She sips her tea slowly, her fingers running absently over the rim of the large black ceramic mug as the steam disappears into the air around her. It's soothing, calming, but it's not what she wants right now, not what she so desperately needs to make her feel better, coating the back of her throat as it smoothly slides down. She wishes she had a secret stash, something to make everything slowly fade away.
Not guilty.
The foreman's words still reverberate through her mind, like a record player stuck on repeat. If only this could be fixed as easily. She can still taste the bile in her mouth, rising up as he looked towards his supporters and the smile of victory flashed across his face.
So much for justice.
She can't put into words how she's feeling right now, but she knows she's like a volcano waiting to erupt. She's angry, angry at Frank for doing this to her, angry at Peter for convincing her to go to that stupid hotel. Most of all, she's angry at herself for going through with this, dragging her dirty linen through the court, reliving the moment over and over until she feels like he's on top of her again and she cannot breathe. She wonders whether that hot bath wouldn't have been so bad after all, her pain washed down the plughole with the dirty water, never to be spoken of again.
She knows what they'll think on the Street, what they'll say behind her back.
Liar.
He holds her close to him, telling her everything will be alright. She's not sure he honestly believes that any more than she does. She knows he's hurting too, hurting for her, hurting for the role he played in this whole sorry mess. His life has been turned upside down this week and she cannot help but feel sorry for him, too.
The first time she slept in his arms, she didn't dream of Frank. But she knows she will tonight.