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putting a blade to my flesh. But I have Damien now, and it is him that I crave. Damien who is my release valve instead of turning a knife on myself. Damien who keeps me centered and safe.
    And that, I know, is another reason I am afraid to lose him.
    “Nikki?”
    “Really,” I say, looking into his face. “No blades, no knives. Damien is taking good care of me.”
    I see the way he flinches, and for a moment I regret my words. But it is only a momentary weakness. Ollie has been an absolute shit about my relationship with Damien, and although I will always love him, I am not going to forgive or forget that easily.
    “I’m glad,” he says, his voice formal. “You’re going to be okay, you know. No matter what happens, you’re going to get through this just fine.”
    I nod, but I also notice that he’s said that I will be okay—not that Damien will. And a peculiar spark of anger tinged with sadness rushes through me, spurred by the simple truth that Ollie no longer understands what I need. If he did, he would realize that without Damien, I won’t be okay. Not ever again.
    We have been talking in the hall a few feet from the wooden double doors that lead into the courtroom. Now Ollie steps in that direction and holds one open for me. I hesitate only briefly, glancing down the hall where Damien and Maynard went, but they have not come out of the conference room. I draw a deep breath for courage, force my feet to move, and sweep past Ollie into the courtroom where the course of the rest of my life will be decided.
    Though the gallery is already full of reporters who have come to watch the spectacle of Damien Stark on trial, the main area is empty with the exception of one man in a uniform who stands at attention and will, presumably, escort the three professional and two lay judges into the courtroom once the proceedings are ready to begin.
    Unlike a U.S. courtroom, there is no bar separating the visitors from the action. Ollie and I walk up the middle aisle toward the rows of chairs behind the witness stand. As we do, the noise level in the room increases as the occupants whisper among themselves and shift their positions to get a better look at us. Despite the fact that I understand next to nothing in German, I can pick out the sound of my name and Damien’s mixed in among the din. I concentrate on walking forward and on not turning around and slapping the reporter closest to me. On not screaming at the lot of them that this isn’t entertainment—this is a man’s life. This is my life. Our life together.
    My back is still to the crowd when the room gets even noisier. I turn, certain of what I will see, and sure enough, the doors are pulled open and there is Damien standing at the threshold. He is flanked by Maynard and Herr Vogel, his German lead counsel, but they are little more than white noise in my vision. It is Damien I want, Damien I see. And now it is Damien striding toward me with such confidence and power it makes my knees go weak.
    There are no cameras in the courtroom, so when Damien pulls me into his arms to kiss me, I know this moment will not be captured on film. I wouldn’t care if it was, though. My arms go around his neck, and I cling to him, fighting not to cry, and then fighting to let go, because I cannot clutch him forever.
    He releases me and steps back, his eyes burning into me as he gently brushes his thumb across my lips. “I love you,” I whisper, and see the words reflected back in his dual-colored eyes. His smile, however, is sad.
    His eyes shift, and I realize he is looking over my shoulder at Ollie. His expression is unreadable. After a moment, he nods in greeting, then turns his attention again to me. He squeezes my hand, then moves to sit at the defense table next to his attorneys who have already moved past him and are now opening their briefcases and pulling out documents and files and the other accoutrements of trial work.
    I collapse onto my chair, suddenly exhausted. Ollie