ChapterOne
Adrien
The last thing I expected on a random Tuesday was Alicia Morgan demanding an emergency meeting.I despise being summoned, but when the Scandal Queen clears her schedule, someone’s world is about to implode.
The storm system hovering over the city lends a dark haze to the sky, rain pelting the glass.Fitting for a morning hampered by jet lag and a meeting my sister, Margot, insisted I take.
“I vote we order in,” Tommy says, ankle crossed over his knee, arm draped across the Chesterfield sofa like he hasn’t a care in the world.He wouldn’t—Alicia didn’t demandhispresence.
I rub my eyes, debating whether to have more caffeine or an intravenous hydration drip.It’s Manhattan—there must be one nearby.Maybe if I hadn’t had that third scotch on the plane…
“News says subways are flooding.”
“Since when have you taken the subway?”
“Fair.Still, I can’t walk into court with soaked trousers.”
I press the desk phone.“Can you bring in menus?We’ll order lunch.”
“Yes, sir.Right away.”
Tommy leans back.“So Margot’s dictating your schedule.Aside from being a thorn in your side, how’s she doing?”
“She’s well.Busy.”
I hesitate.“She asked about you,” I add, though I shouldn’t.
There’s a rap at the walnut door.“Come in.”
A young woman, an administrative temp, enters, beige skirt suit, nervous hands shaking menus.
“You can hand those to the judge,” I say.
Tommy barely glances as he takes them.
“Sir, your twelve o’clock is here.Ms.Alicia Morgan.Should I ask if she’d like to join you for lunch?”
“No.We’ll be done before the food arrives.”
The click of heels announces her before the door opens.To hell with the weather—she’s immaculate in ivory Givenchy and Prada heels, hair a dark wave, eyes a sharp blue that take in everything at once.
“Alicia Morgan,” I say.She’s the founder and CEO of Morgan & Company, a crisis communications firm.From what I’ve heard, she’s the one everyone from celebrities to presidents go to when things go tits up.
“Judge Brennan,” she greets Tommy, before adding with smooth authority, “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m short on time.This conversation needs to be private.”
“I’m going,” he says, and slips out.
I round my desk.Alicia commands the room, something I’ll allow, as from what I’ve heard, you want her on your side.“Can I get you?—”
“No, thank you.”The words cut, but the smile that follows is practiced and bright.It softens the edge just enough to remind me she’s not all steel.
She opens a pale leather briefcase and passes me a folder.“I need you to confirm whether these photographs were taken inside your club.”
The Sanctuary.My chest tightens.Discretion is its foundation—no phones, no cameras.If this trust is breached, everything I’ve built crumbles.
I flip through black-and-white prints.A man on a sofa.A woman straddling a blurred figure.Too intimate, too familiar.I study the headboard, the chains.Suite 7A.
I close the folder and set it on the table between us.“Where did your client get these?”
