Chapter 173
Chapter 173
The courthouse steps swarmed with reporters, their cameras flashing like lightning bugs on a summer night. Camille gripped Alexander’s hand as they navigated the crowd, eyes forward, faces blank masks against the shouted questions.
“Ms. Kane, how does it feel to face your sister today?”
“Camille! Will you ask for the death penalty?”
“Are you worried about Rose’s mental state?”
Alexander’s arm formed a shield around her shoulders, guiding her through the press of bodies. Victoria and her parents followed
behind, creating a protective circle.
Inside, the marble halls echoed with footsteps and whispers. Journalists scribbled notes. Observers craned their necks for a
glimpse of the woman who had survived her sister’s murderous plans.
“You don’t have to do this,” Alexander murmured, his lips close to her ear. “No one would blame you for skipping the
arraignment.”
Camille shook her head. “I need to see her face. I need her to see mine.”
The courtroom door loomed ahead, dark wood and brass handles. Camille paused, drawing a breath deep into her lungs. Two weeks had passed since the night at the cabin. Stefan had been released from the hospital yesterday, beginning his long recovery
at his parents‘ home in Madrid. The bruises on Camille’s wrists had faded to yellow smudges.
But some wounds couldn’t be seen.
“Ready?” Alexander asked.
Camille nodded, and they stepped inside.
The courtroom hushed as they entered. Rows of spectators turned to stare. Cameras clicked despite the judge’s restrictions.
Alexander guided Camille to the front row, where the district attorney had reserved seats.
“She’s not here yet,” Victoria noted, settling beside Camille with a soft grunt of pain. Her cancer treatments had left her weaker,
but her eyes remained sharp as ever.
Camille checked her watch. Five minutes until the proceedings began. Her mouth felt dry, her pulse racing. She had practiced for
this moment, rehearsed seeing Rose again. Nothing could have prepared her for the reality.
A side door opened. Conversation died as Rose entered, flanked by court officers.
Camille’s breath caught in her throat.
Gone was the polished beauty who had charmed New York society. Rose’s jumpsuit hung loose on her frame. Her hair, once
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expertly styled, lay flat against her skull. Without makeup, her face looked hollow, almost skeletal.
Only her eyes remained unchanged, cold, calculating, watching everything.
Those eyes found Camille immediately.
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The hatred that flashed across Rose’s face hit Camille like a physical blow. After everything, the exposure of her plots, the failure
of her plans, the certainty of her punishment, Rose’s rage burned undiminished.
“All rise,” the bailiff called. “The Honorable Judge Eleanor Hamilton presiding.”
The proceedings began with formal introductions. The district attorney, Graham Matthews, stood tall and confident, his voice
carrying to every corner of the room.
“Your Honor, the defendant faces twenty–seven separate charges, including attempted murder in the first degree, kidnapping,
domestic terrorism, criminal conspiracy, and assault with deadly weapons.”
The list continued, each charge another stone in the mountain of evidence against Rose. Camille listened without expression,
though her stomach twisted at the recitation of her sister’s crimes.
“How does the defendant plead?” Judge Hamilton asked.
Rose’s attorney, a sharp–featured woman with expensive shoes and a resigned expression, stood. “Not guilty by reason of mental
disease or defect, Your Honor.”
Murmurs rippled through the courtroom. The judge banged her gavel once.
“Bail, Ms. Winters?”
“The people request remand, Your Honor,” Matthews answered. “Ms. Lewis is an extreme flight risk with access to significant
resources, despite our efforts to freeze her accounts. Furthermore, she represents a continued danger to multiple witnesses,
particularly to her sister, Camille Kane.”
Rose didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t shift her gaze from Camille’s face.
“Your Honor,” Rose’s attorney began, “my client has no prior criminal record. She’s a respected…”
“Save it for trial, counselor,” Judge Hamilton cut in. “The defendant is remanded to custody for the duration of these
proceedings.‘
Only then did Rose react, her lips curling into a smile so slight most would have missed it. But Camille saw, and understood.
Prison walls meant nothing to Rose. In her mind, this was merely a setback, not an ending.
“The defendant will be transferred to Bellevue for psychiatric evaluation,” the judge continued. “We’ll reconvene for a status
hearing in thirty days.”
As Rose stood to leave, she finally spoke, her voice carrying clearly through the sudden silence.
“Hello, sister dear. You’re looking well.”
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The court officers moved to escort her out, but Rose resisted, her eyes never leaving Camille’s face. “Did you think this was over?
It’s never over between us.”
“Ms. Lewis,” the judge warned, “that’s enough.
Rose ignored her. “Tell me, Camille, does it feel good sitting there, pretending you’ve won? Do you sleep better at night?”
