CHAPTER 327 NYLA

I’ve never realized how oppressive the weight of shackles can be until the moment they clamped cold metal around my wrists this morning, marching me out of Stonebridge Correctional to a transport van. The chain that links my ankles forces my steps into a humiliating shuffle. The guards barely speak to me, aside from grunts of “move along.”

Today is the day. My trial day. The morning sky is a dreary gray as they load me into the van, wedged between two other inmates heading to various court dates. My palms are clammy, heart pounding wildly. This is it. I either prove my innocence or watch my entire future crumble—my baby’s future.

The ride to the courthouse feels endless. We sit on hard benches, a bored guard occasionally barking at us to keep quiet. My mind flickers to images of Jacob, of Derek—who’s gone dark—and Trixa, who might have the key to exonerate me. I keep telling myself: She must show up. She must, or I’m doomed. But Derek and Trixa remain missing. The swirl of possibilities—maybe they’re lying low, or maybe Marcus got to them—makes me feel sick.

When we finally arrive, the van’s heavy doors open onto a swarm of cameras. My stomach drops. Photographers crowd the sidewalk, shouting questions I can’t make out. The guard leads me out, ankles clanking with every step, and an ugly wave of flashbulbs washes over me. Voices ring out:
“Ms. Thomas, is it true you murdered the Stones for the inheritance?”
“Are you pregnant? Is that real?”
“Nyla, look here!”

I swallow hard, forcing my chin high. They don’t see a terrified pregnant woman in a prison jumpsuit—they see a scandal. The guards hustle me inside the courthouse, half blocking the shouting reporters. My heart thrums in my ears. If only Trixa and Derek would appear with the proof. Without it,I face a bloodthirsty prosecution and a public ready to brand me cunning and murderous.

In the Courthouse Hall

They unshackle me just outside the courtroom, exchanging the heavy chains for a simpler set of handcuffs. A female guard mutters, “Don’t try anything stupid,” as if I could outrun half a police squad. Inmates from Stonebridge are lined up for their respective hearings. The corridor smells of old varnish and tension.

I spot Jo’s anxious face in the line behind me—she’s here for a smaller hearing about a different matter, or maybe a testimony for my case as well. She gives me a supportive nod, but a bailiff waves her away. My chest squeezes. I hate how everything we do is under watchful eyes.

Pushing forward, I step into the courtroom, where a swirl of voices hushes at my arrival. The overhead lights are bright, the polished benches half-filled with spectators—some press, some curious onlookers. My eyes land on Jacob Stone almost instantly. He’s seated at the defense table beside Margaret Ross, my lawyer. He stands up the moment he sees me, worry etched across his features. He’s in a tailored suit, hair combed back, but the dark circles under his eyes betray his stress.

Margaret waves me over, giving me a calm “we’ve got this” look. My stomach flutters with gratitude and dread. We’re a team, but are we strong enough?

The bailiff instructs me where to sit. As I approach, Jacob steps closer, voice low. “Are you okay?” He tries for a reassuring touch on my arm, but a guard scowls. We settle for a painful half-second of eye contact. I nod stiffly, fighting tears.

We sit. The courtroom buzz surges as the judge’s clerk announces: “Court is now in session for the murder trial of Ms. Nyla Thomas, accused of the homicide of William and Hilda Stone by sabotage.” My pulse pounds so loud I barely hear the rest. The judge enters, and we all rise, adrenaline making my legs unsteady.

 Once the formalities are done, the prosecution—a tall woman with severe glasses—makes her opening statement. She’s terrifyingly methodical. She outlines the so-called evidence: the funeral wreath purchase in my name, the toll booth photo, my mother-in-law’s final voice message. My chest knots. We needed Trixa’s stolen documents to blow all that open. But Trixa is nowhere.

