I grin. Because this isn’t testimony.
It’s foreplay.
The second I step out of those godsforsaken chambers, she’s on me.
“Don’t you walk away from me, Aebon!”
She sounds like war—heels striking the polished stone like gunshots, her voice a lash in the quiet corridor. Her fists are balled at her sides, and her cheeks are flush, not just from anger. No. There’s something else burning in her, and I know it. I’ve tasted it.
“You’re blowing the case on purpose!” she snaps, catching me by the sleeve.
I stop.
Let her hold me.
“Am I?” I murmur, cocking an eyebrow.
“You were smirking the whole godsdamn time,” she says, jabbing a finger at my chest. “You mocked the court, derailed every line of questioning—used that awful gangster dialect like this was some performance!”
“It was,” I say simply.
She stares at me, incredulous. “You think this is a game?”
“No, sweetheart. I think this is survival. And showmanship helps.”
Her eyes flash. Green fire. Pure Aria. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re lovely when you’re furious.”
She almost hits me. Almost. But instead, she takes a step back, arms crossed tight like armor. “How are we supposed to convict anyone if you won’t cooperate?”
“I told you,” I say, softer now, so only she can hear. “I don’t do things your way.”
“You’re jeopardizing months of work,” she hisses. “Witness prep, procedural framing, judicial bias mapping?—”
“You’ll get your convictions.”
Her voice drops to a knife-edge whisper. “How?”
I smile. Not wide. Not cruel. Just enough.
“Leave it to me.”
And I walk off, her fury clinging to me like perfume.
Gods, she’s magnificent when she’s ready to kill me.
CHAPTER 11
ARIA DAWSON
My office hums with quiet—night’s lull settling in like static across glass. The overheads flicker slightly, then stabilize, casting a sterile glow on the mountain of legal tablets scattered across my desk. I’m elbow-deep in witness analysis, timeline reconstructions, forensic overlays. Anything to drown out the taste of him still clinging to my memory.
Then the chime buzzes.
Low. Sharp. A single ping from the delivery tube slot behind my office panel. I frown. I’m not expecting anything.
Sliding the panel open, I find a sleek, anonymous courier box. No label. No signature. Just a single black seal with a red dot—a marking I’ve never seen in official logs. My pulse quickens. This could be a trap.
