The courtroom carried the weight of silence before Judge Jennifer Capiña struck her gavel. The sound echoed against the tall marble walls, cutting through the restless murmurs. Amber Gatmaitan sat rigid on the witness bench, her hands folded in her lap, nails biting into her palms. She told herself to breathe, to focus, to remember she was nothing but a voice for the truth. And yet her eyes betrayed her. They kept drifting across the room to where Harry Bolaños sat at the defense table, cuffs glinting under the sterile lights.
Judge Capiña’s voice filled the chamber. “We will resume proceedings. The witness is reminded that her testimony remains under oath. Any deviation from factual recollection will be regarded as perjury.”
Amber swallowed and nodded. She kept her gaze low, but she could feel Harry watching her. He did not smirk, he did not move, but the awareness of his presence was unbearable.
Atty. Nikolai Fortun stood, straight-backed, sharp-eyed. His tie was neat, his expression coldly precise. “Your Honor, with the court’s permission, I would like to clarify the record regarding the witness’s earlier statements.”
“Proceed,” Judge Capiña said.
Amber answered his questions with clipped words, trying to sound mechanical, detached. But every now and then, when silence fell between Fortun’s lines of inquiry, she would glance at Harry. Each time, she caught the same intensity waiting for her, as if they were speaking a second language only the two of them understood.
When the recess bell rang, relief rushed through her. She gathered her folder and hurried toward the exit. But the hallway outside offered no refuge. Reporters swarmed, their cameras flashing, microphones thrust toward her.
“Miss Gatmaitan, is it true your testimony shows inconsistencies with earlier police reports.”
“Do you have a personal relationship with the accused.”
Amber kept her head down, pushing through the noise. She caught sight of Razel Ann del Prado standing apart from the crowd, her notebook closed but her eyes blazing with curiosity. Razel had published a new piece that morning, Amber had heard whispers about it already. The headline was bold: The Witness with Trembling Hands: Bias in the Courtroom.
Amber felt the judgment of strangers seeping into her bones. She wanted to deny everything, to shout the truth and nothing but the truth. But what was the truth anymore. That she had seen Harry on the night of the incident, yes. That his presence in the shadows had burned into her memory, yes. But also that his eyes now haunted her dreams. That her heart beat faster at the sound of his name. That was not the kind of truth a courtroom could contain.
She pushed past the reporters and made it to the outer steps where Ernie Cabello was waiting. His arms were crossed, his brows knitted with concern.
“You look pale,” he said, falling into step beside her. “Have you eaten.”
“I am fine,” Amber muttered.
“No, you are not fine,” Ernie pressed. He guided her down the steps, shielding her from the flashing cameras. “I read Razel’s article. People are starting to talk, Amber. They say your testimony is compromised.”
Amber froze at the word. “Compromised.”
Ernie stopped walking and turned to her, his voice low but firm. “You cannot let this happen. You cannot let anyone suspect that you feel anything for him.”
Amber’s pulse thudded in her ears. “I do not—”
“Do not lie to me,” Ernie snapped. “I have known you since we were children. You think I cannot read you. Every time his name is mentioned, you flinch. Every time his face turns toward you, you forget to breathe. This is dangerous, Amber. This is not some fleeting crush. This could ruin you.”
Amber’s throat tightened. She wanted to argue, to deny, but the words lodged in her chest.
Ernie softened, his eyes pleading now. “Tell me I am wrong. Tell me you do not care for him. Say it, and I will believe you.”
Amber lowered her gaze. Silence stretched between them.
Ernie cursed under his breath and rubbed a hand over his face. “God, Amber. You are walking into a fire with your eyes open. Do you not see what he is. He is the accused in a case that could define careers, break families, destroy reputations. And you are the witness who holds the balance. If you fall, you drag yourself into the abyss with him.”
Amber whispered, “I know.”
“Then stop before it is too late,” Ernie urged. “Cut this cord before it strangles you.”
But Amber said nothing. She only clutched her folder tighter, as if the papers inside could anchor her to the world of logic and law, while her heart was already elsewhere.
Ernie exhaled heavily. “I am trying to save you, Amber. But I cannot fight this battle if you do not even want to be saved.”
