Alexander rose halfway from his chair, panic breaking through his composed exterior. “My lawyer is on his way. There’s been a misunderstanding—”
“You’ve already been granted two delays,” the judge replied evenly. “You have five minutes to present representation, Mr. Rowan. Otherwise, we move forward.”
Five minutes.
Alexander sat back down, his jaw tightening. He had faced hostile takeovers, economic downturns, partners who smiled while drafting betrayal behind closed doors—but never this. Never alone.
Then a chair creaked at the back of the room.
“I can represent him.”
The voice was soft, unsteady, yet clear enough to cut through the murmurs like a blade.
Laughter followed. Not cruel, exactly—but dismissive, automatic.
A young woman stood near the rear exit, her dark hair pulled into a simple knot, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. She was wearing a plain housekeeping uniform, the kind that blended into hallways and went unnoticed in rooms where decisions were made.
Her name was Marisol Vega.
She swallowed, lifted her chin, and repeated herself. “I can speak for Mr. Rowan.”
Veronica turned, openly amused. “This is absurd. Your Honor, this woman is staff. She’s not an attorney.”