Court of the Cursed

The cold London air clung to the city as Mathew Thorne's sleek black car made its way through the bustling streets. Seated in the back, Mathew gazed out at the throng of people hurrying about their lives. His expression remained unreadable, but his thoughts stirred like dark waters beneath a calm surface.

He thought of the faces that had stood before him in court over the years—pleading, defiant, resigned. Lies, he had learned, had a peculiar sound. They carried a subtle tremor, a crack in the façade. Truth, however, rang like a clear bell, sharp and undeniable. It wasn't just words, though—it was the flicker of an eye, the twitch of a mouth. He didn't know how he saw it, only that he always did.

Some called him a prodigy, others whispered of him as something unnatural. He wasn't sure which was closer to the truth.

As the car pulled up to the courthouse steps, a towering edifice of stone and carved reliefs, Alden opened the door for him. "We've arrived, Your Honor," the butler said with his usual solemnity.

Mathew adjusted his coat and stepped out, his polished shoes clicking against the stone steps. Inside, the courthouse buzzed with activity. He walked with a measured grace, his presence commanding attention.

"Is that Judge Thorne?" one young intern whispered to her colleague.

"It's him. God, he's even more handsome in person," came the hushed reply.

"His eyes… Have you ever seen anything like them? It's like he knows all your secrets just by looking at you," another murmured, a flush creeping into her cheeks.

A lawyer passing by couldn't help but glance back, his expression tinged with something close to envy. "Some people have it all—looks, brains, power," he muttered under his breath.

Mathew was used to the stares, the whispers, even the occasional brazen look of desire. He ignored them as he always did, focusing instead on the task at hand. Inside the judge's chambers, he donned his black judicial robe, its weight settling over his broad shoulders like armor.

By 10 a.m., the grand courtroom was filled to capacity. The polished wood benches gleamed under the light streaming in from high arched windows. As Mathew entered, the room fell silent, save for the faint rustle of fabric as people turned to watch him.

"Is it possible for someone to look like that?" a woman in the gallery whispered to her friend.

"He's like a god," came the breathless reply.

Mathew ascended to his seat, his gaze sweeping over the room with quiet authority. He greeted the court with a nod before sitting down, his hands resting lightly on the armrests of his chair. For a moment, he was still, the room holding its collective breath as they awaited the arrival of the defendant.

The heavy wooden doors opened, and in she walked.

Abigail Russo.

The room seemed to exhale all at once, murmurs rippling through the crowd. She wore a deep-necked blue maxi dress that hugged her curves in all the right places, the slit at her thigh revealing just enough to set imaginations ablaze. Her dark hair cascaded in waves, framing a face that was both innocent and dangerously seductive.

"Good Lord," someone muttered under their breath.

"She's…" another began, but words failed them.

Abigail's movements were slow, deliberate. She walked as though the world itself bent to her will, her hips swaying with a rhythm that seemed to mesmerize. Her lips curved into a faint smile, and her eyes—those piercing, hypnotic eyes—swept the courtroom, lingering on Mathew for the briefest of moments.

Mathew's jaw tightened imperceptibly, but he held her gaze, unflinching. There was something about her—something that sent a ripple through him, though he couldn't quite name it.

Abigail took her seat, crossing her legs with a grace that seemed almost rehearsed. Her dress shifted slightly, revealing a hint more of her skin, and she tilted her head, her eyes dancing with amusement as though she knew exactly the effect she was having.

"Ms. Russo," Mathew said, his voice steady but low, resonating through the courtroom.

She smiled—a slow, knowing smile—and replied, "Your Honor." Her voice was smooth as silk, carrying an undercurrent of something that sent shivers down spines.

The courtroom fell into a tense silence as Mathew glanced at the papers before him, then back to her. "This court is now in session," he declared, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.

And so, the trial began, but beneath the surface of formality and decorum, an undercurrent of tension hummed—a battle of wills, a game of truth and lies, with stakes that neither yet fully understood.