CHAPTER 332 NYLA

I hear my pulse thundering in my ears the moment I’m led through the courthouse doors. The fluorescent lights overhead feel cruelly bright, making every bruise on my arms—still tender from the—seem more visible. My ankles are shackled, and with each step, the metal cuffs clink, a grim reminder that my fate hinges on whatever happens in that courtroom today.

My lungs tighten as I recall the swirl of disastrous news I gleaned last night: Trixa’s orchard handoff apparently went horribly wrong per the info I got. Jacob might have been there. There was gunfire. People injured—or worse. And now, as I shuffle past uniformed bailiffs who refuse to meet my eyes, a tiny voice hammers at me: What if Jacob’s not here? What if they got him too?

I try to ignore the worst-case scenarios flooding my mind. One bailiff nudges me forward impatiently. A wave of motion sickness washes over me, courtesy of anxiety and another day of nausea that’s plagued me for weeks. My secret—the baby only a handful of people might suspect—twists in my gut. If I let that fear show, the guards might pounce. They’re always scanning for weakness.

The hallway leads to the double doors of the main courtroom. My lawyer, Margaret Ross, meets me there. The lines of exhaustion around her eyes are deeper than before, but she musters a small, bracing nod.

“How are you holding up?” she whispers, guiding me aside for a brief moment of privacy.

I swallow, my throat dry. “I’m coping.” That’s a lie. I feel like my nerves are twisted wires about to snap. “Do we have anything new from Trixa or Derek?”

Margaret’s mouth flattens. “No direct contact. Jacob’s limping from some orchard fiasco, but he’s here, at least. I told him we’d try to call him up to reaffirm your innocence. The prosecution… let’s just say they’ve come in looking smug. I sense a trick.”

My stomach flips. “They always have a trick.” My voice comes out shakier than I intend. “Let’s go.”

She tries to offer reassurance—something about “We’ll do everything possible”—but neither of us truly believes it. We enter the courtroom, the hush descending like a suffocating blanket. Rows of spectators, bored reporters, and a few curious onlookers fill the benches. My gaze instinctively darts to the front row. Marcus. He sits there in a sleek dark suit, posture too relaxed, as if this is entertainment. A chill crawls over my skin.

Then I see Jacob. He’s near Margaret’s usual table, standing with the help of a cane. My heart practically stumbles in my chest. His face is drawn, eyes ringed with dark circles. A bandage peeks from beneath his pant leg. The orchard fiasco must have been worse than the rumors. But he’s alive. Relief wars with fear. Our gazes lock, and for a beat, it’s just him and me, sharing that fleeting hope we might still salvage the day.

A bailiff barks, “Defendant, approach.” I tear my stare from Jacob. The bailiff points me to the seat at the defense table. My shackles clank, heavy around my ankles. Margaret sits beside me, spreading out her papers, whispering urgent instructions.

“All rise!” The clerk’s voice pierces the tension. The judge sweeps in, black robes swirling. Everyone scrambles upright—even me, though I fumble with the shackles and nearly trip. The gavel bangs, and we’re commanded to sit. The day’s hearing has begun.

The prosecution stands—an impeccably dressed woman with sharp glasses. Her expression drips with self-assurance. Great. She begins by summarizing the prior day’s points: alleged sabotage, suspicious finances, fake receipts. My chest tightens. None of this is new. I glance at Margaret, who’s scrawling notes. But the prosecutor isn’t done.

“Your Honor,” she says, turning to the judge, “we have come into possession of new information—particularly relevant to Ms. Thomas’s motives.” Her eyes flick my way, satisfied, like a predator about to pounce. “We request the court’s indulgence to introduce an additional witness. This pertains to the defendant’s…medical records.”

My heart stutters. Medical records? Margaret stiffens. She shoots me a quick, alarmed look. They can’t possibly have discovered—

The judge arches a brow. “Very well. But keep it concise. We won’t allow an endless parade of tangential points.”

“Oh, it’s quite concise, Your Honor,” the prosecutor says, voice dripping with confidence. “I call to the stand Officer Wynn, from Stonebridge Correctional’s infirmary detail.”

A uniformed officer steps forward, eyes darting nervously between me and the prosecutor. My pulse ticks louder. The moment the officer swears to tell the truth, the prosecutor leans in like a viper.

“Officer Wynn, you oversee part of the medical logs for Stonebridge’s female inmates?”

