“Street garbage,” I said softly, repeating his words back to him. Then I allowed a smile, small and deliberate. “What an interesting choice, Mr. Blackwood.” Every pair of eyes locked on me. The room, the wealth, the power—none of it mattered anymore. The trial wasn’t mine. It was his.
In that moment of tension, where time seemed to stretch and the air buzzed with unspoken words, I realized this wasn’t just a dinner. It was a defining moment, not only for me but for Alexander and for the man seated across from me, whose legacy was built on intimidation and entitlement.
“Mr. Blackwood,” I continued, my voice unwavering, “I suppose it’s easy to label what we don’t understand or what doesn’t fit into our predefined notions. But I assure you, this dress may be borrowed, but my dignity and self-worth are my own.”
