Laurette stands near the far wall with two colleagues. I angle behind a pair of bailiffs, using their broad frames as moving cover. My stride is unhurried, each step measured.
I turn to catch her profile in the corner of my eye. Her plump pink lips are unmoving, her gaze fixed on whoever is talking. But I know she’s replaying every second of what happened in there—Jon David choking on his own spectacle, the jury watching it like a car wreck they couldn’t look away from.
I lift my phone to my ear like I’m mid-call. As I brush past her, Isay it plainly, like it’s part of the conversation. “You’re welcome, Babygirl.”
I don’t slow down. Don’t so much as glance toward her. If she looks my way—and I’m certain she does—she’ll catch only my retreating form.
I imagine her eyes on my back, tracking the line of my shoulders and rhythm of my stride. She’s watching, trying to match the silhouette slipping down the hallway to the one that’s been fucking her senseless in the dark.
She won’t leave her circle. But if she does step away, I’ll already be gone, a ghost disappearing before she can follow.
The glass doors ahead spill fractured bands of afternoon sun across the floor. I walk through them without pause, letting the courthouse fall away behind me.
She fights evil every day, carving justice from chaos. But even a legal eagle like her needs someone in the shadows, someone to tip the scales when the system wavers. Today, I’m that edge.
Chapter 34
Laurette Devereux
Justice doesn’t play favorites,but today she looked in my direction.
The crowd spilling from the courthouse wears the look of people who’ve witnessed a pivot, even if they can’t name it. The case tipped today, and the balance leaned my way.
I keep walking, chin level, pace even. No victory strut. No outward thrill.
But my smile tells on me.
There’s a buoyancy under my ribs I didn’t have this morning, and it pushes my steps a fraction lighter. A weight has been lifted. The courthouse seems different, less like a battlefield and more like a place where I have the upper hand.
A group of defense attorneys standing near the pillars falls silent as I approach. Their conversation stutters to a stop, curiosity sharpening their gazes. I catch the flicker, something edged with the faintest hint of wariness. Not because of me alone, but because of what unraveled in the courtroom today—Jon David’s polished veneer cracking in real time.
The images replay in my mind: him returning from recess with a stiff jaw and uneven breath, tugging at his cuffs. His voice, usually flawless, stumbled in small, almost imperceptible falters—ones only someone who’s studied him would notice.
Inoticed.
His shoulders stayed tight, his eyes skimming past the jury rather than meeting them. Each question came clipped, as though trying to dodge the tremor weaving beneath his words.
Not a collapse. No, something quieter and more telling.
The residue of Jon David’s unraveling still tingles along my skin. I want to savor this moment—the quiet hum of momentum leaning my way, the unmistakable sense that something immovable has shifted.
I’m winning. And the world around me knows it.
My keys hit the counter the moment I step inside, sharp against the house’s quiet. My heels follow, slipping off to ease the tension in my calves. One tug at the clip in my hair, and it tumbles around my shoulders, carrying a release that loosens something deep inside me.
In minutes, my living room becomes a command center—files spread across the coffee table, laptop casting a low glow, pages sliding under my fingers. It’s a setup I know well, the kind that lets me sink in after a long day.
But my focus keeps slipping. Any time I sink into the testimony, Bastien’s voice pushes in and breaks my concentration.
You’re welcome, Babygirl.
Just a few words, and my whole world tilted.
My pulse slips into a different rhythm, something low and heated, pulling me back to the hallway outside the courtroom. The certainty in his tone. The way he walked past me as though we were strangers.
Knowing he’d been watching me the whole time sends a slow shiver down my spine.
I try to steady my thoughts, force myself back into the case, butthe pages blur at the edges. My shoulders tense, my breath hitching more than it should.
