The silence in the courtroom was so absolute I could hear the rhythmic tick-tick of the wall clock. Every eye was a weight, every lens a voyeur. I sat in the witness box, my hands folded over my ivory silk lap, feeling the phantom hum of the monitor that no longer sat on my wrist. I didn't need the machine to know my heart rate was climbing. I could feel it in the way the air in the room seemed to thin.
105 bpm.
"Nyonya Vance," the defense attorney continued, his voice echoing in the rafters. "The prosecution claims you are a victim of systemic grooming and psychological torture. They say your 'love' is merely a survival mechanism. How do you respond to that?"
I looked toward the defense table. Adrian was watching me, his face a mask of restrained agony. He looked like he wanted to leap
