"Yes."
"We should slow down. Maintain some boundaries."
"We should. But we won't." He reached across the island and caught my hand. "You're already in too deep, Emilio. The question is whether you're going to fight it or accept it."
I looked at our joined hands. Thought about last night. About waking up in his arms. About sitting in his kitchen eating pancakes while wearing his shirt. About how none of this felt wrong even though it absolutely should.
"I don't know how to accept it," I admitted. "I don't know how to be someone who sleeps with his client and doesn't hate himself for it."
"Then learn. You're brilliant—you'll figure it out." He squeezed my hand. "Finish your breakfast. Thomas will take you home. Tomorrow night you'll survive the fundraiser and prove to everyone that you're stronger than they think. Then Tuesday we have a strategy meeting about the witness depositions."
"Very scheduled. Very organized."
"I like having plans." He smiled slightly. "Though I'm learning to appreciate when you disrupt them."
We finished breakfast in companionable silence. I borrowed clothes—designer casuals that fit reasonably well—and gathered my things while trying not to think about the fact that I was doing a walk of shame from my client's house at 9 AM on a Wednesday.
Thomas was waiting with the car. Professional and discreet as always, he didn't comment on my appearance or the fact that I was clearly wearing Sandro's clothes.
Sandro walked me to the car. Kissed me in full view of his staff, claiming and possessive. "Tomorrow night. Survive the fundraiser. Show them what you're made of."
"I will."
"I know." He traced my jaw with his thumb. "You're stronger than you think, Emilio. Don't let them make you forget that."
The drive home gave me too much time to think. About what I'd done. What it meant. How completely I'd compromised myself in less than two weeks of knowing Sandro Vitale.
At my apartment, I showered and changed into my own clothes. Went to the office and tried to focus on other cases while my mind kept drifting back to Sandro's hands on me. His mouth. The way he'd looked at me this morning like I was something precious he'd acquired.
The next evening came too quickly.
The fundraiser was at the Plaza Hotel. I arrived alone, wearing my best suit and the kind of professional mask that had gotten me through law school and the bar exam and six years of a failing marriage.
The Sterling & Associates table was near the front. Richard was already there with two other senior partners and their spouses. My seat was between an empty chair and—
Fuck.
Marco Delgado. My ex-husband was sitting two seats away, chatting with the woman beside him like he had every right to be at my firm's table.
I slid into my assigned seat and tried to ignore the way my stomach clenched. This was going to be worse than I'd anticipated.
"Emilio." Marco's voice was carefully neutral. Professional. "You look well."
"Thank you." I didn't return the compliment. Didn't ask why he was here or how he'd gotten seated at our table. Just focusedon the program in front of me like it contained fascinating information.
The empty seat beside me filled a moment later. Roberto Green settled in with the confidence of a man who thought he was winning. He nodded to me without speaking, which was somehow worse than if he'd been overtly hostile.
Dinner was interminable. Salad courses and speeches about justice and public service. Roberto made passive-aggressive comments that I ignored. Marco kept glancing at me like he wanted to say something. I focused on my food and counted the minutes until I could leave.
During the entrée, Roberto decided subtle wasn't working.
"So, Emilio." His voice was loud enough to carry to the surrounding tables. "You're representing Alessandro Vitale. That's quite a career move."
The table went quiet. Everyone pretending not to listen while absolutely listening.
"Mr. Vitale is my client, yes." I kept my voice level. Professional.
"Must be desperate for billable hours if you're willing to represent someone everyone knows is guilty." Roberto smiled like he'd said something clever instead of deeply offensive.
