The calculated precision of the attack hits me like a physical blow. Pike knows exactly where to strike—not at my personal life, which would look like petty revenge, but at my professional reputation.
“Get me everything we have on the Reed case,” I tell Patricia. “Every document, every communication, every note I scribbled on a napkin.”
I loosen my tie, feeling the walls of my carefully constructed life start to compress around me.
I straightenmy tie for the fifth time as I prepare to face the preliminary hearing. The courtroom buzzes with reporters—Pike made sure this would be a media circus.
“Mr. Hayes, are you prepared to address the allegations?” Judge Forrester asks, peering over her reading glasses.
“Yes, Your Honor.” I stand, feeling every eye in the courtroom boring into me. “The allegations made by Mr. Reedare categorically false. I have filed a complete response with supporting documentation showing?—”
The courtroom door opens with a creak that silences the room. I don’t need to turn to know who it is—the collective intake of breath and sudden flutter of whispers tells me everything.
Cora Pike walks down the center aisle with her chin high, shoulders back, looking every inch the politician’s daughter she was raised to be.
She takes a seat directly behind me, in the first row of public seating. A bold, unmistakable statement of support.
“Proceed, Mr. Hayes,” the judge says, though her eyes flick curiously between Cora and Mayor Pike, who sits rigid with fury on the opposite side of the courtroom.
“Thank you, Your Honor.” My voice steadies. “As I was saying, the documentation I’ve provided demonstrates that Mr. Reed was fully informed of all evidence and potential outcomes of his case.”
As I speak, I feel Cora’s presence like a physical force at my back. I hadn’t asked her to come—hadn’t even rang her to tell her about today’s hearing. This was her choice, knowingly walking into the lion’s den, deliberately positioning herself against her father in full view of the press.
The mayor’s face darkens to a dangerous shade of red. For a moment, his public mask slips, revealing the cruel man Cora has described behind closed doors. A photographer’s camera flashes, capturing his expression.
When I finish my statement and sit, Cora’s hand briefly touches my shoulder—a small gesture that speaks volumes. Her fingers are ice cold but steady.
“I’m here as your friend,” she whispers, just loud enough for me to hear. “Let him try to spin that.”
Cora’s handslips into mine as we enter the penthouse, the door clicking shut behind us. The weight of the day—Pike’s orchestrated attack, the courtroom tension, Cora’s unexpected appearance—settles around us like heavy fog.
“What you did today...” I start, then stop, words failing me.
Cora smiles, those green eyes catching the dim light. “I just showed up, Liam.”
“No one just shows up for me.” The confession tumbles out before I can catch it, raw and unfiltered. “People show up when they need something. When I’m useful. When I can win their case or solve their problem.”
She steps closer, her hand coming to rest against my chest. “Is that why you think we’re here? All of us? Because you’re useful?”
“Isn’t that what relationships are? Transactional arrangements with better sex?” I attempt a smile, retreating to my default armor of cynicism.
“Bullshit.” She rises on her toes, her lips brushing mine briefly. “Try again.”
I cup her face, thumb tracing the curve of her cheek. “Before you—before all of you—I measured my worth by case victories and billable hours. By how well I performed the role expected of me.”
Her eyes never leave mine, steadying me.
“With you, I don’t have to perform anything. And it terrifies me how much I need that.” My voice drops lower. “How much I need you.”
When she kisses me this time, it’s not like our past encounters—no power dynamics, no games, no audience. Just her mouth against mine, gentle but insistent.
We move toward my bedroom without breaking apart, shedding layers like old identities. Her hands slide beneath my shirt, finding skin, and for once, I don’t calculate my next move or analyze her response.
“I want just you tonight,” she whispers against my neck.
I lower her to the bed, taking my time with each button of her blouse, each inch of exposed skin. When I finally enter her, neither of us is performing or proving anything—we’re just present, connected in a way that transcends the physical.
I watch Cora arch beneath me, her eyes half-lidded and hungry. The careful control I maintain in courtrooms and negotiations dissolves with each roll of her hips against mine.
