My hands are shaking so bad it takes three tries to open my phone camera. I lay the files out, snap photos one by one. The flash is too bright in the gloom, a strobe against the dead gray walls. I keep waiting for the alarm, the running footsteps, but there’s nothing except the quiet rustle of paper and the wet heat gathering between my legs.
I dig deeper. In the bottom of the box is a folder marked “Prosecution Key Witnesses—Final.” I flip through and there, highlighted in yellow, are witness statements. Typed. Re-typed. But I know these documents. I’ve seen copies before, in old news forums and conspiracy blogs, blurry and incomplete. But what’s in my hands is different. Entire lines are missing even from the “official” versions. And some of the discrepancies aren’t subtle.
I hold two pages up, side by side, and my heart hammers. One document clearly contradicts the other. Dates don’t match. Signatures are missing. I recognize a cover-up when I see one; my whole life has been spent looking for the patterns in how people lie, and now, I’ve found it. Concrete evidence that my dad’s trial was mismanaged, and that he died for nothing.
I photograph everything. My hands are slick on the phone, my mouth dry. The thrill of being here, seeing this, is almost sexual.I’m half-crouched, skirt hiked up, phone clutched between trembling fingers, when the overhead lights buzz louder, almost like they’re warning me.
Of course, I don’t listen. I have important work to do!
But the door swings open, and I’m so deep in my task that at first I think I’m hallucinating the heavy, deliberate footsteps. I snap upright, files in hand, pulse pounding in my ears. For a moment, I don’t see anyone in the doorway.
Then he fills it.
Brent Gibson, in a navy suit, tailored so well that he resembles a male model. His hair is perfect as ever, dark locks waving from a high forehead. He takes up the whole width of the door, blocking my only exit as those blue eyes pierce me.
“Ms. Williams,” he growls. “You look busy.”
My first instinct is to hide, but there’s nowhere to go. The man is a wall, and the only way out is through him.
“Oh, hi Mr. Gibson—” My voice cracks. “I was just searching for a file. Shay said I could come down here if I needed?—”
The alpha male’s already walking toward me, slow and measured, his eyes never leaving my face. Each step is a threat and a promise.
“Shay isn’t authorized to give you clearance to the archives,” he rasps. “But you’re not really here for paralegal business, are you.”
It isn’t a question. He stops two feet away, towering over my quivering form. His nostrils twitch, and oh god, but can he smell my aching pussy? Can he sense my arousal?
A gleam flickers in those blue eyes, but his expression remains smooth as the alpha male holds out a hand. “May I?”
Swallowing hard, I pass over the folder, the plug inside me shifting as I move, and I know by the way he’s watching thathe knows. He can tell something is up. The look in his eye is predatory. Like he’s just waiting for the right time to strike.
Brent flips through the pages, expression unreadable. Then he closes the folder, places it back on the cart, and regards me with an intensity that makes my knees want to buckle.
“You have your father’s eyes,” he says, voice so low it’s almost a growl.
I don’t know what to say. My throat feels tight. I stare at the floor, the wall, anywhere but his face, cheeks flaming.
Brent doesn’t move. The silence stretches, heavy as the files on the shelf.
Then he does the last thing I expect.
He smiles. Not wide, but just enough to flash the edge of a canine. He leans down until we’re nearly eye-level, and says, “If you’re going to take a risk, Ms. Williams, you need to be better at covering your tracks.”
My breath is shallow. I feel a flush creeping up my chest.
He straightens and turns for the door. “Let’s go upstairs,” he says. “We’ll discuss what you found. You have three minutes to clean up and follow me. Don’t make me wait.”
And just like that, the man is gone, leaving me in the cold, concrete crypt, pulse slamming in my throat.
I shove the files back in the box, tuck my phone into my bra, and try to compose myself. It’s not easy. My legs don’t want to cooperate, and the plug is now a throbbing reminder of how close I am to the edge.
I take one last look at the “WILLIAMS, S.” box. My father’s secrets, and now mine.
I square my shoulders and head for the elevator, ready to face whatever’s waiting for me upstairs.
Brent doesn’t takethe elevator. He climbs the stairs two at a time, and I almost have to jog to keep up. His body radiates a heat that should be impossible because it’s like being bathed in the powerful rays of the sun. The handsome attorney says nothing until we hit the fourth floor, then he holds the stairwell door open, steps aside, and waits for me to enter ahead of him.
I walk past him, eyes down, my heart hammering a cartoon rhythm. The toy inside me is suddenly more than a secret—now it’s a live wire, a booby-trap for disaster. But Brent says nothing, just walks at my back, close enough I can hear his steady breath. His cologne is all spice and shadow, and it fills the narrow hallway.
