I stood slowly, squaring my shoulders, feeling every camera lens aimed at my back.

“I don’t need counsel, Your Honor,” I said, my voice clear and steady enough to reach the back row. “I just need you to look at the back doors.”

Before the judge could reprimand me, the heavy oak doors slammed open with a force that rattled the brass hinges.

The journalists gasped. Celeste dropped her handkerchief, her spine snapping rigid.

Caleb Harrington strode down the center aisle. Not in a tailored Italian suit — in full, dust-caked combat gear: reinforced Kevlar, tactical boots, a drop-leg holster, a pack slung over one shoulder.

His jaw was rough with days of stubble, his eyes burning with focus.