AMANDA Still reeling with shock from Tom's revelations, I barely kept up with Dylan's questioning. I just stared blankly ahead. My dazed state, however, was abruptly interrupted when my lawyer placed a firm hand on my shoulder, gave it a slight squeeze, and quietly pointed out, "The witness on the stand said he wants to give a personal testimony. You might want to listen carefully." I raised my brows and looked at him, perplexed, before slowly dragging my gaze to meet Dylan's. Icy blue eyes, just like his father's, stared back at me with hurt, pain, disgust— "Your honor." The courtroom fell silent as he began. His mouth parted, and it took a moment for him to say anything else. But when he did, his words broke me into pieces. "The defendant since the entirety of my questioning has been referred to as my mother, but I don't believe she deserves to be called that." Tears glistened in the corner of his eyes as he spoke, his voice shaking. "Because, excuse my language, she never was the mother I needed. She was nothing but a selfish, manipulative bitch." The entire courtroom gasped. I flinched. "She was supposed to guide me, protect me. But all she ever did was use me. I was her son. Her son! Not one of her pawns." His voice shook again, and a tear rolled down his cheek. "She made me hate my father, twisted everything to make me see him as the enemy when, all along, it was her. Her." He scoffed angrily. "I did everything she asked. Every damn thing, thinking it was for us, for our family. But there never was a family." "Just her plans. Her sick, twisted, perverted, evil plans. And I regret ever following them. I regret the day I agreed to her plot to ruin my ex-girlfriend. I..." his words faltered, and his head dropped. I bit my lip in shame and looked at my lawyer. In silence, I pleaded with him to object to Dylan's outburst. To stop this public humiliation and ridicule. But before he could, Dylan continued, "For everything she cost me and for every pain she inflicted, mostly on my father, I don't know if I'll ever be able to forgive her." Oh goodness. "Honestly, I don't think I can. And I hope that today, she gets the harshest possible sentence." He finished, saying nothing after that. And while I sat, frozen in place, wincing, Dylan left the witness stand. Another round of shuffling noises filled the courtroom, and the third and last witness was introduced. Kent. I almost, almost disregarded his testimony, just like Dylan's in the beginning, but remembering that Kent's statement held the key to my fate—forever—I forced myself to listen. Of all the witnesses, Kent was the most questioned, just as I expected. It was only fair because he was my accomplice, the man doing my dirty business. Kent was asked to corroborate Tom's claims, Dylan's statements, and the length of our relationship in detail, and he did just so. He recounted our meetings and conversations down to the last argument we had about poisoning Renee and my threats to his son. He also provided physical evidence of everything that occurred between us. Photographs, videotapes, tickets, receipts. Everything. Every fucking thing, Kent brought them all out. It got to a point where I couldn't listen anymore, because it was just too much. The prosecutor pulled out every thread of information he could use against me, and Kent unspooled the same threads, bit by bit by bit. Never in my life had I felt so guilty and ashamed. All the parts of me that'd previously felt confident about this case peeled away layer by layer, and I retreated into a shell. A shell of failure. Of hopelessness and misery. Even my lawyer lost his confidence. And when he was finally called to speak, to discredit the witnesses' testimonies and cast doubt on the prosecutor's accusations, his words held no water. He tried to plead my case, citing that I'd been evaluated psychologically and was suffering from a condition known as Obsessive Love Disorder. But just as he said that, and for the first time since the trial began, the judge spoke. "Excuse me, Mr...." "Mr. Riggs, your honor." "Mr. Riggs, whatever your client suffered from, it's irrelevant." He folded his palm and leaned forward on his desk. "She's being accused of killing a man. Testimony accuses her of putting an end to someone's father, brother, lover, friend, you name it. She's alleged to have also almost killed a pregnant woman. Her mental health isn't relevant and again you didn't enter it as a form of defense." There were mutters across the courtroom, all of them agreeing with the Judge. My lawyer gave me a look that made me fidget in my chair. It was a look that told me we were going to lose this. "Now," the judge continued, "the jury will deliberate and this will take a brief time." "Actually, it won't," a stern faced man stood from the jury box. He was the foreman. "We have reached an unanimous decision, "He announced while unfolding a sheet of