But the truth? I had other plans, the kind that needed my full attention. Resistance play isn’t something you half-commit to. Not with Bastien. Not when you want to give him everything—and know he’ll take it.
Couldn’t risk blurring the edges with alcohol.
I chose Bastien and his darkness and everything he would give me without apology.
I chose his extraordinary dick.
Now I sit here, composed in a pencil skirt and heels, pretending I’m just another attorney with her head in the game, when every nerve still hums with the memory of last night.
“I skipped drinks.” I tap the folder with my fingers. “I’m going to nail this little son of a bitch.”
He nods, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Good. The media’s already circling, calling it another Brock Turner situation. They’ll want blood.”
His gaze sharpens. “You know who his father is, so be thorough, Laurette.”
“Always am.”
“He’ll have the best lawyer money can buy.”
I lift my chin. “He can throw money at the problem, but I’ll throw the law at him.”
Another nod. “Lunch later? You can catch me up on the case.”
“Sure.”
“Twelve?”
“Sounds good.”
Once the door clicks shut behind him, the quiet folds in, and I flip the file open.
Photos. Statements. Medical report.
I lean in, elbows braced on the desk, fingers threading into the hair at my nape as I stare down the file. Time to dig deep.
Every detail. Every page. Every line.
College party. Escorted upstairs by Lemaire and one of his fraternity brothers. A phone set to record. The assault was savage.
My pen moves without pause as I etch notes into the margins. My focus is laser-sharp. Every line of that report is a match struck inside me. Cold anger flares, steady and controlled.
Then I hit the toxicology screen. Positive for benzodiazepines. Blood alcohol level was nearly nonexistent.
She didn’t stumble into that room drunk. She was drugged and rendered defenseless. And Lemaire? He didn’t hesitate. He took what he wanted from a girl who couldn’t even open her eyes.
And the others? They watched. Filmed it.
Laughed.
No one stopped it. No one helped.
My stomach knots so hard I press a hand to it.
A man taking a woman’s consciousness into his hands. Stealing her voice, her agency, her right to say no—that’s a violation carved from the same poison. A choice he made while she had none.
This girl was left needing stitches to put her back together. He treated her like a thing he could toss aside when he was done.
And they want me to make it disappear? Not a fucking chance.
