“You’re his lawyer,” I state in quiet shock.
The words don’t just land; they detonate.Shrapnel tears through every memory of the last twelve hours.
His easy kindness.A trap.
His guest room.A holding cell.
His pool.Where I handed him every piece of ammunition he needs to destroy me.
Humiliation makes me dizzy.I feel like a witness on the stand.Every private truth I shared entered into evidence.Every weakness, every vulnerability, every desperate hope laid bare for the prosecution.
I step back, hands flying to cover my face.“You have got to be kidding me,” I mumble into my palms.
“Amy…” He says my name like a plea.
I drop my hands, pointing a trembling finger.“I told you everything!”
Matthew looks horrified.“No, no.Listen to me—”
“And the loan,” I interrupt.
His brow furrows.“What about the loan?”
“You understood it perfectly,” I continue, eyes wide.“And now you know how financially trapped I am.You.The man hired to find my weak points.”
He steps toward me, hands raised.“I would never do that—”
“Why not?”I cut him off.“My weakness is now your ammunition.Your client is Harold Bancroft, not me!”
He shakes his head, slow and pained.“No, Amy.Last night, that was me.This… this is my job.The two are not connected.You have to believe me.”He takes another step, eyes blazing with sincerity.
Voices rise outside.Helen’s panicked, “She’s in a meeting!”Is cut off as the door crashes open.
“Where the fuck have you been?”James storms in.
The room shrinks.The air thickens with his anger.
His eyes widen, then narrow on Matthew.“Who the hell are you?!”
Matthew stands his ground.Relaxed.Unflinching.A picture of quiet strength next to James’s chaotic fury.
“I could ask you the same.”Matthew raises a challenging eyebrow.
James squares his shoulders, puffing out his chest.I shrink back, legs pressing against the edge of the sofa behind me.
I clear my throat.“James, this is Matthew Warren, Harold Bancroft’s lawyer.Matthew, this is James, my fiancé.”That last word claws its way out.
“Nobody teach you to knock, James?”Matthew drawls, lips curving into a sardonic smile.“Or are basic manners not included in your designer suit package?”
Malice gleams in James’s eyes.He steps closer, invading Mathew’s space.
With a condescending smirk, he reaches out and flicks Matthew’s lapel.“At least I’m not the one helping Bancroft get rid of my fiancée’s café,” he retorts.
Matthew’s expression hardens.“Don’t mistake civility for weakness, James.”He deliberately smooths his own blazer, meeting James’s gaze without flinching.“I assure you, I have no qualms about getting my hands dirty.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”James snarls.
Matthew closes the distance.“It means don’t let the suit fool you.”