He nods. “Yes, ma’am, I handle escort and record confirmations. If a nurse records a prisoner’s test results, I confirm the identity, sign off on the chart.” His voice wavers.

The prosecutor holds up a slim folder. “Is this an authentic copy of Ms. Nyla Thomas’s recent medical test? Specifically a pregnancy test administered last week after she complained of faintness?”

I freeze. No. This can’t be happening. My cheeks burn, a cold sweat forming on the back of my neck. A wave of dizziness hits me. Margaret tries to stand, stammering something about “Objection—privacy,” but the judge gestures for the prosecutor to continue.

Officer Wynn shifts, swallowing hard. “Yes, that appears to be the test results. Positive for pregnancy. We had to do an exam after an…incident. She was under watch.”

A stunned hush chokes the courtroom. The onlookers rustle. My ears ring as I register the gasps from the gallery. Cameras click. The prosecutor’s lips twitch in triumph. Jacob leaps halfway out of his seat, shock etched on his face. “What—No, that’s—” He can’t finish. The judge slams the gavel, calling for order.

I want to vanish. My biggest secret, used like a dagger in front of the entire world. The blood drains from my face, and I grip the table so hard my knuckles ache. Margaret is flipping through her notes, stuttering protests about relevancy, but the prosecutor lifts her hand dismissively.

“Relevancy, Your Honor? It directly ties to motive. Ms. Thomas is pregnant with an heir to the Stone empire. She had every reason to remove potential obstacles. A planned sabotage, ensuring her child inherits everything once Mr. Jacob Stone is…well, if he were out of the picture too, eventually.”

An outcry from the spectators. Someone yells, “Gold digger!” Another shrill voice calls, “She’s lethal!” My vision blurs. Up front, Marcus smirks, arms folded, leaning back with smug satisfaction. He did this, I realize, numb. He bribed the right officer or nurse to leak the test results.

Jacob stands, ignoring the bailiff’s attempts to quiet him. “That’s outrageous!” he shouts across the room, voice shaking with fury. “How dare you invade her medical privacy—she didn’t even get to confirm it properly—”

The judge bangs the gavel, face stormy. “Mr. Stone, control yourself or I’ll hold you in contempt. Counsel will proceed, but keep this under control.”

Tears burn my eyes. My arms shake so fiercely I can’t keep them still. My pregnancy—my baby—twisted into a sinister scheme for murder. I catch Margaret’s gaze. She’s pale, stammering about “lack of foundation,” but the momentum is unstoppable now.

The prosecutor gestures dramatically. “We have official prison records, Your Honor. And we have direct statements from staff confirming Ms. Thomas complained of dizziness consistent with early pregnancy. She’s well beyond the first trimester, we believe. Isn’t that correct, Officer Wynn?”

The officer just nods miserably, eyes on the floor. “Yes, ma’am.”

I want to scream that I never wanted this to become public. I was forced to do that humiliating exam. The barbed swirl of accusations stabs deeper: I can almost hear the unspoken question: Did I plan to kill the entire Stone family so my unborn child would inherit Stone Hospital?

The prosecutor turns back to me now, gaze like ice. “Ms. Thomas, do you deny you’re pregnant with Jacob Stone’s child?”

I open my mouth, but all that emerges is a ragged breath. The entire courtroom waits, devouring my silence. Margaret tries to rise, but the prosecutor points an accusing finger. “Let Ms. Thomas answer. The father is the same man you allegedly manipulated, correct?”

My pulse thrashes. “That’s not— Jacob and I—” My voice cracks, tears sliding down my cheeks. “I didn’t manipulate anything. We were going to—” I can’t form the words. My throat closes up, my heart pounding so violently I fear I’ll black out.

She pounces. “So you are pregnant by Mr. Stone, yes?”

A hush. Jacob stares at me from across the room, expression agonized. I can’t lie. Tears burn, but I nod jerkily, face hot with shame. The gallery erupts in scandalized murmurs.

“And yet you never mentioned this child to the court,” the prosecutor presses. “Is it because you orchestrated sabotage so your child would be the sole heir to the Stone empire? Do you perhaps intend to get rid of Julia Stone and Jacob Stone as well?”

“No!” I choke out, tears slipping free. “That’s insane. I would never— I love Jacob. I never—” My breath shudders. The entire world seems to tilt. I see cameras clicking, reporters scribbling.