paper, "and find the defendant, Ms. Amanda Clarke, guilty on all counts." My heart stopped beating as that announcement hit me square in the chest. My head fell, and tears blurred my vision. I blinked them away, though. It wasn't over yet. This isn't the end. A glimmer of hope rushed through me, when my lawyer said, "Your honor, if I may plead," he was trying desperately to salvage what little was left, "for a sentence reduction for my client." "On what grounds?" The judge asked adjusting his glasses. "On the grounds that she was not in the right state of mind, and the fact that one of her victims, Ms. Micheal, survived the ordeal." Following that, was a long moment of silence. I stared at my hands, which were now resting on my thighs, and tried not to shake. But it was difficult, really. So difficult. Especially, since it felt like the whole world was crashing in on me. "Plea denied." The judge responded and my lawyer's shoulder slumped. His face fell fully in defeat, and he looked from the judge — who wasn't finished with him — to me again. "Mr Riggs, it is clear to you that throughout the trial, myself and the jury thoroughly evaluated all the evidence against your client and just as the jury made their verdict, I have made mine too. And it is not subject to any change." He adjusted his wiry glasses once more, "So I'm afraid there's no escape from this, for your client.""Yes, your honor," my lawyer nodded slowly. "Thank you." He bowed and returned to the seat beside me. "I tried my best, Ms. Clarke," he whispered as he sat down, "I really did. But this case was just...I'm sorry." Of course he was sorry. He was so sorry after taking my money and doing absolutely nothing. I wanted to scream at him. He'd said I was mentally unstable, and I wanted to show not just him but the entire world the very rage they accused me of. I wanted to—Fuck! "Given the clear verdict, I see no need to delay sentencing and will proceed immediately." The judge started again, "However, before that, I am willing to entertain statements from any of the victims...Ms. Clarke?" All heads turned toward me, and I swallowed. "Do...do you want to make a statement?" My lawyer asked, "you could use this to your advantage, redeem yourself a little," he added and I hesistated. I could feel the weight of everyone's gaze on me. Robert, Dylan, Kent, Tom, the judge, jurors...they were all staring at me. Did I want to do this? My legs had already shot up before I could make a final decision. "I...I know what I've done is unforgivable..." I could feel my mouth moving but I barely heard the rest of what I was saying. I did know though that I managed to apologize to Dylan, Robert, and Darren's family, my stomach twisting painfully with each word. When I finished speaking, the judge looked at the room—mostly toward Dylan and Kent. "Any other statements?" He asked and both men shook their heads 'no'. "Very well." He cleared his throat once more and I breathed deeply. This was it. This was fucking it"The court finds the defendant, Ms. Amanda Clarke, guilty." "And the sentence for each convicted crimes is as follows — for the crime of false accusation and perjury in framing Mr. Robert Clarke, the sentence is five years in prison. For identity fraud and attempted escape, an additional five years will be served. For the second-degree murder of Darren Russ, the sentence is seventy years in prison. And last, for the attempted first-degree murder of Renee Micheal, twenty five years is imposed. In total, these sentences, amount to 105 years served consecutively and without the possibility of parole." 105 years. 105 fucking years. The rest of my natural goddamned life in prison. In hell. The judge was still speaking, "...the gravity of the defendant's crimes—deliberately framing an innocent man, orchestrating a murder, and attempting another—demonstrates a complete disregard for human life and justice. As such, this court cannot, and will not, offer any leniency. The defendant, Ms. Clarke, will be taken into custody immediately and..." the rest of his words drowned out, and a numb feeling overtook me. A numb feeling that made it hard to care about anything or anyone else. Anyone but myself. Was this what it felt like to finally lose everything? Because, yes, I'd lost everything. I didn't get Robert. I lost the love of the only son I had. And I didn't even get my revenge. Renee — as much as it hurt me even to mention the name — didn't die. She was alive, breathing, and that alone was a testament fuck-you to everything I'd worked hard for these past months. My dreams of a happy family, a happy life, and happy me—all gone, shattered, destroyed. "No..." I croaked out as the first tear finally fell from my eye, then another and another until I was sobbing openly. I couldn't hold it in anymore. "No...this can't be my end. This can't...it can't be my end." But it was.This was my fucking end.