Too Late For Regret, Mr. Preston

"Not guilty."

The words echoed in the cavernous courtroom, but Emilia Lawrence felt nothing. Not relief. Not joy. Just a hollow ringing in her ears that drowned out the frantic whispers of the gallery. Her lawyer, Attorney Sullivan, put a steadying hand on her arm. His touch was the only thing that felt real.

"It's over, Emilia. You're free."

She nodded, her gaze fixed on the heavy oak doors at the back of the room. He wasn't there. Throughout the entire trial, Knox Preston had not once shown his face.

Sullivan helped her to her feet. The simple act of standing sent a wave of dizziness through her. The pregnancy, combined with weeks of sleepless nights and relentless questioning, had worn her down to a fragile husk.

The moment they stepped out of the courthouse, chaos erupted. A wall of flashing lights blinded her, and the roar of shouted questions felt like a physical blow.

"Ms. Lawrence, how does it feel to be acquitted?"

"Do you have any comment for the Carlisle family?"

"Are you planning to leave New York?"

Emilia flinched, instinctively bringing a hand to shield her slightly rounded belly. It was a gesture of protection, small and unconscious. Sullivan tried to forge a path through the media scrum, his body a shield against the worst of the jostling.

Then, a raw scream cut through the noise.

"Murderer!"

Eleanor Carlisle, the dead man's mother, broke through the police line. Her face was a mask of grief and fury, her eyes burning with a hatred that felt hot enough to scorch skin. She lunged at Emilia, nails outstretched like claws.

"You killed my son! You whore!"

Emilia stumbled backward, a cry of alarm caught in her throat. Sullivan reacted instantly, pulling her behind him, but he wasn't fast enough. Eleanor's nails raked across Emilia's forearm, leaving four angry red lines that immediately began to well with blood.

A sharp, stinging pain shot up her arm. She gasped, cradling the injury as the cameras clicked and whirred, capturing every second of the assault.

Just as the scene threatened to devolve into a full-blown riot, a silent, imposing presence fell over the crowd.

A black Bentley Mulsanne had pulled up to the curb, its engine a barely audible hum. The sheer authority of the vehicle was enough to make the reporters hesitate, their questions dying on their lips.

The rear door opened.

Knox Preston emerged.

He was dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit that made him look like he was attending a funeral. His face, always handsome, was carved from stone, his expression so cold it could have frozen the humid city air.

For a single, desperate moment, Emilia's heart leaped. Hope, fragile and foolish, fluttered in her chest. His name formed on her lips, a silent plea.

He saw her. His gaze swept over her pale face, her torn sleeve, the hand protecting her stomach. There was no recognition. No flicker of warmth. It was the look one gives a stranger, or something unpleasant they'd found on the bottom of their shoe.

He walked past her, his expensive leather shoes silent on the pavement, and went directly to Eleanor Carlisle.

He placed a hand on the older woman's trembling shoulder. His voice, when he spoke, was low and soothing, a stark contrast to the icy contempt in his eyes when they had looked at her.

"Aunt Eleanor," he said. "I'm here."

Aunt.

The word was a shard of ice in Emilia's heart. It shattered the last, ridiculous sliver of hope she had clung to. Of course. The Prestons and the Carlisles were old family friends. Sterling had been Knox's best friend. And she... she was the murderer who had gotten away with it.

Knox's attention finally returned to her. The look in his eyes was no longer vacant. It was filled with a visceral, chilling disgust. He was looking at her as if she were the embodiment of every evil in the world.

He spoke, his voice not loud, but carrying with a deadly clarity that cut through the renewed buzz of the reporters.

"A jury's verdict," he said, his eyes locked on hers, "is not the same as justice."

The statement landed like a death sentence. It invalidated her freedom, her name, everything. It was a public declaration of her guilt from the one man whose opinion she had ever cared about. The reporters went wild, shoving microphones toward him.

Knox's gaze dropped deliberately to her hand, still resting on her belly. A cruel, mocking smile twisted his lips.

"The baby," he asked, his voice soft but laced with venom. "Whose is it?"

The air left Emilia's lungs. The ground seemed to fall away beneath her feet. This was worse than the accusation of murder. It was a public disavowal, a branding of her as a liar and a cheat.

Her voice was a ragged whisper. "Knox, you know. It's yours."

A short, sharp laugh escaped his throat. It was a terrible sound. "Is it? Or is it your talented lawyer's?"

Attorney Sullivan stepped forward, his face white with fury. "Mr. Preston, you will watch what you say!"

Before he could take another step, two of Knox's bodyguards moved in, silent and efficient, boxing him in. They didn't touch him, but the message was clear. He was powerless here.

Knox closed the distance between them. The scent of his cologne, a familiar smell that had once brought her comfort, now made her stomach clench with fear. He was so close she could feel the cold radiating from him.

He gripped her chin, his fingers digging into her skin, forcing her to meet his gaze. The coldness in his eyes was absolute. It was the cold of a dead star.

"Tell me, Emilia," he murmured, his breath a cold whisper against her ear, for her ears only. "When Sterling was touching you, did you pretend to be this innocent then, too?"

That was it. The final blow. The carefully constructed dam holding back her terror and despair broke. A hot, shameful tear slid down her cheek. She tried to push him away, her hands beating weakly against his chest, but it was like striking a marble statue.

He released her abruptly, as if her touch had contaminated him. He withdrew a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and meticulously wiped his fingers where they had touched her skin.

Then, he let the handkerchief fall to the ground at her feet.

"Take her to the car," he commanded his men.

Panic seized her. "No! You can't do this!"

She backed away, but two guards grabbed her arms, their grips like iron. They began to drag her toward the open door of the Bentley.

"Mr. Sullivan!" she cried, her voice raw with desperation.

Her lawyer was struggling against the men holding him back, his face a picture of helpless rage. He couldn't reach her. No one could.

They forced her into the back of the car, the plush leather seats feeling like a cage. The door slammed shut, sealing her in with the man who had just become her judge, jury, and executioner.