The courtroom was a cathedral of judgment. Its high ceilings swallowed the murmurs of the crowd, making them echo faintly like prayers that no god would hear. Dust motes shimmered in the beams of light slanting through tall windows, but their glow could not soften the sharp edges of tension pressing against every person present. Wooden benches groaned as spectators shifted restlessly, waiting for the proceedings to begin.
Amber Gatmaitan sat on the witness bench, her hands folded tightly in her lap. The wood beneath her was cold, a reminder that comfort had no place in this room. She pressed her palms together so firmly that her knuckles blanched, willing her heart to slow. It beat too fast, a frantic bird battering its wings against her ribs.
She had been in hearings before, smaller cases, smaller rooms, smaller expectations. But nothing like this. This was not merely testimony. This was a trial that had drawn headlines, a scandal whispered through city cafés, debated in living rooms, dissected on late night news. Everyone seemed to know Harry Bolaños, though in fragments and shadows. To some he was a mastermind of deception, to others a victim of political power plays. To Amber, he was supposed to be nothing more than the accused.
Supposed to be.
The bailiff's voice rang out, sharp and official. "All rise."
The judge had not yet entered, but Amber rose with the others, her knees trembling. She kept her eyes on the floor, trying to steady her breath. Her lungs felt shallow, air caught somewhere between survival and surrender.
Then came the footsteps. Firm, steady, echoing through the chamber as the guards led him in.
Harry Bolaños.
Amber lifted her eyes before she could stop herself. She had seen his photographs on newspapers, black and white smears of scandal. None of them had prepared her for this moment. He walked with chains on his wrists, yet there was no submission in his bearing. His shoulders were squared, his stride measured, his expression unreadable. His dark hair caught the light, and his eyes—God, his eyes—were alive in a way no printed image could capture.
They scanned the room as though weighing each person, and then they found her.
The moment was instantaneous, a collision of gazes that knocked the air from Amber's chest. His stare was not cold. It was not hostile. It was quiet, piercing, as though he recognized something in her he had been searching for. It lasted only a second, no longer than the shifting of a breath, but it imprinted itself on her skin.
Amber's fingers clenched tighter in her lap. She reminded herself, furiously, that this man was on trial. He was not a stranger on a train, not a face across a café, not someone she could allow to occupy her thoughts. He was the accused, and she was the witness. There were rules to this. Unwritten, yet immovable.
But her heart had never cared for rules.
The judge entered. Jennifer Capiña, robed in black, her face carved with solemn experience. She carried herself with an authority that demanded silence before she even spoke. The entire room stood still, reverent.
"You may be seated," Judge Capiña said.
Chairs scraped against the floor as everyone sat again. The judge arranged her papers with calm precision. "We are here to hear the case against Mr. Harry Bolaños, charged with fraud and conspiracy. Counsel, proceed."
Atty. Nikolai Fortun rose, his suit pressed to perfection, his eyes sharp with calculation. His voice carried smoothly, a practiced blend of confidence and clarity.
"Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen of the court," he began, "what you will hear today is a story of betrayal masked as brilliance. Mr. Bolaños did not act alone, but he orchestrated a scheme that cost honest people their livelihoods. The evidence will show patterns of deception, calculated manipulations, and the careful weaving of lies. But today, truth shall cut through the illusions."
Amber tried to focus, tried to let the lawyer's words anchor her. She was here for the truth. She was here because what she had seen, what she had overheard, mattered. Yet her mind betrayed her, circling back to the man across the room.
Harry sat at the defense table, his hands resting loosely before him. He should have appeared diminished by the charges, but instead he seemed composed, almost detached. When Atty. Fortun spoke, Harry's expression did not change. His gaze, however, strayed again, finding Amber as if the room contained only the two of them.
Her pulse spiked. She looked away, fixing her eyes on the polished surface of the witness stand.
