“Mr. Lemaire. Evan’s father.”
The air stills and a slow, cold prickle winds down the back of my neck, sinking deep under my ribs. Something in me recoils on instinct.
Of all the people who could’ve walked into my office today, he was the last one I expected.
“Did he say what he wants?”
She glances over her shoulder, making sure he hasn’t followed her down the hall. If her sixth sense is whispering, she should listen. Most women can sense when a man is about to become a problem.
“No, just that he wants a word.”
Of course he does. They always want a word—to have their say, to unload the weight, to shift the blame, to twist the knife politely with a smile that saysI’m right, and you’re going to agree whether or not you want to.
I straighten, and my jaw tightens. My pulse ticks a little sharper beneath my skin.
“Tell him to wait. Don’t send him back yet. I need a minute.”
Sarah nods once. “Of course,” she says, and then she’s gone.
I plant my hands on the desk, and exhale hard. Not fear. Not dread. A familiar, grinding annoyance of yet another man who thinks he holds the strings, and I’ll dance on command.
Fine. Let him come.
I already know what kind of man I’m about to face. Rage polished into civility. An ego cloaked in concern. An entitled bastard who thinks his status earns him access, deference, and control.
But I don’t yield to a man like that.
So, let him try. Let him twist the knife. Let him look me in the eye and expect me to flinch.
Not today.
Not him.
I rise, spine straightening, composure snapping into place. No nerves or hesitation. Only the cold precision of a woman preparing for war.
Time to remind Mr. Lemaire this isn’t his boardroom, and I’m not a woman he gets to charm or intimidate.
Sarah opens the door and ushers him in.
Julian Lemaire. Polished. Controlled. Every inch a power player. Custom suit. Gleaming cufflinks. Silver hair slicked back with care. His smile is easy and practiced. I’m certain it’s bought silence, favors, and outcomes many times.
But it won’t work here.
“Laurette.
He says my name warmly, as though we’re familiar. Like we share drinks instead of a looming court date and a son facing a violent felony.
It’s a power move—pretending closeness and ignoring professionalism.
The smile he’s waiting for doesn’t come. “It’s Ms. Devereux.”
I plant myself near the doorway, calm and unmoved, hands folded in front of me.
“Before we speak, I want to be very clear. There are rules.”
His brows lift, amused, like I’m a child giving him a scolding he can afford to ignore.
“No legal advice. No informal discussion of the case, no backroom deals. And if you’re represented by counsel, we should not be speaking at all.”
