My father’s reminding me who the Lemaires are. But more than that, he’s reminding me whoheis and what I’m expected to do next.
“Dad, the girl was underage and unconscious. There’s video of the sexual assault shot by his fraternity brothers, from multiple angles. She needed stitches to repair the injuries.”
He waves a hand as if it’s nothing. “Girls these days—short skirts, too many shots—then they cry rape. That’s the actual crime.”
I take a breath, sharp and shallow. “So if I showed up drunk, in a short skirt, and blacked out—you’d say I deserved whatever happened? Because skirt length matters more than consent?”
He doesn’t look at me. “You’d never do that.”
I bite down hard enough to taste copper. “Actually, I did. I went to LSU and drank too much and wore short skirts. I blacked out, Dad. More… than… once.”
A pause.
“There’s a reason nothing bad happened to me. Everyone knew who my father was. Your name protected me.”
And this girl doesn’t have the Devereux name.
His jaw ticks. Just once. A crack in the marble.
“I believe in letting the system do its job.”
He scoffs. “Youarethe system. Richard listens to you. You have the DA’s ear. You could make this case disappear with one well-placed conversation.”
My pulse spikes. “You want me to bury a sexual assault case as a favor to your friends?”
He grimaces. “Don’t say it that way.”
“How else should I say it?” I shoot back. “Dress it up? Soften it until it sounds like mercy instead of corruption?”
The silence that follows is not empty. It is thick with expectation, sharp with disappointment. A thousand arguments hover in the air, unsaid but screaming. Pride, power, and blood—all of it coils tightly between us.
“I raised you to be smart, Laurette. You’re aware of how these things work.”
I meet his gaze, steady and unflinching. “Then you can predict how this ends. I’m going to follow the law. The evidence is overwhelming. I don't get to look away from that and pretend I didn’t see what is in that file. I have to prosecute.”
I leave his study with fire in my blood. The hallway stretches before me, long and silent, each footstep a drumbeat of fury echoing off the walls.
In the living room, the tone has shifted. Voices have softened, and laughter is muted. My mother lifts her gaze from the couch and sees the storm I am dragging in.
“Everything all right, sweetheart?”
“Yeah, I’m just tired.”
She doesn’t push, but her eyes—sharp and silent—trail me. She’s learned not to pry, at least not out loud. Instead, she collects moments like evidence. My clipped tone, the too-fast excuse, the edge in my jaw. She files it all away, building her own quiet case.
“I should go,” I say, reaching for my bag. “I’ve got a brief due in the morning.”
It’s a lie, but a clean one. She won’t challenge it.
Ella’s on her feet in an instant, pulling me into a hug that’s fierce for someone so small. Her cheek presses to my shoulder.
“Don’t let them stress you out,” she whispers. “You’re doing great. Seriously.”
I nod, squeezing her back. I need this—a hug from someone who sees me coming apart at the seams.
The goodbye is warm—cheek kisses, soft murmurs to call soon. Promises spoken with a smile, broken without a thought.
But when I step outside, my spine is straight and my jaw locked. Because I know what I have to do.
