“Stop this nonsense, Laurette.” His composure fractures, and the man underneath twitches with panic.
My smile is cold. “You made me believe we were going to get married. I had hoped you were going to propose to me on my birthday. I thought you were going to be the father of my children.”
His expression softens, desperate, almost pathetic. “We can stillget married. I love you, Laurette. We can fix this. It doesn’t have to end this way.”
A laugh rips out of me—harsh, bitter, disbelieving. “You think I’d marry you now? So I can spend the rest of my life wondering whose dick you’re sucking while you gaslight me into thinking it’s all in my head? No. Fucking. Thank you.”
In a snap, he pulls it all back in. He straightens and smooths a hand over his tie like he’s erasing the evidence of losing control and letting me see the cracks.
“I’m here about the Evan Lemaire case.”
I cross my arms. “Of course you are.” Rich and corrupt people have always been his favorite cause.
He flashes that tight courtroom smile, the one that always means control. “You’re angry. I get it. But let’s not let personal feelings cloud professional judgment.”
My laugh is sharp and joyless. “Professional judgment? That’s what you’re banking on?”
“The girl was drinking. She went to the party willingly. Her story’s already falling apart, and you know I’ll dismantle it on the stand. The video looks bad, but it’s not enough to convict.”
“She was drugged.”
His jaw ticks. “There’s no proof of who gave it to her.”
“Oh, please.” My voice cuts clean through his composure. “You and I both know that argument’s pathetic, even for you. She was unconscious, Jon David. He tore her open so badly she needed stitches.”
He lifts his chin, the mask fully back in place. “She was drinking.”
“Not according to her screen. Trace alcohol, barely enough to taste it. Nowhere near enough to knock her out. So unless she passed out from moral exhaustion, something else did the job. And we both know what that means.”
He straightens, palms open in mock reason. “All I’m saying is think about how this plays out in court. You drag it out, wasteresources, turn it into a circus, and for what? A maybe?” His mouth curves, eyes glinting. “Or you could walk away clean. No damage.”
“A girl was sexually assaulted. There’s zero chance ofno damage.”
My stomach twists, fury crawling up my spine. “You’re here because you’re scared I’ll bury you in court.”
Jon David’s smile sharpens into something predatory. “I’m here because I’m giving you an out, Laurette. Drop the charges, and save yourself the humiliation of losing.”
I lean in, my voice low and cold enough to cut. “Now isn’t when I need an out, Jon David. I needed one the night you drugged me.”
His mouth flinches—a crack in the polish. For a moment, the mask slips, and I see him. Not the defense attorney. Not the golden boy. Just the man who crossed the line and smiled while doing it.
The silence holds, and neither of us wants to break it first.
His eyes flick to the files on my desk—the photos, the tox report, the girl’s statement.
“You’re not thinking straight, Laurette. Your personal experience is blinding you. You’re too close to see this case for what it really is.”
I meet his gaze without blinking. “I’m exactly as close as I need to be.”
He sighs. “The videos don’t show penetration. The tox screen doesn’t prove who drugged her. You know how juries think. Without a clear chain of evidence, you walk into that courtroom and you lose.”
“My case is solid. And even if it weren’t, she deserves to see someone fight for her.”
His brows draw together in the same patronizing pity he always wears so well. “Laurette… this isn’t justice anymore. It’s projection.”
“She’s seventeen. A child. She was drugged, torn, and left bleeding. You expect me to tell her nobody gives a damn about what he did because of his name?”
He stiffens, the facade faltering again. “This isn’t justice, Laurette. It’s vengeance.”
