Caleb’s POV
I adjust my tie as the bailiff calls my name. The defense called me. Not the prosecution — the people trying to set Lucas Bennett free want me up here, under oath, where they can take me apart in front of twelve strangers who hold my stepsister's justice in their hands.
The courtroom is smaller than Simon's hearing but twice as suffocating. Fluorescent lights wash everything in a clinical glow.
I find Serena in the third row without meaning to, the way my eyes always find her — automatic, gravitational.
Her hands are folded in her lap, knuckles white, jaw set in that particular way she holds herself when she's terrified but refuses to let it show.
I take the oath. I sit down and wait.
The defense attorney is tall with silver temples and the confidence of a man who's spent decades convincing juries that guilty men are misunderstood.
His name is Hargrove, and he approaches the stand like someone who knows where every question leads.
"Mr. Thornton, thank you for being here today." His tone is warm. The kind of warmth that precedes a knife. "Let's start with some background. You have a history of physical violence, is that correct?"
"I've been in fights, yes."
"Not just fights." Hargrove lifts a folder from his table. "You assaulted Lucas Bennett at a party last October. Broke his nose, fractured his orbital bone. Witnesses described you as 'out of control.' Is that accurate?"
"I hit him because I walked into a room and found him assaulting Serena Lakin."
"We'll get to your version of that evening." Hargrove smiles patiently. "But first — you've participated in illegal street racing for approximately two years. High-speed motorcycle racing on public roads, cash purses, no safety regulations, no legal oversight. Correct?"
"That's correct."
"And during this time, you accumulated injuries consistent with reckless behavior — bruising, lacerations, a dislocated shoulder."
"I wouldn't call it reckless."
"What would you call it?"
"Necessary."
Hargrove lets the word land, then steps over it. "Let's discuss your relationship with the alleged victim."
He says alleged like it's a seasoning — a sprinkle of doubt to flavor the whole sentence.
"Serena Lakin is your stepsister. Her father married your mother approximately six years ago, and you live in the same household. Is that correct?"
"Yes, to all of it."
"Would you describe your relationship with Ms. Lakin as protective?"
The rage starts as a hum beneath my ribs. Familiar, predictable, dangerous if I let it run.
"I care about her, yes."
"You care about her." Hargrove repeats it slowly, turning the phrase over for the jury. "Enough to beat a man unconscious at a party. Enough to insert yourself into her personal relationships. Enough to break down a locked bedroom door to physically remove another man from her presence."
He pauses. Lets the portrait settle — the volatile stepbrother, jealous and unhinged, painting bruises on anyone who gets too close.
"Isn't it possible that what you perceived that night was colored by your own feelings? That what you saw as assault was, in fact, a consensual encounter between two people your personal attachment wouldn't allow you to accept?"
The hum becomes a roar. My hands grip the armrests and every muscle tightens with the screaming need to tear through this courtroom with my fists.
To grab Hargrove by his pressed lapels and ask him if he'd use the word consensual so casually if it were his daughter pinned beneath a man twice her size while she begged him to stop.
‘Simon never fought for anyone. He only ever fought against people.’
‘I am not my father.’
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