She looks at me, her eyes shining excitedly. “Did the Martinez family receive statutory disclosure?”
Fuck.
I didn’t even think to check the amendment timeline.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “The file doesn’t mention it.”
“Because the developer buried it.” She’s making notes now in that precise handwriting I’ve memorized without meaning to. Without wanting to. Without any fucking explanation for why my brain decided this was critical information worth storing.“If they didn’t provide disclosure, the modification is void ab initio. We don’t have to argue unconscionability. We don’t have to prove mutual mistake. The contract is legally invalid from the moment of execution.”
“Which means the family reverts to their original lease terms,” I finish.
“Exactly.” She’s already pulling up another document. “And if the developer’s been collecting payments under the invalid modification, we can argue unjust enrichment and demand restitution.”
I watch the way her mind moves from statute to remedy in seconds, building a legal framework that’s airtight, and I can’t help but think this is the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.
She glances at me. Those eyes sharp and assessing. “You’re good at this.”
I’m taking aback. “Me? At what?”
“Finding patterns. I spotted the statute. But you’re the one who documented every family the developer’s targeted.” She gestures at the files spread across the desk. “That pattern is what turns this from one invalid contract into systematic fraud. We’re talking criminal exposure, not just civil liability. The developer doesn’t just owe restitution. He faces potential prosecution.” Her smile is sharp and dangerous now. “Which gives us leverage to settle every family’s case at once, at least with this particular developer. Full restitution, legal fees, and an agreement to cease all similar practices on Eleuthera.”
Fuck me.
She just turned a defensive contract dispute into an offensive prosecution threat in under a week.
“Most people in your position would throw money at the problem and call it philanthropy,” she adds, turning back to the screen.
Yeah. I’m actually running damage control on a potential foundation scandal caused by former board member Xavier Laurent while trying to prove I’m not the villain in a story I can’t fully rewrite.
But I don’t say that.
By Friday afternoonI’ve cataloged forty-seven distinct details about Amara Khan that I have no business noticing. Little things I once new about her, but had forgotten.
The way she bites her lower lip when she’s reading something that pisses her off. How she takes her coffee in exactly three sips before setting the mug down. The small sound she makes in the back of her throat when she’s about to argue a point.
This isn’t normal.
This level of fixation.
I’ve worked with attractive, brilliant women before.
Never once catalogued their coffee-drinking patterns.
So what the hell makes her different?
We’re at the community center now. Friday evening potluck. Marisol’s idea. A chance for locals to meet the legal team and ask questions in an informal setting.
My security staff, Thorne and Keon, are here, undercover as foundation staff. Their positioned near the exits. I’m peripherally aware of them the way I’m always aware of them. They know their job is to protect the perimeter without intruding on the work.
Right now Amara’s talking to an older woman named Mrs. Rolle about a land dispute. Her whole demeanor has shifted into lawyer mode. She’s calm and authoritative, and fiercely protective of this stranger’s rights.
She’s wearing a pale blue linen dress. Nothing provocative. But the way she moves in it is killing me. All those soft curves I remember too well from New Year’s Eve.
Stop looking at her like that.
You’re in public.
At a community event.
