Chapter Nine

CHAPTER NINE

T he courtroom buzzes with low murmurs and the shuffling of papers. I sit in the back, my heart hammering against my ribs as I wait for Logan’s bail hearing to begin. The wooden bench beneath me feels cold and unforgiving, mirroring the icy dread seeping into my bones. Faces blur together, a sea of indifferent expressions and judgmental stares. I tug at the sleeves of my denim jacket, seeking some comfort in the familiar fabric.

Sheriff Dunham sits near the front, a smug grin plastered on his face. He catches my eye and winks, making my skin crawl. My threats worked; Logan’s getting a hearing. But Dunham’s confidence gnaws at me, planting seeds of doubt. The sheriff leans back in his chair, whispering something to a deputy that makes them both chuckle.

Logan deserves this chance to come home until the trial. To breathe fresh air, feel sunlight on his skin again. I can’t stand the thought of him trapped in that cell any longer.

A door opens, and Logan is led into the courtroom, handcuffed but standing tall. My breath catches at the sight of him—still strong, still defiant despite everything.

Logan steps into the courtroom, and for a moment, I forget to breathe. He’s had a shower, and he’s wearing a fresh suit. The fabric clings to his muscular frame in all the right ways, the crisp lines accentuating his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His face is clean-shaven, not a single shadow marring his strong jawline. He looks completely put together, almost like the Logan I know from the circus—proud, unbreakable.

Except for his eyes.

They’re haunted, those deep pools of stormy gray. Shadows linger there, a darkness that speaks of sleepless nights and relentless torment. I see the toll this place has taken on him, the silent battles he’s fighting behind those bars. My chest tightens as I catch his gaze. For a brief second, something flickers in his eyes—a mix of pain and relief.

Logan’s eyes scan the room and settle on me. I try to muster a reassuring smile, but it’s brittle on my lips. He gives a barely perceptible nod, acknowledging my presence without drawing too much attention.

I give him what I hope is a reassuring smile. Stay strong.

The judge enters, commanding silence with his presence alone. Everyone rises, then sits again as he takes his seat. My fingers clench around the edge of the bench as the hearing begins.

I watch as a middle-aged man in an expensive suit rises from his seat. His silver hair is slicked back, and a gold watch glints on his wrist. Kyle’s uncle, the prosecutor. My stomach churns as he approaches the judge, exuding an air of smug confidence.

“Your Honor,” he begins, his voice dripping with false sincerity, “Logan Whitmere is nothing more than a drifter, a charlatan who preys on small towns like ours with his carnival.”

I clench my fists, biting my tongue to keep from calling bullshit.

The words paint a grotesque caricature of the man I love.

“This violent vagrant has no ties to our community, no stable income, and no reason to stay if released on bail. He’s a flight risk, pure and simple.”

The prosecutor paces before the judge, his polished shoes clicking against the floor. “Mr. Whitmere’s history shows a pattern of moving from town to town, never putting down roots. How can we trust he won’t disappear the moment he’s released?”

I glance at Logan, seeing the muscle in his jaw tighten. His eyes remain fixed ahead, tension radiating from him.

“Furthermore, Your Honor, the nature of the crime is exceptionally violent. A respected member of our community was brutally attacked. Can we really allow such a dangerous individual to roam free among us?”

The prosecutor’s voice rises, his gestures becoming more animated. “This man, if we can call him that, lives in a tent. He has no permanent address, no stable job beyond his circus sideshow. He’s little more than a bum with delusions of grandeur.”

My nails dig into my palms, rage building inside me. The prosecutor’s words twist everything into something dirty and shameful.

“Your Honor, I implore you to deny bail. For the safety of our town, for justice, keep this violent drifter behind bars where he belongs.”

Alex Harrison stands, his solid presence commanding attention, a stark contrast to the prosecutor’s oily charm. “Your Honor,” he begins, his voice steady and confident. “I’d like to present a different picture of Logan Whitmere. Far from being a drifter, Mr. Whitmere is a successful businessman who employs hundreds of people and generates significant revenue in every city the Cirque des Miroirs visits.”

I watch as the judge leans forward, clearly intrigued. Alex continues, his words painting Logan in the light he deserves.

“Mr. Whitmere isn’t just a businessman but a pillar of community support wherever the circus goes. In every city they visit, the Cirque des Miroirs makes substantial donations to local food banks and animal shelters.”

Alex produces a stack of papers from his briefcase. “I have here letters from various charities across the country, thanking Mr. Whitmere for his generous contributions.”

He begins to read, his voice carrying through the hushed courtroom. “‘Dear Mr. Whitmere, your donation has allowed us to feed over 500 families this month…’ ‘Thanks to the Cirque des Miroirs, our program was able to upgrade our facilities and save dozens more pets.’”

As Alex reads, I sense a shift in the courtroom. The early hostility seems to lessen. Even some of the town’s residents who came to gawk are exchanging uneasy glances.

