Page 95 of Nesting With My Three Alphas
"And when you decided to leave?"
"He told me I'd never survive without him. That no one else would ever want someone like me." I looked directly at Marcus for the first time since entering the courtroom. "He was wrong."
Marcus's lawyer tried to paint me as unstable, as someone who'd misunderstood normal relationship dynamics, as an omega whose heat cycles had made her irrational and prone to dramatic overreactions.
It might have worked six months ago, when I still believed some of those things about myself.
"Ms. Lennox," the defense attorney said, her voice dripping with condescension, "isn't it true that you left Chicago without any attempt to work through your relationship issues? That you abandoned a comfortable life because of minor disagreements?"
"Minor disagreements?" I repeated, genuinely surprised by the framing. "He controlled my finances, isolated me from my support system, and made me believe I was worthless without his approval. When I finally found the courage to leave, he stalked me across state lines and broke into my home. Those aren't minor disagreements."
"But you did live together willingly for two years..."
"I lived in fear for two years," I corrected. "There's a difference."
The defense attorney pressed on, but something had shifted. Maybe it was the months of therapy I'd had, or the daily evidence of what healthy love actually looked like, or simply the knowledge that I had people in my corner who would believe me no matter what.
Maybe it was all of the above.
When I stepped down from the witness stand, I felt lighter somehow. Like I'd left something heavy behind in that chair.
The prosecution rested, and then it was the defense's turn. They called character witnesses. Business associates who testified to Marcus's professional reputation, his charitable contributions, his standing in the community.
Probably true. Completely irrelevant to the fact that he'd systematically destroyed my sense of self and then tried to force me back when I'd finally escaped.
Marcus himself didn't testify, which his lawyers probably considered a smart strategy. Let him maintain his dignity, his image as the wronged party.
Then came the closing arguments.
Chloe was thorough and devastating, walking the jury through each charge with methodical precision. She painted a picture of systematic abuse disguised as love, of a man who couldn't accept that his victim had found the strength to leave.
The defense painted Marcus as a man driven to desperate measures by heartbreak, someone whose only crime was loving too much.
Loving too much. Another phrase that sat wrong, that twisted real emotion into something possessive and destructive.
The jury deliberated for less than two hours.
"Has the jury reached a verdict?" the judge asked when they filed back in.
"We have, Your Honor."
"On the charge of harassment, how do you find?"
"Guilty."
"On the charge of stalking?"
"Guilty."
And on it went. That one word resonating through the room like a bell finally confirming my freedom.
Each guilty verdict felt like a small earthquake, reshaping the landscape of my reality. Marcus had been held accountable. His actions had consequences. The system had worked, for once.
But it was the sentencing that really broke Marcus's composure.
"The defendant will rise for sentencing," the judge said, and I watched Marcus stand on unsteady legs, his perfect composure finally cracking.
"Mr. Vanderbilt," the judge continued, "your actions represent a pattern of behavior designed to terrorize and control another human being. The court sentences you to two years in state prison, followed by three years of supervised probation. You are also ordered to pay restitution for damages and to maintain the permanent restraining order already in place."
