He doesn’t sit. “We need to talk, and it’s not going to be an easy conversation.”
Nothing good ever follows words like those.
My body goes still, and my breath halts. Whatever this is, it’s bigger than his showing up unannounced.
I sink into a chair, heart ticking faster.
“You can’t prosecute Evan Lemaire.”
For a second, I don’t believe my ears. “We’ve been through this already, Dad.” And I was clear about my stance regarding it
“This time, you need to listen to me.”
“I have listened to you. You’re the one who isn’t hearing me.”
His jaw locks, eyes unflinching. “This isn’t a suggestion. You may be a prosecutor, but I’m a judge. I understand how these things work, and how dangerous they can become.”
“You don’t get to walk into my home and tell me how to do my job. You may be a judge, but you’re notmyjudge. And you sure as hell don’t get to use your bench to silence me.”
“This isn’t about your damn principles. It’s about cleaning up a mess before it burns everything down.”
That’s when it hits. This isn’t a request. It’s a warning wrapped in a thin veneer of fatherly care. And he’s not the one issuing the ultimatum. He’s the messenger.
It’s a demand from Julian Lemaire, which means I’m not the onlyone he threatened. He’s been in my father’s ear. And now my father is delivering the message—the same polished menace dressed as concern.
He slides into the chair across from me, the wood creaking under his weight. He pauses, fingers tapping the armrest, as he chooses his next words.
“I mean it. You can’t move forward with prosecuting Julian’s son.”
My blood turns to ice.
I lean forward, elbows braced on my knees, voice sharp. “Yes, I can. And I will.”
His mouth tightens, but he doesn’t flinch. That look in his eyes—disappointment edged with disapproval—feels familiar. It’s the same one he wore when I was a child sitting at the dinner table, waiting for punishment for breaking a rule I didn’t understand. The judge even at home.
“You act as though this is some kind of negotiation, but I’m not a client. I don’t answer to you.”
“This isn’t about doing right by the law.”
“No,” I snap, voice firm, spine straightening, “it’s exactly about doing right by the law. And your friend’s son is about to be held accountable for his crime.”
He closes his eyes, the muscles in his jaw working under his skin. “Laurette?—”
“Don’t say my name that way, like I’m being unreasonable. You raised me to have trust in the law and in doing the right thing. What happened to that?”
“Julian—”
“Julian,” I interrupt, “is not above the law, and neither is his son. I don’t care how many rounds of golf you’ve played together or how many decades of bourbon-soaked history you’re clinging to.”
His eyes narrow, a flicker of something colder beneath his disappointment.
“Julian is powerful, and he’s made it clear this doesn’t go to trial.”
“I don’t care if you and Julian Lemaire carved your names into the same oak tree in college. This case is happening, and I’ll win it.”
There it is—that crack in his composed facade, the heat of frustration he tries to hide.
“You don’t know what you’re walking into.”