Alexander half–rose from his seat, but Camille placed a hand on his arm, stopping him. Around them, journalists scribbled frantically, cameras flashed despite the prohibitions.
“Ms. Lewis!” Judge Hamilton’s voice cracked like a whip. “One more word and I’ll hold you in contempt.”
Rose smiled fully then, a terrible expression that held no warmth, no humor, only malice. As the officers led her away, she kept
her gaze locked on Camille until the very last moment.
When the door closed behind her, Camille released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
“She’s still fixated on you,” Victoria murmured. “Even now.”
Outside, the media circus had multiplied. Television vans lined the street, their satellite dishes raised like metal flowers seeking the sun. Reporters positioned themselves for live broadcasts, their faces serious as they recounted Rose’s dramatic appearance.
“The once–celebrated fashion designer now faces life in prison…”
“…a shocking fall from grace for the adopted daughter of Richard and Margaret Lewis…”
“…sources close to the investigation say the evidence against Rose Lewis is overwhelming…”
The district attorney caught up with them at the courthouse steps.
“Ms. Kane,” he said, shaking Camille’s hand. “Thank you for coming today. I know it wasn’t easy.”
“Will I need to testify?” Camille asked.
Matthews nodded. “Eventually, yes. But not today.” He glanced at the waiting press. “They’ll want a statement from you. Nothing complicated. Just a few words about seeking justice, not revenge.”
Camille looked out at the sea of microphones and cameras. She thought of Rose’s face, of the hatred burning in her eyes. Of all the pain that had led them here.
“I’ll speak now,” she decided.
Alexander squeezed her hand. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she said simply, and stepped forward into the glare of cameras.
The reporters surged toward her, shouting questions that blended into white noise. Camille raised a hand, and surprisingly, they
fell silent.
“I won’t be taking questions,” she began, her voice steady. “I came today to see justice begin its course. The evidence against my
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sister will speak for itself.”
She paused, feeling the weight of dozens of lenses focused on her face, recording every flicker of emotion.
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“Many of you want to know how I feel, seeing Rose like this. The truth is complicated. I don’t hate her. I pity her. Something
broke in Rose long ago, something I couldn’t fix, though I tried for many years.”
The crowd remained unusually quiet, captivated by her calm dignity.
“What happened between us isn’t just about betrayal or jealousy. It’s about choices. We all face darkness in our lives. We all
experience pain. The question is what we build from that pain.” Camille drew a breath. “I chose to create. Rose chose to destroy.
And now we both live with those choices.”
A reporter near the front called out, “Do you think she’s insane, like her lawyers claim?”
Camille shook her head. “I’m not a doctor. I can’t speak to my sister’s mental state. I can only tell you what I know, Rose’s actions
were deliberate, planned over years. Whether that reflects mental illness or simply evil is for others to decide.”
“Are you afraid of her?” another voice shouted.
The question hung in the air. Camille considered it seriously.
“No,” she said finally. “Not anymore. Rose held power over me because I gave it to her. I allowed her hatred to shape my life.
Today, I take that power back.”
With that, she stepped away from the microphones. Alexander’s arm encircled her waist, steadying her as they descended the
courthouse steps toward the waiting cars.
Behind them, the media exploded into activity, reporters racing to file their stories, cameramen reviewing footage. Already the
narrative was forming, the dignified victim facing her tormentor without hatred, the contrast between Camille’s composure and
Rose’s barely–contained rage.
In the car, Victoria took Camille’s hand. “Well done,” she said simply.
Camille leaned back against the leather seat, suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline that had carried her through the morning
drained away, leaving her hollow.
“Do you think she’ll ever understand what she did?” she asked quietly. “Not just to me, but to herself?”
Victoria’s eyes softened with rare compassion. “Some people aren’t capable of that kind of reflection. They see only what was
taken from them, never what they threw away.”
The car pulled into traffic, leaving the courthouse behind. On every corner, newspaper stands displayed Rose’s booking photo, her face twisted with rage beneath damning headlines:
FASHION DESIGNER FACES LIFE FOR ATTEMPTED MURDER
SISTER VS. SISTER: INSIDE ROSE LEWIS’S REIGN OF TERROR
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THE FALL OF ROSE LEWIS: HOW JEALOUSY DESTROYED A RISING STAR
Camille turned away from the windows. “It doesn’t feel like victory.”
“It’s not supposed to,” Alexander said gently. “There’s no winning in this, only surviving.”
Camille nodded, resting her head against his shoulder. The car moved through Manhattan traffic, carrying her toward the future she’d fought so hard to protect. Behind them, Rose faced a different future, one shaped by bars and guards and the slow grind of
justice.
Two sisters. Two paths. Two destinies now irrevocably separate.
Camille closed her eyes, feeling neither triumph nor sorrow, but something between, the quiet certainty that some chapters must end before others can begin.
