"You sentenced me," I said, teeth clenched, as the gavel fell.
"Order," Judge Halvorsen snapped. "Court is adjourned for sentencing."
"Ten years," the bailiff read, the words hitting like a bus. The courtroom turned into an animal of whispers and camera shutters.
"Do you have anything to say before I pronounce sentence?" the judge asked.
"I—" I coughed, a thin ribbon of dark breaking my breath. "Frank, you know the truth."
Frank Carlier did not look at me. He sat with his hands folded, suit immaculate, face a clean wall. The prosecutor beside him smiled like a blade.
"Ms. Reyes," the prosecutor said, slow and polite. "The jury found you guilty of grievous bodily harm with intent. The evidence speaks for itself."
"You put me in here," I said. "You know—"
"Order!" the judge barked again. People looked at the whispering photographer, at the CCTV screen above the bench, at Frank. His jaw tightened for the first time. He did not turn.
"Ten years," the judge declared. "Remanded to the custody of the Department."
Chains clicked. Guards moved in. Hands grabbed my elbows. A man's voice said, "Let's go, Reyes."
"Frank," I said, louder. "Frank, please."
He finally met my eyes for a split second. No warmth. No recognition. Just the same precise calculation I'd known since we were kids—he measured everything and then decided.
"You're an officer of the court, Ms. Reyes," he said. "I did my duty."
"You did his duty," I said