Across the aisle, I see a stoic figure: Marcus. He’s wearing a dark suit, face impassive, though he occasionally glances my way with cold triumph. My blood chills. He orchestrated my ruin. I recall how he told the entire world Trixa is a murderer. He must know she tried to get me the real evidence.

Margaret stands for our opening statement. She speaks of “insufficient evidence,” “tampering,” and “potential conspiracies to frame my client.” My heart clings to her every word, but I sense the jury’s skepticism. Margaret alludes to Derek or Trixa possibly unveiling new data. But without them present, it’s all intangible promises. Tension balloons in my chest. We’re fighting illusions with illusions.

When Margaret sits, she leans close, whispering, “Don’t panic. We’ll tear their evidence down piece by piece. If Trixa or Derek show up, even better. Stay strong.”

I manage a tight nod, but my hands are clammy. Stay strong. Right.

 The judge calls the first official witness: an investigating police officer. They recite how the car’s brake line was cut, how they found suspicious footprints matching my shoe size. My mind swirls—footprints? That’s new. Another spurious detail, no doubt planted by Marcus. Margaret cross-examines, pointing out inconsistencies. The jury’s expressions are mixed, some looking uncertain, others warily glancing at me.

Next, we endure half an hour of more technical testimony. By the time the prosecution announces, “We call Ms. Zara Delgado to the stand,” my heart nearly stops. Zara? My ex-coworker at Stone Hospital—someone I once shared break room chatter with, who always made snide remarks. But would she sink to lying?

Sure enough, Zara strides in, wearing a conservative blouse, hair pinned back, face set in a strangely earnest expression. She barely looks at me. My heart hammers as she swears under oath to tell the truth. Then the prosecutor begins:

“Ms. Delgado, how long did you work alongside Ms. Thomas at Stone Hospital?”

“Two years,” Zara answers calmly, eyes fixed forward. “We were both nurses in the same ward.” Her voice is composed, but I can hear that undercurrent of nerves.

“And in that time, did Ms. Thomas ever discuss her relationship with the Stone family?”

Zara exhales like she’s playing the reluctant witness. God, this is staged. “Yes. Several times, she complained about the demands of William and Hilda Stone. She said they were controlling and interfering with her personal life and medical decisions.”

I stiffen, outraged. Sure, I vented about Hilda’s attitude or board politics once or twice, but never to Zara specifically, and never in a homicidal context. I shoot Margaret a panicked look. She squeezes my hand under the table, a silent signal to keep calm.

The prosecutor pounces: “So Ms. Thomas expressed resentment toward Hilda Stone?”

Zara nods. “Yes. She called them ‘the main obstacle to her future.’ She said they stood in the way of her truly expanding her influence at Stone Hospital.” She hesitates, glancing at me briefly, then away. “It… it sounded like she wanted them gone.”

My blood roars. That’s an outright lie. I never said that. Or if I said anything vaguely negative, she’s twisting it grotesquely. Jacob tenses next to me, anger shining in his eyes. I bite my tongue, fighting the urge to scream You liar.

The prosecutor simpers, “This must be difficult, Ms. Delgado. But the truth is vital. Did Ms. Thomas mention any plan to remove the Stones or sabotage them?”

Zara swallows. “Not in direct words,” she admits carefully, “but she asked me once if I knew anything about the Stones’ personal driver schedules. She seemed… curious.”

My jaw clenches. That never happened. She’s improvising. But she’s good at sounding earnest. The jury leans in, intrigued. I glimpse Marcus smirking in the gallery. My stomach clenches with revulsion. He’s orchestrating this performance.

Margaret cross-examines, trying to poke holes: “Ms. Delgado, you say you heard Ms. Thomas speak ill of the Stones. Any proof? Written statements, texts, anything?”

Zara shakes her head, eyes downcast. “It was all verbal. We were alone in the nurse station, or sometimes in the break room.”

Margaret keeps pressing: “So, no one else overheard? No logs? No texts?”

