STANDING IN THE DRESSING room, I feel guilty. I shouldn’t be looking for a dress to wear to a wedding, not when Ziven is still in jail. His trial is set for one week before Oksana’s wedding. His attorney, Matthew, requested an expedited trial, since it didn’t take long for them to gather all of their information.
I’ve been assured, more than once, that there is no way Ziven will go to prison. I’m not sure how his attorney is so confident, because I’m not. Not in the slightest.
“Let’s see this sexy thing,” Kristy calls out from the floor of the shop.
I shake my head and take a last look in the mirror before I walk out to her. She whistles as I step up on the podium and look at myself in the three-way mirrors.
The skirt is full, and floor length, a shimmering platinum organza that hits just above my belly button and flows out.
The top is a separate piece, black, long sleeved and cut high with a choker style neck piece that clasps at the back of my neck. It completely covers me from my neck to just below my breasts with thick black fabric.
The back is held together with strands of beads, and nothing else, exposing my entire back. It’s cropped short, showing off my ribcage.
“If you don’t buy that, I’ll be so pissed,” Kristy announces, sitting straight up in her chair.
“It’s not too exposing for a wedding?” I ask as I look at the skin showing on my back.
“If your ass crack were hanging out, and your boobs were hanging out, I would say it’s too much. But it’s only your waist and upper back. You’re completely covered up top. I think it’s understated and beautiful, yet young, and sexy all at the same time.”
“You really want me to get the dress, don’t you?” I ask, arching a brow as I look at her reflection in the mirror.
“Buy it,” she demands with a smile.
“Do you think…”
“He’ll be right at your side,” she says, answering my unasked question.
“I hope so,” I murmur.
I make my way into the dressing room and change back into my clothes. It’s nearing the end of March, and although it’s still cold, the snow has melted and everything is starting to turn green again, as spring is just around the corner. Everything reminds me of Ziven, though. For the most part, I find myself melancholy.
I’m able to talk to him every couple of days, and it’s good to hear his voice. I pretend that I’m doing great, that I’m sleeping and eating enough, that I’m taking his being gone in stride.
However, the reality is that I’m not. I’m eating because he would notice if I wasn’t if—when—he gets out. I’m not sleeping though, and I cry all of the time. I’m definitely not taking his absence in stride, but I’m trying; at least, publicly I am.
“You want to do lunch?” Kristy asks as I walk out of the dressing room, my new two-piece dress in hand to purchase.
“Sure,” I shrug as I take it to the girl at the counter.
I watch as the sales girl gently zips a garment bag around my dress and rings me up. I feel guilty when I see the price and hand her my credit card, a card that magically always gets paid off and seems to have unlimited funds.
When Ziven was first taken away, I tried to talk to Mika about finances, but he just assured me that I would be taken care of. He handed me this card and told me to buy whatever I needed or wanted with it. I still ask him anytime I need to purchase something expensive, like today’s dress purchase for Oksana’s wedding.
“You’re doing okay?” Kristy asks as we walk down the street to a little café.
My guards are close by, following closely, but not close enough to hear our conversation. I like that they allow me my privacy when I’m with my friend.
“Not really,” I snort.
Kristy asks for a table near the window, and one of my guard’s growls behind me. I’ve discovered that they like to sit in the back of restaurants and never near windows. But this is a girl’s lunch, and they’re going to have to make a concession. I need a little sun shining down on me today.
“Are they always this moody?” Kristy asks once we sit down.
“Aren’t all men if they don’t have their way?”
“True,” she giggles.
We enjoy a nice lunch, a few cocktails, and then it’s time for her to leave. She doesn’t go before she pencils me in for a touch up on my hair, along with a manicure and pedicure for the wedding at her shop.
I give her a hug and thank her for joining me today, and then we part ways. I’m flanked by my guards, and then whisked back to the condo.
After Ziven’s arraignment and bail hearing, the door to the condo was replaced, and I moved back in. Although, I think I have more people around me now, more than ever, which is fine by me. Both the apartment and myself are heavily guarded. According to Mika, it will stay this way until Ziven is back home.