Amber felt her chest ache with the weight of his words. She wanted to promise him she would walk away. She wanted to assure him that she would never let herself be pulled deeper into Harry’s orbit. But in her silence, she betrayed herself.
Ernie shook his head and walked beside her to the car, but the air between them was fractured now, filled with unsaid truths that clung like smoke.
That evening, Amber sat in her apartment with the blinds drawn. She turned her phone face down on the table, ignoring the buzzing notifications from colleagues, reporters, and friends. But one name pulsed in her mind, a name she could not silence. Harry.
She tried to distract herself by opening Razel’s article online. The words sliced through her.
The witness appeared nervous, her answers halting at times, her voice trembling. To the untrained eye, these might be dismissed as natural symptoms of pressure. But repeated observations suggest another possibility: that her emotions are entangled with the man she is sworn to testify against. If true, this raises troubling questions about the integrity of her testimony and the impartiality of justice.
Amber slammed the laptop shut, her breath ragged.
A knock at her door made her jump.
“Amber, it is me,” Ernie called softly.
She hesitated, then opened the door. He entered carrying a small paper bag of food.
“I thought you would not eat,” he said, setting it on the table.
“I am not hungry,” she murmured.
“Then at least drink,” he said, pouring water into a glass and handing it to her.
Amber accepted it, her fingers brushing his briefly. For a moment, she almost wished she could lean on him, let his steady presence drown out the chaos inside her. But even as she tried, her heart betrayed her again, drifting toward another man.
“Amber,” Ernie said quietly. “Promise me you will stay away from him.”
Her chest tightened. “I cannot promise that.”
Ernie closed his eyes, pain flickering across his face. “Then you have already chosen.”
Amber whispered, “I did not choose this. It chose me.”
“Then fight it,” Ernie urged. “Please. Before it destroys everything.”
Amber lowered her gaze. “I do not know if I can.”
The next morning, Amber returned to the courthouse. Her nerves burned hotter than the Manila sun overhead. She walked past the cluster of reporters, their voices rising in chaotic questions, until she slipped inside the sanctuary of marble corridors. The court staff hurried about, clipboards in hand, papers fluttering like restless wings.
As Amber reached the waiting room, she froze. Someone was already inside. A man with Harry’s dark eyes but softer features. Celso Canlas Bolaños, Harry’s younger brother.
He rose from his chair when she entered, his posture calm but his presence unyielding.
“Miss Gatmaitan,” Celso said quietly.
Amber’s pulse jumped. “You should not be here.”
“Neither should you,” he replied evenly. “But here we are.”
She clutched her folder to her chest. “What do you want.”
Celso stepped closer, though not threateningly. “I want to know why your testimony cuts both ways. One moment you incriminate my brother, the next you hesitate. Everyone sees it. The jury, the press, even Judge Capiña. You are torn. Why.”
Amber swallowed hard. “Because the truth is complicated.”
“No,” Celso said firmly. “The truth is simple. It is people who complicate it. And you are complicating it because of him.”
Amber’s chest tightened. “That is not fair.”
“Fairness is not my concern,” Celso replied. “My brother’s life is. And if you care for him, even secretly, then you need to understand something. They will destroy you both. The prosecutor, the journalists, the judge. They will not allow a witness and the accused to share glances like stolen confessions. It is already obvious, Amber. I can see it in your eyes.”
Amber backed away, her breath catching. “Please stop.”
Celso softened, his tone lowering. “Then answer me honestly. Do you believe he is guilty.”
Amber’s voice cracked. “I do not know.”
“That,” Celso said gravely, “is the most dangerous answer of all.”
Before she could respond, a clerk opened the door and called her name. The hearing was about to resume. Celso nodded at her once, his expression unreadable, then slipped past her into the hall.
Inside the courtroom, the tension thickened. Annie Dalisay took the stand, her voice sharp, her demeanor unwavering.
“I saw Harry Bolaños near the warehouse on the night of the crime,” she declared. “I remember clearly because he almost ran into me as he left the alley.”
Amber’s stomach lurched. Annie’s testimony cut like a blade, tightening the noose around Harry’s neck. But when Annie glanced toward Amber, there was something venomous in her eyes. This was not only about truth. This was about power.