Zara shrugs with a sorrowful look. “Nyla confided in me because she thought I was trustworthy. Obviously, I regret not reporting it sooner, but I was intimidated.”

It’s maddening. I sense the jury absorbing her story—no direct evidence, but the emotional tug is there. My breath shudders. Derek, Trixa, where are you?

Finally, Zara steps down, after giving the prosecution a swirl of insinuations. As she passes the defense table, I catch her eye. For an instant, her composure cracks—guilt or fear flickers behind her lashes. Then she hurries on, not daring to meet my gaze. She must be blackmailed or bribed. My chest aches. Another friend lost.

 The judge calls a short recess. I stand, a swirling mix of fury and heartbreak. The bailiff tries to nudge me back toward a holding area, but Margaret steps in. “She has to use the restroom,” she says. “Allow it.” With the judge’s permission, a female guard escorts me to the public bathrooms down the hall, ignoring the press gawking from behind ropes.

The restroom is quiet, bright fluorescent lights humming overhead. The guard waits by the entrance. I step to the sink, meeting my reflection: face pale, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. Zara’s testimony battered me. If the jury believes her, I’m done. Where is Trixa’s proof? Where is Derek?

I lean on the sink, tears burning at the corners of my eyes. The door swings open behind me. I turn, startled, only to see Jacob slip inside, ignoring the guard’s warning hiss.

“Jacob?” My voice wobbles with shock.

He glances at the guard, who half-opens her mouth, but he mutters a quick, “We need a moment,” and, unbelievably, she just rolls her eyes and steps outside, shutting the door. My heart lurches as he crosses to me, suit jacket brushing the tile. “You shouldn’t be here,” I whisper.

He just sighs, pulling me into a fierce hug. For a second, I stiffen—fearful we’ll be caught or penalized—but then my chest crumples, and I cling to him as tears slip free. The sense of warmth, of safety, is overwhelming.

His hand cups the back of my head, voice low. “Nyla, God, I’m so sorry about Zara. I… I had no idea she’d stoop that low.”

I sniff, burying my face in his shoulder. “She’s lying. Or twisted the truth. But the jury— oh God, it looked so real.”

He rubs a gentle circle on my back. “Margaret will dismantle her statements. We’ll show the jury she’s compromised.” Then he eases back, gaze flicking across my face. I see the pain in his eyes as he notices fresh bruises from the prison scuffle. “You’re hurt again,” he murmurs, voice raw.

I swallow, hugging my arms around my waist, conscious of the baby. “I had another… attack. But I’m managing. Some new ally from Alexander is watching over me.” My heart clenches, remembering Katrina’s massive form scaring away the other inmates. “They said you or Alexander arranged watchers.”

Jacob’s expression lightens with relief. “Good. That means you’re safer.” Then a shadow crosses his face. “I’m sorry. I wanted to do more. But everything’s unraveling. Trixa and Derek are… MIA.” His voice cracks.

I press my palm to his chest. “I know. Margaret told me. The press says Trixa’s wanted, that she killed some guard. Is that true?”

He looks away, jaw tight. “She might have shot him in self-defense, but Marcus is spinning it like cold-blooded murder. Derek’s with her. They promised me they had the evidence that could save you, but no word since. I’m terrified they’re captured or dead.”

My throat tightens. We’re in the same agony—fear they’ve been cornered. “If they’re alive, they’ll come,” I say, trying to sound hopeful. “They wouldn’t abandon us.”

His eyes glisten. “I want to believe that.” He rests his forehead against mine briefly, letting out a ragged sigh. The closeness sets off a flurry of desperate longing. We can’t talk or hold each other in public, and I might not see him again until day’s end.

I blink back tears. “The trial… it’s worse than I imagined.” My voice trembles. “Every question feels like a trap.”