“I’m going to rest,” I call out as I take my dress into my bedroom, closing the door behind me.
I hang up my new dress, hopeful that Ziven will be the next person to see me in it, and then I go into the master bathroom and start a bath. I need time to just zone out, to be alone, and to not hear anything.
As the trial approaches, everybody has been more and more on edge. Ziven’s attorney, Matthew, has been working hard, building his case for Ziven. Everybody is still perfectly confident that Ziven will be free, that nothing will stick, and that he’ll be home in just a few weeks.
I hope that’s the case.
I wish that I could be as positive as them; but as the days tick by, I’m losing hope that I’ll ever be in his arms again.
Radcliff walks into the room, and my guard dips his chin before exiting to leave us alone. Jail isn’t where I’d like to be, but it’s better than prison. Since I’m categorized and documented as having a gang affiliation, they keep me away from the rest of the general population. It’s a win-win for me. I don’t have to defend myself, and I have time to think. What I think about, aside from Quinn, is Oswald Johnson—the fuck.
There was nothing different we could have done in disposing of his body. He had to be found, there would be so many other questions had he not been; and odds are, I would be exactly where I am right now anyway.
I have a connection to him, that connection being Quinn. I can only hope that evidence of his extracurricular activities have been found out by now.
“Mr. Dorosh,” Radcliff greets after the guard has left us and shut the door behind him.
“Update me,” I demand. He shakes his head.
“Looks good—looks really good. His computer at home was a hotbed of information. It’s all over the news, mister wonderful District Attorney was selling women into sex trafficking,” he chuckles as he leans back.
“What does this mean for me?”
“It means I can litter the juror’s heads with so much doubt, it’s ridiculous. That is, if you want a trial by jury?”
“If I don’t?” I ask, arching a brow.
“Then you have to take your chances with the judge,” he shrugs.
“How does that judge look?”
I know that he has to have some judges on his payroll, or at least have some things against them to keep them favorable.
I, however, don’t have any on my payroll yet, since we’re still new in the area. I’ve been focusing on building business, and then I was going to focus on law enforcement. Obviously, I fucked up.
“Go with the jury. I don’t know this judge, and if we can get some men and women with young daughters, then we’re golden. You’ll win, I have no doubt,” he murmurs.
The guard knocks on the door, signaling that we have five minutes to wrap up our conversation before Radcliff has to leave.
“How is Quinn really doing?” I ask, leaning back in my chair.
I know how she claims she’s doing when I talk to her on the phone, but I don’t know how she’s actually doing. She’s lying to me so that I don’t worry about her; I know that much.
“She’s putting on a face of steel for the public.”
I nod, reading into the words that he didn’t say, understanding that my Quinn is not doing so well when she doesn’t have to pretend. I can only hope that in a few days I’ll be back at home with her, to reassure her that everything will be okay.
“Please rise for the honorable Judge Peppermen,” the bailiff rumbles. As I stand, a man in a black gown walks into the courthouse.
I don’t see him, even though I’m facing forward. I don’t see him because all I can see is Quinn. I turned my head when she walked into the courtroom, and I swear to fuck, I almost tackled her.
She’s rounder than she was just weeks ago, proving that she hasn’t given up eating, making my cock instantly hard at her newer curves. She’s wearing a tight, black skirt that hugs her from those hips, all the way down to her knees, with a light blue shirt that shows off the swells of her breasts a little too perfectly, and a sweater to cover up her arms.
“You may be seated,” the judge announces, shaking me of my Quinn consumed thoughts.
I don’t really pay attention to the trial. I keep an indirect eye on the jury. I don’t look at them point blank. I don’t want to scare them, but out of the corner of my eye, I watch them. I watch their reactions, and I watch their composure.
When a detective is called up to the stand by Radcliff, I sit up a little straighter in my seat. I know where this is going. This is going to be the part of the trial where Oswald’s little side business is exposed, and I can’t fucking wait.
