The hallway outside the courtroom felt suffocating despite its grand size. I sat on a bench against the wall, watching Clara Beaumont pace back and forth like a caged animal. Her fingers kept touching the bandage covering half her face—a nervous habit she'd developed since the attack. The scar beneath it was still fresh, an unwelcome reminder of Lucian Fairchild's cruelty.
"They're taking too long," Clara muttered, her voice brittle with anxiety. "What could possibly be delaying them?"
I understood her impatience. We'd been waiting for hours to be called in for preliminary questioning about the Marquess. Each passing minute felt like torture, forcing us to dwell on memories we desperately wanted to forget.
"Court proceedings are always slow," I said, trying to sound reassuring. "The King wants to ensure everything is done properly."
Clara shot me a skeptical look. "You sound almost sympathetic to the delay."
