Page 41 of My Bossy Billionaire Attorney

“Savannah.”

He says his voice is an eerily calm tone. I turn to him.

“Yeah?”

“One thing. When you walk in there, go with the mindset that you are innocent, and the jury will see that, too. It’s the first day—I know—but you need to make a good impression from the start.”

“Don’t be cocky…just be your confident self,” he assures me.

“I’m a fidgeting mess,” I admit. “Does that work?”

He looks directly into my eyes. “Trust me, take a deep breath and know I will get you out of this.”

“I’ll do my best.”

***

My legs are shaking as I follow Michael out of the building. My legs fail almost immediately, and his hands catch me as I stumble, blocking my fall.

“Hold my hand,” he says. “But we have to hurry. The press will be on us like flies if we don’t hurry.”

I nod, even as tears stream down my face, forcing my legs to move faster. Clutching his arm, we get to the car safely. As soon as the door shuts, the press swarms around us, lights flashing on all corners.

I’m doomed, the words echo in my brain as I remain in a state of shock as the police clear the press out of the way so the car can move forward.

I’m doomed.

I’m done for.

My life…is over.

I should have known that the second I walked in there, I wouldn’t come out the same. I should have known from the moment Elaine confidently came to arrest me that day that she had something up her sleeve.

“Savannah?” I feel Michael’s hand on my shoulder, jarring me to the present.

My eyes refocus, and I see that we’re now on the highway.

“Are you okay?” He asks.

“Okay?” The word comes out hoarse, even though I haven’t been shouting. “Am I okay? What do you expect me to say to that?”

Do you know why I’m here, seated in this car? BECAUSE THE JUDGE DECIDED I’M NOT A FLIGHT RISK!” I yell.

“Sav—”

“I knew it,” I chuckle mirthlessly. “I knew that something would go wrong. You said it would be easy—that I had nothing to worry about because you’re my lawyer. Bet you didn’t see that coming!”

“I—”

I cackle some more, even as tears stream down my face. My shoulders shake, and I feel my vision blur.

“A murder weapon. That’s what they presented in court today if you don’t remember. There I was, thinking that I would be acquitted once the judge realized they didn’t have enough evidence, silly hearsay and all that,” I continue.

“I was at home yesterday, Michael,” my hands claw the fabric of the seat as pain rips through my chest. “I stayed all night in my home, and how did two plainclothes officers get into my home and find a knife?”

“With my fingerprints. And the knife matches the wounds found on Brandon! I was at home!” I yell, starting to lose my mind.

“I came home. I had food, didn’t I? Microwaved it, even. I slept in my bed. How did I not notice that something was amiss?”

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