Chapter 5 - The Smear Campaign
Adrian Blackwell was a cornered animal, and cornered animals are the most dangerous.
Using money stashed in untraceable crypto accounts, Adrian hired a vicious, high-priced defense attorney named Richard Cross. Cross was famous for destroying witnesses on the stand. Within weeks of the trial approaching, the counterattack began.
They couldn't dispute the financial evidence outright, so they decided to attack the source: me.
Suddenly, fake news articles began circulating online. Anonymous sources claimed I was a deeply unstable woman who had self-inflicted her bruises to frame a wealthy, innocent man out of spite. Paparazzi ambushed me outside my office, screaming questions about my "mental breakdowns." They hacked my old medical records, twisting a brief therapy stint in college into a diagnosis of severe borderline personality disorder.
One evening, as I walked to my car in the underground parking garage of Sterling Global, the lights suddenly flickered and died.
My heart hammered against my ribs. The familiar, suffocating grip of fear—the same fear I felt when Adrian used to lock the doors of our house—threatened to paralyze me.
Heavy footsteps echoed in the darkness. Two large men in dark hoodies stepped out from behind a concrete pillar, blocking my path to my car.
"Ms. Sterling," one of them growled. "Mr. Blackwell sends his regards. He thinks it would be a real tragedy if the star witness had a terrible accident before the trial."
They moved closer. A month ago, I would have frozen. A month ago, I would have cried.
But I wasn't that girl anymore. I reached into my designer handbag, my fingers wrapping around the cold, textured grip of the pepper spray and the high-voltage stun gun I had started carrying.
But before I could pull them out, tires screeched. A sleek black SUV roared into the garage, its high beams blinding the two thugs. The doors flew open, and Julian Parker stepped out, badge flashing, hand resting securely on his holstered weapon. Two armed federal agents flanked him.
"Federal agents! On the ground, right now!" Julian roared.
The thugs froze, then dropped to their knees, raising their hands as the agents swarmed them. Julian rushed over to me, his normally professional demeanor cracking to reveal genuine panic. "Victoria, are you okay? Did they touch you?"
I let out a shaky breath, looking up into Julian’s warm, concerned eyes. "I'm okay, Julian. Thank you."
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He shook his head, his jaw tight. "I'm assigning a 24-hour protection detail to you until the trial is over. Adrian is desperate. But this just gave us witness tampering. He's digging his own grave."
As Julian drove me home that night, the silence in the car was heavy but comfortable. I realized that for the first time in years, I actually felt safe with a man.
