//CLARA//
I sat. The chair was a hard, unforgiving slab of wood that seemed designed to make a person feel small.
The magistrate peered at me over the rim of his spectacles. An older man with hair like iron filings and eyes that had spent decades sifting through the filth of New York's legal system.
He'd probably seen a thousand girls like me. He'd probably broken half of them.
In my own timeline, I was used to being the center of attention, but it was always on my terms. I'd stared down high-fashion lenses for Vogue covers and commanded boardrooms without breaking a sweat.
Back then, a courtroom was just something I'd glimpse on a true-crime documentary while arguing with a delivery driver about my brunch order.
This was different. This was visceral.