“These are just a few examples of the positive impact Mr. Whitmere has on communities across the nation,” Alex says. “These are not the actions of a ‘violent vagrant,’ but of a compassionate businessman deeply invested in social responsibility and community care.”

This is the man I know, the one who quietly helps those in need without seeking recognition.

“…and thanks to Mr. Whitmere’s generosity, I was able to start a new life free from abuse,” Harrison finishes, his voice resonating through the courtroom.

The prosecutor stands, looking bored. “Objection, Your Honor. These alleged donations are irrelevant to the crime at hand. For all we know, they could be fabricated.”

How fucking dare he? The only fabrication here is the evidence against Logan. I can’t help but let out a derisive snort, drawing the prosecutor’s attention.

His lip curls in disgust as he looks at me. “Perhaps these ‘donations’ to women’s shelters were just payments for services rendered. After all,” he says, gesturing toward me, “that must be how he convinced the town slut to run away with his circus.”

The courtroom erupts. Harrison’s voice booms above the chaos, “Objection! Your Honor, this is slander.”

My vision blurs with surprised hurt.

I watch in horror as Logan snaps to his feet, his eyes blazing with a fury I’ve never seen before. The chains of his handcuffs rattle as he surges forward, muscles taut and ready to spring. For a moment, I forget to breathe.

“Order! Order in the court!” The judge’s voice booms, cutting through the chaos. His gavel slams down once, twice, three times. The sharp cracks echo through the room, but Logan remains standing, his gaze fixed on the prosecutor with murderous intent.

The prosecutor’s lips curl into a sneer. “See, Your Honor? He’s clearly prone to violence. This outburst only proves my point about the danger he poses to our gentle community.”

My heart sinks. This is exactly what they wanted—to provoke Logan, to make him appear like the monster they claim he is. I want to tell everyone that they don’t understand, that they’re twisting everything.

The judge’s voice rings out with a steel edge.

“Counselor,” he says, fixing the prosecutor with a hard stare, “I will not tolerate such unprofessional behavior in my courtroom. Your derogatory remarks and attempts to provoke the defendant are completely unacceptable.”

The smug expression drops from the prosecutor’s face, replaced by shock and then a faux sheepish expression.

“You will retract your statement and apologize to Miss Cole immediately. Furthermore, I’m issuing you a formal reprimand. One more outburst like that, and I’ll hold you in contempt. Is that clear?”

The prosecutor’s face flushes red. “Y-yes, Your Honor. I apologize for my remarks.”

I blink, not saying anything because he barely addressed the words to me. The judge turns his attention to Logan, who’s still standing. “Mr. Whitmere, please be seated. I understand your reaction, but I need you to remain calm for the duration of these proceedings.”

Logan nods stiffly and sits.

I release a long breath.

Town slut. The familiar sting of shame burns through me, but it’s quickly overtaken by a surge of anger. How dare he? I’m not that scared little girl anymore, desperate for approval.

Something unexpected washes over me. A strange sense of… indifference? These people, with their small-town judgments and narrow minds—they don’t know me. They don’t know Logan. I realize their opinions matter far less than I ever thought possible.

My newfound calmness crumbles as the judge speaks.

“Despite the numerous charitable works undertaken by Mr. Whitmere, I must agree that with his successful circus, with its extensive network, he must be considered a flight risk.”

Each word is a blow.

“Given Mr. Whitmere’s traveling experience, I have no choice but to deny bail.”

The gavel falls with a thud that reverberates in my body.

Logan will remain behind bars until the trial. Pain. Resignation. I see it even though his expression is intentionally blank.

As Logan is led past me, our eyes lock. In that moment, the chaos of the courtroom fades away. Without thinking, I reach forward. The deputy escorting him hesitates, caught off guard by my sudden movement.

Logan’s lips crash into mine, desperate and hungry. The kiss is brief but electric, sending shockwaves through my body. His scent envelops me—a mix of sweat, soap, and something uniquely him.

For a fleeting second, we’re not in this suffocating courtroom.

We’re under the big top, wrapped in each other’s arms.

“I love you,” I whisper against his mouth.

“That was your first mistake, Sunset,” he murmurs back.

Then he’s gone, pulled away by the deputy. I watch as they lead him out, my heart shattering with each step he takes. The heavy wooden doors close behind them with a dull thud that echoes through my soul.

I stand there, frozen, as the courtroom empties around me. My lips still tingle from his kiss, a bittersweet reminder of what’s been taken from us. Tears blur my vision, but I blink them back furiously.

I can’t break down. Not here.

A storm of emotions rages inside me. Sadness threatens to pull me under, imagining Logan back in that cold, lonely cell. I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms. The pain grounds me, gives me focus.

We may have lost this battle, but the war isn’t over. Logan needs me to be strong, to keep the circus together. As I finally turn to leave, I catch sight of Kyle’s uncle smirking from across the room. His smug face ignites a fresh wave of anger in me. He thinks he’s won, and I’m afraid he might be right.