The prosecutor’s voice climbs. “Did you fear Hilda and William Stone would contest your position? Perhaps you took matters into your own hands. Now your unborn child stands to gain everything once Jacob Stone is also…dispatched.”

“Objection!” Margaret nearly yells. “Speculative, inflammatory—”

But the judge only waves for the prosecutor to rephrase. The damage is done. A wave of nauseous heat sweeps my body. Kill Jacob? Are they insane?

A bright flash: a reporter snapping photos. The prosecutor levels a final blow: “Ms. Thomas, how can the jury trust your denials, when you hid this pregnancy from the very start? Was it not a deliberate plan to eliminate the Stone family so you and your unborn child inherit millions?”

My vision tunnels, bright spots dancing. I can’t breathe. Everything is spinning out of control. The baby. Jacob. Marcus’s satisfied smirk. I sense him behind the prosecution’s table, eyes glinting with triumph.

Margaret tries to pivot, voice urgent: “Your Honor, we request an immediate recess. This line of questioning is—” She might as well be whispering into a void. The entire courtroom is too riveted by my meltdown.

My composure finally cracks. Emotion breaks out of me in a ragged sob. “No, no, no,” I manage, pushing up from my seat. I half stand, but the bailiff’s hand closes on my shoulder. “That’s not what happened,” I shout, tears streaming. “I never wanted them dead! Marcus is behind all this—” My words jumble, each syllable heavy with desperation.

Across the aisle, Marcus’s posture is relaxed, his lips curled in a faint, smug smile. My knees shake. The condemnation from the spectators’ eyes weighs me down like lead. My baby, forcibly exposed. The prosecution’s mocking insinuations ring in my skull: She might kill Jacob next. I gasp for air, the courtroom swirling.

Jacob tries to rush forward, fury on his face. “Stop this!” he yells. “You can’t do— She’s not—” But the bailiff blocks him, forcibly pressing him back. “Sit down!” someone yells. Another wave of camera flashes blinds me.

Margaret is pulling at my elbow, trying to calm me, but her voice is lost in the pounding of my heart. The heat from the overhead lights intensifies. My stomach churns violently. I glimpse the judge banging the gavel for order, but no one listens.

Marcus stands, arms folded across his chest. He leans sideways to his lawyer, lips shaping words I can’t fully hear, but the smugness in his expression is loud as a gunshot. I can almost imagine him whispering: She’s finished.

A wave of dizziness overtakes me. My chest constricts painfully as if a vise grips my lungs. I want to scream that I’m innocent, that this baby is the product of love, not ambition. But all that emerges is a broken sob.

Margaret’s hand clamps on mine. “Nyla, breathe. Breathe,” she pleads, but black spots crowd my vision. I sway on my feet, hearing the shuffle of footsteps as the bailiff tries to steady me.

“Stop looking at me like that!” I burst out, voice trembling, my gaze landing on the jury that stares with parted lips—half pity, half condemnation. “I didn’t do this. I— I love Jacob, I love—” My knees buckle.

The walls tilt. The last thing I sense is Jacob’s frantic shout, the judge’s gavel rapping. Then everything dims, my body crumpling as the swirl of condemnation crushes me.

I come to in a flurry of noise. My eyelids flutter. Pain throbs in my temple, and my mouth tastes bitter. Overhead, the courtroom lights glare like a thousand suns, making me wince. The acrid tang of aftershave or some strong chemical stings my nose. My head aches fiercely.

Margaret’s voice drifts in, urgent: “She needs space! Remove those cuffs, she can’t breathe—” There’s a jangle of metal, and the tightness around my wrists eases. The bailiff must have undone them.

I blink rapidly, vision clearing enough to see a paramedic or a court staff with a medical kit. Another wave of tears hits me. I’m on the floor, half slumped, my back propped against Margaret’s knees. She strokes my hair gently. “Nyla, can you hear me?”

I manage a faint nod. My lips part, but all that emerges is a ragged exhale. My chest is tight from sobbing. My entire body trembles with humiliation. The entire courtroom must be gawking at the pregnant woman who just fainted from stress—giving them the perfect scandalous headline.

Jacob’s voice pierces the haze: “Let me near her!” He’s pushing through. I feel his hand on my shoulder, warm and frantic. The bailiffs protest, but the judge, presumably alarmed by the meltdown, doesn’t forcibly stop him now.

