My Husband Defended the Man Who Assaulted Me Chapter 08

My Husband Defended the Man Who Assaulted Me Chapter 08

On the day of the retrial, I saw Celine again.

This time, she sat in the defendant’s chair.

No longer seated in the front row, no longer the favored first love shielded from all harm.

She wore a detention jumpsuit. Her hair was disheveled and her face drained of color, yet her eyes still blazed with venomous hatred.

But her eyes still brimmed with venom.

Eden sat beside her. Gone was the innocent college-boy act.

He cowered. Shook. Couldn’t even look at me.

Sullivan wasn’t at the defense table this time.

He presented exhaustive evidence in court:

The hotel’s backup security footage, GHB purchase records, Celine’s text messages instructing her assistant to delete surveillance files, Eden’s full confession, payments made to tabloid blogs, and the complete chain of custody that transferred my private therapy records to the defense team.

Sullivan’s voice cracked.

“Vivian Croft’s psychiatric records… It’s me who provided them to the defense myself.”

The gallery gasped again.

“As her husband, I knew those records were her most private, most fragile wounds.”

“And I brought them into open court, without her consent, to use against her.”

“I accept full legal and professional responsibility for that.”

He looked at me when he finished. His eyes were bloodshot.

I didn’t look back. Because I didn’t need him to speak for me anymore.

When it was my turn, I stood up.

This time, I didn’t shake.

The judge asked if I had anything to add.

I looked straight ahead and spoke clearly.

“After I was assaulted, the hardest part wasn’t calling the police. It was not the invasive rape kit examination, nor was it sitting in this courtroom, reliving that horrific night on endless repeat.”

“The hardest part was proving, over and over, that I didn’t consent.”

“Proving that drinking doesn’t mean yes. That wearing a dress doesn’t mean invite. That being unable to have children doesn’t make me twisted. That being hurt before doesn’t make me a liar.”

My voice wasn’t loud. But it was clear for everyone to hear.

“I trusted someone once. He told me I wasn’t wrong.”

“Those words saved me.”

I finally looked at Sullivan.

His tears fell.

I looked away just as fast.

“But later, he made me doubt if maybe I was wrong.”

Sullivan closed his eyes. Pain carved into his face.

“I’m not standing here to make anyone believe me.”

“I’m standing here to tell every woman like me: even if the whole world asks why you don’t just die, you don’t deserve to. The ones who hurt you do.”

The courtroom went dead quiet.

Eleanor sat in the gallery, shoulders shaking.

Then Celine screamed.

“Stop pretending! You’re so high and mighty, Vivian?”

“If you hadn’t stolen the Mrs. Evans title, none of this would’ve happened!”

“Sullivan was always mine! You couldn’t even give him a child! what gave you the right to keep him for five years?”

“What gave you the right?”

Bailiffs grabbed her. She fought them.

“I didn’t do anything wrong! I just took back what was mine!”

“You’re the one who got in my way!”

Her eyes burned into me.

But this time, no one spoke for her.

The verdict came down.

Eden Whitmore, guilty on all counts. Rape. Use of a date-rape drug.
Evidence tampering. Multiple felonies, sentenced to a lengthy term of imprisonment

Celine Whitmore, guilty of incitement, accessory to rape, evidence tampering, obstruction of justice, defamation, and harassment.
Sentenced.

She collapsed when she heard it.

Eden sobbed out loud.

Sullivan Evans, cited for severe professional ethics violations.
Suspended by the bar. Under investigation.

And for illegally leaking my psychiatric records, he faced separate legal action.

After court, Sullivan waited outside.

When he saw me, his eyes went red again.

“Vivian, I finally told the truth for you.”

I stopped and looked at him.

“The truth didn’t come out because of you, Sullivan.”

“The truth contained in the evidence left you with no room for denial.
And I spoke for myself.”

His face went blank.

I walked away with my mother.

This time, the cameras were still there. The reporters too.

But they didn’t dare shove mics in my face and ask why I was still breathing.