The desk sergeant looks up, irritation already set on his face, ready to be rude—until he actuallyseesme. The assessment happens in real time. My expression. My posture. The rage on my face.
I don’t introduce myself.
“I’m here for Rowan Hale,” I say.
He blinks. “You her attorney?”
I don’t answer that. “What’s she been charged with?”
His mouth tightens, like he doesn’t appreciate the pivot. “Loitering in a designated enforcement zone. Obstruction. Failure to comply.”
“She’s a law student,” I say evenly. “Not a prostitute.”
He shrugs, dismissive. “Tell that to the officer who found her parked with the engine off on Prostitute’s Row. From where I’m standing, it looks like solicitation. It’ll get sorted in the morning.”
I hold his gaze without blinking. I speak without raising my voice.
“Sort it out now.”
His nostrils flare. He doesn’t like me. That’s fine. I don’t like him, either.
“I’m taking her home,” I tell him.
He looks at me like I’ve just said the stupidest thing he’s heard all night. “No can do, buddy. She needs bail, and the courts don’t open until morning.”
I lean in just slightly—not threatening or loud, every movement precise.
“You’re making this unnecessarily difficult,” I say. “Rowan Hale goes home tonight.”
I enunciate every word, slow and certain, like I’m speaking to someone who needs the extra help. Then I step away from the desk before I can hear another useless word that comes out of his mouth, pull my phone from my pocket, and make the call.
That’s the thing about power—real power. It doesn’t shout. It moves quietly, through back channels and unspoken obligations. Being the head of Goliath means there’s always someone who knows someone who owes someone a favor they’d rather not remember.
The call is brief. Efficient. Without pleasantries.
When I hang up, I turn back toward the desk.
The sergeant is watching me now, his earlier irritation replaced by something closer to caution. Before he can say anything, the phone on his desk rings. He answers it with a clipped, impatient greeting.
I don’t miss the way his expression shifts.
Color drains from his face, then rushes back in uneven waves—pink, then red, then a deeper, angrier shade that crawls up his neck. He grunts into the receiver, tight and monosyllabic, before slamming it back into its cradle. He shoots me a glare sharp enough to cut.
Without a word, he picks the phone up again and dialsanother number. His jaw works as he speaks, shoulders stiff, irritation barely contained.
I wait.
Less than five minutes later, a door down the hall opens.
Rowan appears between two officers, walking under her own power, chin lifted. She looks composed in that brittle way people do when they’re fueled by anger and sheer will alone. Her hair is pulled back tight. Her face is pale under the harsh fluorescent lights. Her jaw is clenched hard enough to ache.
Her eyes are sharp when they land on me.
Alive. Furious. Unbroken.
And for reasons I don’t want to examine too closely, the tight coil in my chest finally eases—just a fraction.
“What are you doing here?” she demands.