The prosecutor's voice cut through her thoughts. "Your Honor, I would like to call to the stand Miss Amber Gatmaitan."
Her name struck her like a bell. Amber rose slowly, smoothed her skirt, and walked toward the witness box. Each step sounded too loud, her heels tapping against the tiles like impatient beats of a drum. The bailiff held out the Bible. She placed her hand upon it, swore the oath, and sat down.
The prosecutor stepped closer, his eyes narrowing slightly as if gauging her nerves. "Miss Gatmaitan, please state your full name for the record."
"Amber Santos Gatmaitan," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor beneath.
"And your occupation?"
"I work as a financial analyst for Corvida Group."
Atty. Fortun nodded. "Do you recall the circumstances that brought you into contact with Mr. Bolaños?"
Amber hesitated only for a second before answering. "Yes. I was reviewing a series of internal transactions when I discovered irregularities. Upon further checking, I overheard conversations linking Mr. Bolaños to those movements."
The lawyer paced slightly, his eyes flicking between Amber and the jury. "Can you tell us what you overheard?"
She drew in a breath. "I heard discussions about moving funds discreetly. I heard his name mentioned in connection to accounts under review."
"Do you see the individual you refer to in this courtroom?"
Amber's chest tightened. She knew what was coming, but still she was not ready. Her eyes moved, slowly, deliberately, until they rested on him. Harry Bolaños.
"Yes," she said softly.
"Please identify him for the record."
Amber lifted her hand slightly. "The accused. Mr. Bolaños."
For a heartbeat their eyes met again. Harry did not flinch, did not lower his gaze. He looked at her as though her words did not condemn him but bound them closer. She forced herself to look back at the prosecutor.
Atty. Fortun pressed on, asking for details, asking for times, asking for every thread she could pull from memory. Amber answered, her voice gaining steadiness with each response, though her mind was a storm beneath. She described the documents she had handled, the overheard fragments of conversation, the uneasy patterns that pointed toward something hidden.
When her voice faltered, it was not from doubt in the truth, but from the unbearable awareness that Harry's gaze never wavered. He was watching her, not with anger but with something else. Something softer. Something she should not have noticed, and yet could not ignore.
The judge interrupted once when Amber's pause stretched too long. "Miss Gatmaitan, please answer the question."
Amber blinked, gathering herself. "Yes, Your Honor."
The questions continued. Her throat grew dry, her palms damp. Yet the testimony poured out. Every time she feared her voice might break, she reminded herself of duty. And still, like a forbidden undercurrent, that connection pulsed between her and the man on trial.
Finally, the prosecutor leaned back. "No further questions at this time."
The defense lawyer, a quiet man whose name Amber did not catch, rose to cross-examine. His tone was smooth but firm. He asked whether she might have misheard, whether her assumptions were influenced by bias, whether the documents she had seen could be interpreted differently. Amber answered as truthfully as she could, even when her certainty wavered under his questions.
Yet it was not the lawyer's voice that haunted her. It was the silence beside him, the steady presence of Harry. When the lawyer sat down again, Harry leaned slightly toward him, murmured something unheard. Then his eyes lifted, and again, they found hers.
The trial moved forward, but Amber was trapped. Trapped between truth and something far more dangerous.
Hours later, when the judge called for recess, Amber rose with trembling legs. She gathered her bag and walked toward the exit. Outside, the air felt heavy, charged with whispers from the crowd. Cameras clicked, reporters shouted questions, but Amber moved through them like a ghost.
Then she felt it. A presence too close. A shadow that pressed against her awareness. She turned her head slightly.
Harry Bolaños, escorted by guards, was being led through the corridor. For a fraction of a second, as they passed, his hand brushed close enough that she swore she felt the heat of it. He looked at her, and in that brief, dangerous glance, he spoke without words.
It was not the end. It was the beginning.
And Amber, trembling in the wake of his gaze, understood with terrifying clarity: she had just stepped into a fire she could not escape.
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