“Good morning.” I stretch, leaning into him. “I wish I could stay in this bed with you all day. But unfortunately, duty calls.”
“Don’t worry, babe. We’re going to spend plenty of mornings together in this bed.”
“You don’t know how much I look forward to that.”
I steal a few more seconds with him than I can afford. Then Islip free.
I shower longer than necessary, allowing the heat to beat against my shoulders. I stand there until my hands wrinkle and my thoughts slow enough to function.
The bruise on my neck bloomed darker overnight. I try not to look at it, but it’s impossible to ignore.
Stepping into the courthouse should be routine, but nothing about it is. My heels echo too loudly. My badge feels heavier. Every face I pass gets cataloged before I can stop myself.
Instinct has taken the wheel.
The courtroom doors swing open. I take my place at counsel’s table, spine straight, hands steady, as if I wasn’t almost erased from my life hours ago. But the weight is there. It sits beneath every movement, and under every objection I prepare to make. Beneath the practiced calm, I wear armor.
I’m here because I survived. That knowledge sharpens everything.
Justice isn’t abstract today. It’s personal. It has teeth, and as I lift my eyes toward the bench, toward the defense table, toward the family that thought murder would finish what intimidation couldn’t, I’m sure of one thing with brutal clarity: they didn’t break me.
They made me dangerous.
Evan Lemaire is seated when I lift my eyes. He doesn’t look at me right away. He never does, but something about him is different today. Not nervous or wary.
Invincible.
His suit is tailored to perfection, and his posture is relaxed. There’s a looseness to his mouth, a confidence that doesn’t come from innocence but from expectation. He believes—deep in his bones—that nothing bad ever sticks to him.
Julian. The father who leaned close enough for only me to hear his threat.
Helene. The mother who escalated to murder without blinking.
And Evan. Raised in the space between them, marinated in entitlement, taught early that consequences are negotiable.
Helene sits in the front row, spine straight, expression serene in a chilling way. No remorse or fear. Only calculation.
The smugness rolls off her in waves—quiet, composed, and self-assured. She’s already rewritten the ending in her head.
Evan turns, and our eyes meet. His gaze drops to the mottled purple circling my throat—the souvenir of Helene’s failed attempt on my life. I lift my chin and hold his stare.
I lean in their direction so my voice reaches him and his mother. “What’s wrong? You two look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Helene’s breath stutters, but Evan smiles.
I straighten and give him a quick wink before turning toward my table.
The courtroom hums back into motion around us, oblivious to the war lines drawn beneath the surface. I take my seat and open my file with unhurried precision.
This family believes the law bends for them.
Believes fear is a tool.
Believes women are disposable.
They are wrong.
And as I prepare to close my argument, something locks into place behind my sternum. Not rage.