Atty. Fortun stood to cross-examine. “Miss Dalisay, your recollection hinges on a brief encounter in poor lighting, is that correct.”
“Yes,” Annie replied.
“And you claim certainty despite the conditions.”
“Yes,” she said again, her jaw set.
Amber’s mind raced. Annie was not lying, but she was not telling everything. Amber remembered seeing Annie days before the incident, whispering with men who owed allegiance to no law. The image flickered in her thoughts like a warning.
When court adjourned, Amber lingered at the edge of the room. She needed to breathe, to think, but her thoughts were pulled toward Harry. He remained seated, his wrists still bound, yet his gaze found her. It always found her.
Jennifer Capiña’s gavel fell, and the crowd dispersed. Amber slipped out into the corridor, her steps uneven. She turned a corner—and froze.
Harry stood there, flanked by two guards, waiting to be escorted back to his cell. For a moment, time fractured.
One guard checked his watch and muttered, “Give me two minutes,” before stepping away. The other shifted lazily against the wall, distracted.
Amber and Harry were left in a fragile bubble of near-privacy.
Harry’s voice was low, rough, meant only for her. “You look like you did not sleep.”
Amber’s heart slammed against her ribs. “You should not talk to me.”
“Then do not answer,” he said, but his eyes burned with hunger for her voice.
Amber whispered anyway. “Why do you keep looking at me like that.”
Harry tilted his head. “Because you are the only one here who sees me as more than a case file. And because you are the only one I want to see.”
Her breath trembled. “Do not say that.”
“I already did.”
Silence pressed between them, charged, unbearable.
“You are dangerous,” Amber whispered.
“So are you,” Harry said. “Do not think I have not noticed. You are the only one who could end me with a word. Yet you hesitate. Why.”
Amber’s lips parted, but no words came. The guard returned, breaking the spell. Harry straightened, his expression smoothing into neutrality. But just before he turned, his fingers brushed hers in the faintest touch, a spark that set her skin aflame.
That night, Amber could not escape the memory. She walked restlessly around her apartment, replaying every look, every whispered word, every ghost of contact.
Her phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number: Be careful what you let yourself feel. People are watching.
Her blood ran cold.
She texted back: Who is this.
No answer.
She stared at the glowing screen until her vision blurred. Then, in the stillness of midnight, she closed her eyes and admitted the truth she had denied aloud. She wanted him. She wanted him in ways that terrified her.
The following day, Razel Ann del Prado cornered Amber in the lobby.
“Miss Gatmaitan,” Razel said, her tone polite but her eyes sharp. “I am working on a follow-up article. Off the record, I want to ask you something. What is Harry Bolaños to you.”
Amber froze. “He is the accused. Nothing more.”
Razel’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “Then it should be easy to say it again for my recorder.”
Amber’s heart raced. “I said off the record.”
Razel leaned in. “Careful, Miss Gatmaitan. Secrets always surface. And when they do, the world will not forgive you.”
Amber walked away without answering, but Razel’s words followed her like a shadow.
That evening, fate betrayed her resolve once again. On her way home, she found herself taking the long route, circling past the police van that transferred detainees. And there he was, inside, his face half-hidden by bars and shadows.
For the briefest moment, their eyes locked through the metal. No words, no gestures, only the raw, unbearable gravity pulling them together.
Amber tore herself away before anyone noticed, but her chest burned as if branded.
She whispered to the night, “What are you doing to me, Harry.”
The city swallowed her words, but deep inside she knew the answer. He was drawing her into his world, and she was no longer strong enough to resist.
By the end of the week, Amber’s reflection in the mirror startled her. Shadows beneath her eyes, lips pressed thin, skin pale. She was unraveling. And still, she clung to the forbidden flame of his presence.
Her life had become a prison of desire. Each day she swore she would break free, and each day she walked back into the courtroom and let her heart betray her again.
The walls of justice and passion had collided, and Amber was trapped in the wreckage, standing at the center of an abyss that promised both ruin and rapture.
And Harry Bolaños, the man who could destroy her, was the only one who made her feel alive.
ns216.73.216.158da2
and then Add to home screen.