

But who?

And why now?

"Aria?"

Zara's voice pulled me back to reality.

I slipped my phone into my pocket before she could see the panic written all over my face.

"Who was that?"

"No one."

She folded her arms.

"You're lying."

"I said it was no one."

"First the letter. Now the phone call." She lowered her voice. "You're starting to scare me."

I glanced down the hallway.

Students continued walking to their next lectures as though nothing had happened.

Lockers slammed shut.

Laughter echoed from the far end of the corridor.

Somehow, the world kept moving while mine had just stopped.

I reached into my bag and unfolded the letter again.

The words hadn't changed.

"Your father wasn't killed in an accident. He was murdered."

A shiver ran down my spine.

"Aria..." Zara said softly. "Let me see it."

For a moment, I hesitated.

Then I handed her the paper.

She read the sentence once.

Then again.

The color drained from her face.

"This... this isn't funny."

"I know."

"Who would send something like this?"

"I wish I knew."

She looked around instinctively, as though expecting someone to be watching us.

"Maybe we should tell campus security."

"And say what? Someone left me a letter with no name, no fingerprints, and no proof?"

"There has to be cameras."

"There are."

"Then let's ask for the footage."

I shook my head.

"They won't hand over surveillance footage because of an anonymous letter."

Before Zara could respond, a loud commotion echoed from outside.

The hallway suddenly filled with excited voices.

Students who had been walking calmly a moment ago began rushing toward the main entrance.

"Move!"

"He's here!"

"No way!"

"Hurry before you miss him!"

Zara frowned.

"What on earth..."

Another group of girls hurried past us.

One of them squealed loudly.

"I swear if I don't get a picture today, I'll cry!"

Curiosity finally got the better of Zara.

She grabbed my wrist.

"Come on."

"I'm really not in the mood."

"Just for a minute."

"Zara—"

She was already dragging me toward the entrance.

By the time we stepped outside, the front courtyard was packed with students.

Dozens of them.

Maybe hundreds.

Everyone faced the university gates.

Phones were already raised in the air.

Some students stood on benches just to get a better view.

"What is going on?" I muttered.

Zara stood on her tiptoes.

"I can't see."

Then...

The deep purr of an engine rolled through the courtyard.

A sleek black Rolls-Royce glided through the university gates before coming to a smooth stop in front of the Faculty of Law building.

The entire crowd erupted.

"That's his car!"

"Oh my God..."

"He's actually here!"

A security guard stepped forward, clearing a path through the crowd.

The driver climbed out first.

He walked around the vehicle and opened the rear passenger door.

Silence.

For one brief moment...

The entire courtyard seemed to hold its breath.

A polished black shoe touched the pavement.

Then another.

A tall figure emerged from the car.

Tailored charcoal suit.

White shirt.

Black tie.

Broad shoulders.

Dark hair neatly swept back.

He removed a pair of sunglasses with effortless confidence, revealing piercing blue eyes that scanned the crowd without the slightest hint of interest.

He wasn't smiling.

He wasn't waving.

He barely acknowledged the hundreds of students staring at him.

He simply adjusted the cuff of his watch and began walking toward the building as though none of them existed.

"That's Damien Carter," someone whispered beside me.

"The son of Victor Carter."

"The future of Carter & Associates."

"The genius who graduated top of his class in London."

I couldn't move.

So this was Damien Carter.

The son of the man my mother had blamed for my father's death.

The man I'd spent years hating without ever meeting.

He was only a few steps away now.

Then, without warning...

He stopped.

Slowly...

His gaze lifted.

Across the sea of students...

His eyes found mine.

And for the briefest second...

Everything else disappeared.

He didn't look surprised.

He didn't look curious.

He looked...

Like he'd been expecting me.

A strange chill crawled down my spine.

No.

That was impossible.

We had never met.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he reached into the inside pocket of his suit.

My breath caught.

He pulled out a cream-colored envelope.

The same color.

The same paper.

The same elegant handwriting.

Aria Whitmore.

He held it for only a second before slipping it back into his jacket.

Then he walked inside the building.

Leaving me frozen where I stood.

Only one thought echoed through my mind.

How the hell did Damien Carter have my name?