“Can you please tell the jury what you discovered when you were combing through D.A. Johnson’s home computer?” Radcliff asks.
The detective looks like he’s about to be sick, then he clears his throat and starts to explain every single thing he found. All of the money that was exchanged from buyers to Johnson’s off-shore account. The price list of girls, including their descriptions and what they were trained for.
Then he found pictures.
Pictures of the women that he sent to buyers, proving their training. One woman had three cocks in her pussy. All of the men’s faces were masked in the photograph, so there is no way to know who participated in the orgies, but the evidence is there. The women’s faces were never hidden.
Radcliff hands the emails, the price sheet, and the photographs to the jurors. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as a few women start to cry, a couple men shift uncomfortably as they cringe, and a few of the men look enraged. Good.
“So, in your professional opinion, could Johnson have been murdered by a disgruntled buyer?” Radcliff asks.
I want to smile, because that, that right there is the doubt.
“It’s possible, but the most motive goes toward Mr. Dorosh,” he states.
“Is that because you assume, by my client’s tattoos, that he’s somehow involved in the Russian Bratva?” Radcliff asks.
“That, and some of his girlfriend’s possessions were found in Johnson’s house,” he says. Radcliff nods before he says that he’s finished with the witness.
The prosecution doesn’t even attempt to question the detective. Then, Radcliff shocks the shit out of me when he calls his last witness to the stand—my fucking wife.
“The fuck,” I whisper under my breath.
“Don’t worry, I’ll protect her,” he rumbles.
I watch as my gorgeous wife is sworn in, a deer-caught-in-headlights expression on her face, until her eyes catch mine. Then I watch as she physically relaxes and gives me a small smile. I wink at her, hiding my worry as best as I can.
“What is your relationship to Mr. Dorosh?” Radcliff asks.
“I’m his wife,” she says into the microphone. The jurors look puzzled, but they continue to watch.
“The prosecution has said that you were also involved with Mr. Johnson?”
“I was, yes,” she admits. A couple of the jurors gasp.
“Can you tell us how that came about?” Radcliff asks.
“Ziven and I weren’t doing well. We were dating, not married yet, and living together. I met Mr. Johnson at a party. He gave me his card and we talked and texted over the phone for several weeks before I decided to leave Ziven and go to him,” she says, telling most of the truth.
“What happened when you entered Mr. Johnson’s home?”
Quinn closes her eyes and then she tells the whole truth. She tells the jury every single disgusting thing that Oswald Johnson did to her body, and her mind. I feel my rage bubbling to the surface, but I tamp it down. I cannot blow up here. This shit is over with now. I made sure he would never hurt her or another woman again.
“So, when you broke the window to his home and fled, where did you go?”
“Back to Ziven. I didn’t think he’d want to date me again, but I knew that he was a good man and that he cared for me, so he would at least help me get away from Oswald,” she practically whispers as she wipes tears from her eyes.
“How did you end up marrying him?” Radcliff asks.
“Ziven Dorosh helped me heal. He never stopped loving me, and he was patient and kind. He protected me from myself. He didn’t let me retreat into the horrors of my memories. He made me talk about what happened, he made me live for myself, and he supported me one hundred percent,” she explains.
I can’t help but mouthing—I love you—to my beautiful wife. She mouths it back before Radcliff rests.
“The jury is loving this shit,” Radcliff whispers in my ear.
I nod slightly, my eyes never leaving Quinn’s. The prosecution tries to ask some bullshit questions, but they’ve pretty much given up at this point. They’ve lost, and they know it.
The entire jury is somber and weepy from Quinn’s testimony. Even if they thought I killed Oswald Johnson, they now understand that it was in defense of my wife, and they would never convict me.
The jurors are excused, and we empty the courtroom to wait for them to come back. I assume it’s going to be just Radcliff, his second chair, and me, but when we walk inside of the room where I’m to wait for the jurors to deliberate my fate, my wife’s smile greets me.