Dick.
Ella bumps her knee against mine beneath the table. It’s her version of a hug.
There’s a beat of quiet before my father responds. “That’s too bad. You two could’ve been a powerhouse couple.”
The words land with a quiet weight he’s known for—less emotion and more strategy. He calculates the loss in potential more than love.
“Right. Because what every couple needs is two people who think they’re the smartest one in the room.”
My brother never misses an opportunity to take a jab.
“Dom, you’ve never met a silence you didn’t feel the need to fill.”
That earns a few laughs around the table.
Camille opens her mouth, but I cut in before the questions can begin.
“What about you, Ella? Did you end up running for Panhellenic rep?”
Ella lights up, diving into a story about campaign posters and sorority drama. Camille turns toward her, and I sip my tea, relieved as the conversation drifts somewhere safer.
My relationship with Jon David is off the table. Good riddance.
We settle into the post-lunch lull, plates empty but conversation far from done. The chatter takes a familiar spin, legal talk layered with opinions and war stories.
In this house, ethics don’t stand a chance. Not when everyone atthe table speaks fluent courtroom. Boundaries bend behind closed doors. It’s all in the family.
Dad clears his throat. “I’m presiding over State versus Bennett.”
I stiffen at the mention. The case is notorious. Everyone in the parish knows it. The husband’s guilt isn’t even whispered. It’s shouted behind closed doors. His wife was an heiress—old money, trust funds, and property in three states. The defense claims self-defense, but no one is buying it.
Dominic lets out a low chuckle, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Ah yes, Bennett. That one’s going to be messy, especially with Carlisle on the defense. He’s never met a slimeball he wouldn’t represent, as long as the money’s right. He’s got a genuine gift for moral flexibility.”
Mom’s fork clatters against her plate. “Dominic, half the people you defend belong behind bars.”
He raises an eyebrow, unbothered. “I sell reasonable doubt, not moral purity.”
“There’s a difference between representation and enabling,” I say.
Dominic grins. “Ah yes. Laurette Devereux, moral compass of the courtroom with a weary gavel of truth hanging around your neck.”
I smile, but the weight of Dominic’s words isn’t lost on me.
“Better than a stack of blood money retainers,” I say.
I’m the one who followed in our father’s footsteps and chose prosecution—the badge of righteousness and illusion of justice. Dominic’s been needling me about it since law school.
He’s fixated on whether Dad respects me more. But if I’m being honest, respect isn’t what our father’s known for. He doesn’t use his position to right wrongs. He uses it to bend the law and manipulate the system with precision and polish. Not to protect the innocent, but to preserve the institution.
I’m not naive. I gave that up in law school, along with any belief that justice is blind. It sees what it wants to see—names, connections,dollar signs. The law doesn’t protect the vulnerable. It protects the people who play the game and win without getting their hands dirty.
I never believed the robe made the judge. And I sure as hell never believed the courtroom was sacred.
What matters isn’t the oath or the gavel. It’s who walks away unscathed.
Dominic envies me for chasing the robe. For having the discipline, the drive, and the damn nerve to reach for it.
But I’ve stopped pretending it’s some noble thing. Not when I’ve seen the man who wears it bend the law to his will and call it justice.