My gaze drifts to Marcus, standing near the prosecution’s table. He’s not even feigning concern. No, his lips are curved in that vile little grin. A fresh wave of anguish floods me. He’s winning. He’s effectively turned my pregnancy into a weapon, destroyed my credibility. And I just collapsed in front of everyone, handing them a dramatic spectacle.

Margaret tries to shield me from the cameras, but I see their flashes popping overhead. The paramedic checks my pulse, shining a penlight in my eyes. “She’s extremely stressed,” he murmurs. “Might be dehydration, shock. We should get her to the infirmary or an ambulance.”

I open my mouth, forcing out a whisper. “I’m— I’m fine,” though my throat is raw from crying. My hands instinctively cradle my abdomen, protective. “Please… I’m okay.” The paramedic frowns but doesn’t argue.

Jacob kneels, voice breaking. “Nyla, God, I’m so sorry. This is monstrous.” His free hand brushes my damp cheek. I want to bury my face in his shoulder, but too many eyes watch us like vultures.

A swirl of voices: the judge telling the press to step back, bailiffs urging people to clear a path. I hear someone mention “emergency recess,” and the judge’s gavel banging. The official words slip out of my hearing. My heart clenches at the knowledge this trial day might be paused, but the damage is done—my pregnancy is public knowledge, wielded like a sword against me.

The paramedic helps me onto an improvised stretcher that was swiftly brought in, or maybe it’s just a bench. My limbs feel uncooperative, all jelly-like. Cameras keep clicking, capturing every humiliating angle. I turn my face into Jacob’s chest, tears burning my eyelids. He strokes my hair, anger radiating off him in waves.

I glimpse Margaret speaking to the judge, voice tight with anger: “Your Honor, we demand an immediate suppression of these medical details. This was an egregious breach.” The judge listens, looking troubled, but who knows if it’ll matter. The public’s already seen the meltdown. The sensational rumor will never be fully silenced.

Marcus stands off to the side, arms still folded, wearing an expression of polite concern that I know is fake. My stomach churns with hate and fear. He wanted me to break.

I close my eyes, letting the paramedic examine me. Each beep of the heart monitor or stethoscope is a reminder of the baby, forcibly dragged into the spotlight. The baby I tried so hard to protect.

Jacob’s voice trembles near my ear: “I’ll fight this, I swear. Don’t worry about their vile accusations. Just hold on.”

His warmth is the only anchor I have. My entire body sags, exhaustion claiming me. The paramedic checks my pulse again, nodding that it’s stabilizing. The bailiff announces, “Clear the aisle; we’re moving her out.” I feel the stretcher jerk forward.

Faintly, I see the jury’s startled faces, half-distorted by tears. The press stands in a frenzy near the back. The prosecutor pockets the so-called medical records, her lips pressed thin in satisfaction. Marcus meets my eyes for one chilling second—he lifts a brow, as if to say, You lose.

Then the paramedic wheels me away. My head lolls, and I catch sight of Margaret motioning for a nurse or guard to follow. Jacob’s trying to keep pace, but a bailiff half-blocks him. “Sir, you can’t—”

“Like hell I can’t,” he snaps. They vanish from my line of sight as I pass through the door, cameras flashing behind me. A cold numbness seeps through me.

It’s not even the humiliating reveal of my pregnancy that stings the worst. It’s the knowledge that every hateful rumor—Jacob might be in danger from me, that the Stone empire is threatened by my unborn child—just hammered nails into my coffin. The jury’s horrified stares swirl in my memory.

We’re losing, I realize bleakly. Trixa’s not here, her evidence MIA, and the prosecution has turned my baby into the perfect motive for murder. I stifle a sob, darkness pressing at the edges of my vision again. I cling to a sliver of hope: if Trixa truly survived, there’s still a chance. But time is running out faster than I can bear.

The paramedic voices fade to static in my ears, the corridor lights overhead flickering. My eyelids droop with utter exhaustion. The last coherent thought that flits through my mind is a broken apology to my unborn child: I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you from this monstrous spectacle. Then everything melts into a dull, throbbing haze. We pass into the corridor, uncertain whether or not we’ll muster the strength to face the next round. But for now, all I can do is let them carry me away, faint and broken, while the entire world sees me as a cunning murderer who manipulated Jacob for his empire—and might kill him next.