He cups my cheeks, leaning in. “We’ll keep fighting. I promise. Don’t lose hope. The moment Derek resurfaces, we’ll blow this case wide open.” He lowers his mouth to mine, a soft, urgent kiss. I inhale sharply, tears escaping. For a fleeting second, the world narrows to just us. His lips are warm, heartbreakingly tender amid the sterile bathroom tile.

My ribs ache, but I kiss him back fiercely, letting that shared desperation pour out. I love him so much. The sense of dread melts into longing, and we cling to each other. Then the door handle rattles. We break apart, panting, hearts pounding.

A muffled guard’s voice: “We’re out of time. Ms. Thomas, come on.”

Jacob squeezes my hand. “Stay strong,” he whispers fiercely. “Please. I’ll be right there in court.”

I manage a shaky nod before the door opens. The guard scowls, stepping in to herd me back. Jacob steps away, adjusting his jacket to appear composed. We exchange one last anguished look before the guard drags me out to the corridor.

 Back in the courtroom, the prosecution calls a few more dull forensic experts. I zone in and out, body drained from the emotional rollercoaster. Margaret occasionally passes me notes: We’ll cross-ex next; remain calm. I do my best to breathe steadily.

Yet every mention of new “witness sightings” or “toll booth anomalies” stabs me. My mind can’t stop replaying the image of Zara on the stand, calmly testifying that I “complained about the Stones.” She was supposed to be a coworker, not my downfall.

Eventually, the judge calls it a day. My hearing continues tomorrow. My shoulders slump—one day in, and the prosecution hammered me with everything from staged funeral receipts to betrayal by a coworker. Meanwhile, Trixa’s proof is nowhere to be found. The bailiff leads me out, ignoring my trembling hands.

 Under the late afternoon sky, the prison van rattles back toward Stonebridge Correctional. My stomach tightens. Another night in that cell, another night of possible ambush. The only sliver of comfort is the knowledge that Katrina (the giant inmate) might protect me again. The ride is silent, except for the hum of the engine.

They hustle me through the main gates, re-shackling me until I’m once again behind these walls that reek of disinfectant and despair. The overhead fluorescents glare as I walk down the corridor, guards flanking me. Just get back to my cell in one piece, I tell myself.

In the general block, a few inmates hiss insults: “Murderer!” “Heard your fiancé’s entire fortune is going to blow!” I grit my teeth, refusing to react. My heart is raw from the day’s humiliations. Then someone else sneers, “Your own coworker sold you out, huh? Maybe you are a psycho.” More cackles.

I nearly snap, but I keep my head down. Jo’s cell is across the block; I catch a glimpse of her anxious eyes as she notices me passing. She mouths, “You good?” I nod, lips pressed thin. She relaxes, but concern lingers in her gaze.

A group of scowling inmates moves to block my path. My stomach clenches. “Move,” I say quietly. They just smirk. But before they can taunt me further, a towering figure steps around from behind them—Katrina, the massive woman who intervened in the last attack. She stands with arms folded, scowling down at them. “Clear out,” she growls, voice like thunder.

They back off instantly, shooting me hateful glares but not daring to cross Katrina. My shoulders sag in relief. Her gaze flicks to me, and she jerks her head. “Keep walking.” I do, grateful not to be cornered yet again.

At my cell, a guard unlocks it with a clang. I step inside, and there’s Jo, pacing with a worried expression. The moment the door locks, she rushes up. “How’d it go?”

I sink onto my bunk, exhausted. “Horrible,” I manage. “Zara was the star witness, spinning lies. Trixa’s still missing. We’re drowning, Jo.”

Her face falls. “Zara? You mentioned her once, a co-worker, right? So she’s the traitor.” She exhales shakily. “What about the evidence Trixa had?”

I rub my aching temples. “No sign of it. Derek vanished with her. Either they’re captured or lying low, or… I don’t know.” My throat tightens. “What if Trixa ran away for good? Or they’re dead? I hate even thinking that.”

