Chapter 2The Accused Attacker Changed Gender in Court

Declan stood frozen in the aisle, looking at me with his brow completely knotted in distress.

"Nora, sweetheart. Quinn is a girl. I kept the extent of our friendship quiet because I didn't want you overthinking things."

He let out a heavy, ragged sigh. He sounded like a father scolding a toddler who had thrown a tantrum.

"If you were feeling insecure, you could have taken it out on me at home. Yelled at me, thrown things. Whatever you needed."

"But you dragged her into a courtroom."

"She just tore her shirt open in front of a hundred strangers just to prove she isn't a monster."

He dropped his voice, letting it crack perfectly.

"How is she supposed to walk out of here with any dignity left?"

The gallery immediately took the bait.

"That is seriously messed up. Couldn't they just talk it out? Why ruin someone's life?"

"How is that poor girl ever going to show her face again?"

"Man, I feel bad for the husband. Stuck between his crazy wife and his best bro."

Declan acted like he didn't hear a word of it.

He just kept his eyes locked on mine, projecting nothing but exhaustion and sorrow.

"Nora, I'm not mad at you."

"But you owe Quinn an explanation."

"Just apologize, and we can put this awful mess behind us. Please?"

His tone was nauseatingly gentle.

So gentle that anyone looking in would think I was a hysterical, paranoid housewife ruining everyone's life for sport.

But my mind was racing back to that room.

That night. Pinned to the couch, my throat raw from screaming for someone, anyone, to help me.

There were footsteps in the hallway outside.

They paused right outside the door.

And then, they walked away.

I had always told myself it was just a random waiter or a lost guest.

But looking at Declan's face right now, the cadence of those footsteps clicked into place in my memory.

Heavy, deliberate, familiar.

I didn't acknowledge his pathetic plea.

I just stared right through him.

"Declan."

"You walked past the VIP lounge that night, didn't you?"

His perfectly crafted mask of sorrow slipped for a fraction of a second.

"Nora, what on earth are you talking about?"

He frowned, layering on the confusion thick.

"I was in the main ballroom giving toasts the entire night. Why would I be all the way down by the lounges?"

"Are you sure you aren't... misremembering things again?"

His delivery was flawless.

Too flawless. Like a script he had rehearsed a hundred times in the mirror.

"I am not misremembering anything."

I glared at him, refusing to blink.

"I know the sound of your walk. I would never mistake it."

Declan went quiet for exactly two seconds.

Then he exhaled slowly, turned away from me, and looked up at the judge.

"Your Honor, I need to disclose something."

"Something regarding my wife's... condition."

The judge gave a terse nod.

Declan hesitated, chewing on his lower lip like a man carrying the weight of the world.

"Nora... she has been under extreme psychological stress for the past six months."

"She wasn't sleeping before the wedding. Her moods were erratic."

He looked back at me, his eyes brimming with fake pity.

"I didn't want to bring this up. I wanted to protect her pride."

"But seeing her like this, completely detached from reality..."

"I'm terrified she's going to hurt herself or someone else."

I felt the blood drain from my face.

"Last October, I finally convinced her to see a specialist."

Declan reached into his tailored suit jacket and pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper.

"This is her official diagnosis."

He handed it to the bailiff, who passed it up to the bench.

"The psychiatrist diagnosed her with severe anxiety disorder, coupled with..."

He lowered his voice, but kept it just loud enough for the reporters in the front row to catch every syllable.

"...paranoid personality tendencies. She suffers from severe delusions."

The gallery practically exploded.

"Holy crap, she's actually psycho."

"No wonder the husband was so desperate to shut it down. He's managing a mental patient."

"It all makes perfect sense now."

A cold sweat broke out across my back.

"That is a lie!"

I violently shoved his hand away as he reached out to "comfort" me.

"What kind of twisted game are you playing, Declan? I have never seen a psychiatrist in my life!"

He didn't yell back.

He just sighed again, his gaze growing even softer, bathing me in suffocating pity.

The judge scanned the document, his lips pressing into a thin line.

I lunged forward and snatched it from the desk.

Right there, printed in crisp black ink.

"Anxiety disorder with paranoid personality tendencies. Immediate pharmacological intervention and aggressive cognitive therapy recommended."

The header bore the official seal of Mercy General's psychiatric ward. The city's top facility.

I stared at the paper.

White noise filled my ears, drowning out the murmurs of the courtroom.

October twelfth of last year...

I had gone to Mercy General that day.

But not for the psych ward.

I was there to accompany my father for his pre-op cardiology screening, and I decided to get a routine blood panel done while I waited.

I never stepped foot on the psychiatric floor.

This diagnosis was a complete, utter fabrication.

But with the hospital seal glaring back at me, how the hell was I supposed to prove it?