Chapter 2: The Queen in Court

In a courtroom lined with oak and whispered tension, every eye turned toward the woman who had just entered. Mayra Vale didn’t need a second glance to command attention—she owned every step she took, every breath she exhaled, like the room had been built just for her.

Her heels clicked against the marble floor like a metronome of certainty. Her tailored navy suit hugged her posture with clean grace, and her teal eyes shimmered beneath the lights—sharp as a sword, calm as winter ice.

A young intern stumbled in her presence, forgetting his papers.

The judge nodded respectfully.

The rival lawyer tightened his tie.

Mayra smiled—not kindly, but elegantly. Like a queen waving to peasants before war.

She took her seat at the front bench, her long fingers folding over one another. She whispered something into her junior's ear, and the junior paled before nodding quickly. It was a warning. Maybe a strategy. Maybe a threat. Either way, it worked.

Mayra Vale didn’t come to court to argue. She came to win.

And she always did.

Her record was perfect. Zero losses. Every client who paid her premium fee walked away with their freedom, their fortune, or their revenge. She didn’t care what they wanted—as long as they got it. Right or wrong didn’t matter to her. Only results did.

She’d lied. Faked evidence. Bribed people in dark suits who didn’t need names. And the worst part?

Everyone still adored her.

Because in interviews, she laughed like silver bells. She quoted law like poetry. Her speeches could move judges, silence critics, and turn villains into misunderstood victims.

They called her “The Diamond Queen” in the media.

But behind closed doors, Mayra Vale was no queen.

She was the executioner.

The trial ended within two hours. Her client, a famous real estate fraud, walked out smiling, whispering a thank you into her ear before disappearing behind paparazzi. She didn’t care if he was guilty. She didn’t even ask.

As she stepped outside, cameras flashed, and reporters shouted her name. She gave them a soft smile, her voice sweet and composed.

“No comments. My client is innocent, as proven by the court. Thank you.”

She stepped into her car. The driver nodded and began to drive back toward the Vale Mansion—the house of legends, ghosts, and cold ceilings.

The mansion was older than the city’s government building. Black marble, gold-trimmed halls, and a library bigger than most schools. But it was quiet. Too quiet.

Mayra walked past maids and butlers who bowed but said nothing. No music, no laughter. No childhood memories.

Only memories of discipline.

Her father, Graham Vale, sat in the study. Papers scattered, his glasses low on his nose. He didn’t look up.

“You’re back,” he said flatly.

“Yes.”

He didn’t ask how the trial went. He didn’t need to. Mayra never lost.

Their conversations were always like that—brief, clinical, sharp.

She stood there a moment longer, hoping for something else. A word. A flicker. Anything.

But he was already back to his papers.

When Mayra was five months old, her mother died in a car crash. Graham never spoke of her. Not even once. At first, Mayra thought he was too sad. Later, she learned he was too guilty. He blamed himself. And in that guilt, he never let himself love Mayra—not properly.

He remarried four years later. Her stepmother was beautiful, warm, and patient. For a while, things seemed soft.

Until they weren’t.

Mayra had been eleven when she saw the woman sneak into a hotel room with a young businessman. She didn’t tell her father. Not then. She waited. Watched. And when her brother turned seven, the truth exploded.

The woman disappeared. Her father broke.

After that, all that remained were rules. Results. Schedules.

And silence.

Her brother—Eli Vale—hated it. He had rebelled. Screamed. Fought. Left home at seventeen, refusing to become a lawyer. He wanted to research political science. Wanted to save the world.

Foolish, Mayra had thought then. But secretly… she had envied him.

Now, he was gone. Somewhere out there. And she was here. Still doing everything her father asked. Still earning his cold praise. Still chasing a shadow of love that might never be given.

Because no matter how cold Graham was… Mayra loved him.

That night, after finishing her reports and pouring herself a glass of red wine, Mayra sat in her bedroom, eyes flicking over articles, court transcripts, and emails. Everything looked perfect on the outside—but inside, there was a gnawing emptiness.

Her room was spotless, her awards lined neatly on the walls. Frames of achievements, not family.

She took a deep breath and closed her laptop.

Outside the window, the sky was ink-black. Another night in a house where victory echoed louder than warmth.

She stood and walked to the mirror. Her reflection stared back—powerful, poised, perfect.

But behind her smile, Mayra Vale was just a daughter… still waiting to be seen.

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