Jo places a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Don’t assume the worst. But I get it—this is a nightmare.” Then she half-smiles. “We have people inside now, at least. Katrina’s scaring everyone from messing with you. Even the guards tread lightly around her.”

I nod, recalling the mention that Alexander arranged watchers. My chest warms at the memory of Jacob’s stolen kiss earlier. But that warmth is quickly buried by dread. Trixa’s disappearance is a gaping wound in my defense. If the trial ends without her data, the prosecution’s spin stands unchallenged.

Just then, a towering shadow appears at the bars. Katrina. The guard must have let her pass. She leans close enough to speak, her voice low. “You survived the day in court.”

I manage a wry shrug. “Barely. We got hammered.”

She grunts. “Don’t give up. Word is you have more days ahead. Focus on not getting shanked or beaten in here.” Her steely gaze flicks to Jo. “Both of you watch each other’s backs.”

Jo crosses her arms. “Thanks, but we can handle ourselves.”

Katrina smirks, unoffended. “Sure. Just remember: Alexander’s orders were that you survive until the trial is done. If you lose hope, you’ll do something foolish. Don’t.”

The mention of Alexander tugs at my heart. “He’s… I know he’s trying, but everything feels hopeless. Trixa was our best shot, and now—” I swallow. “Now I don’t see a way out.”

Katrina’s lips press into a thin line. “You never know. People come back from the dead all the time in a war like this.” She steps back from the bars. “If you need me, you know where I bunk.” And with that, she lumbers off, scattering a few gawking inmates who see her presence and scramble aside.

I exhale heavily, sinking back on my bunk. Jo kneels beside me, fiddling with the scratchy blanket. “We’ll just have to hope Trixa didn’t run away. Maybe she’s gathering more evidence. Or maybe Derek’s helping her hide from Marcus’s men.”

I close my eyes, the day’s exhaustion slamming into me. The swirl of humiliations in court, Zara’s lies, the knowledge that the jury is half-convinced I’m some cunning fiancé. My baby. My child’s entire future. It’s all on the line. A tear slips free. “And if they’re both dead? Or if Trixa decided to cut her losses?”

Jo squeezes my hand. “One day at a time, Nyla. Tomorrow is another session in court. Maybe Margaret can poke holes in Zara’s story. Maybe Derek will pop up soon.”

I let out a trembling sigh. “I just… can’t stand not knowing.” My mind reels with the memory of Jacob’s embrace in the courthouse restroom, that fleeting stolen kiss. The raw longing in his eyes. He’s fighting so hard, but the world is stacked against us.

Jo helps me lie down carefully, mindful of my bruised ribs. She attempts a shaky smile. “You look wiped. Rest. We’ll face tomorrow head-on.”

I nod, though my thoughts churn. Rest. My heart is too restless for that, hammered by images of Trixa with a stolen USB, Derek on the run, Marcus sneering at me from the stands. My eyes close nonetheless, a wave of fatigue dragging me under.

As I drift, the final memory of the day replays: Zara’s cold voice, claiming I wanted the Stones “gone.” The jury’s startled faces. Marcus’s triumphant glare. Jacob’s whispered vow in the restroom, “Don’t lose hope.” But after everything, I feel that hope slipping, replaced by a gnawing fear that my baby and I might never see freedom.

And so I lie there in the cell’s fluorescent gloom, half-lulled by exhaustion, half-shaken by despair. Katrina’s and Jo’s assurances echo faintly, but the specter of Trixa’s disappearance and Zara’s betrayal weighs heavily on my chest. Tomorrow, the trial continues, more witnesses, more acid-laced questions. Unless a miracle arrives—unless Trixa and Derek reemerge with the truth—I’m stumbling toward conviction and a future behind these bars.

Please, I whisper in the silence, gripping the thin sheet over my abdomen. We need you now, Derek, Trixa. Don’t leave us to Marcus’s lies. But the only response is the distant clang of a cell door and the quiet hiss of the overhead lights, sealing me once again in this endless prison night.