I’m not bending for anyone. Not even my father.
I replay the conversation in my father’s study. Every word, every pause, every veiled command dressed as concern. It shouldn’t surprise me. This is who he is—a judge who believes in justice until it conflicts with loyalty. A man who sees his daughter’s integrity as a chess piece to be moved. A man who taught me how to argue, how to win, and now expects me to pretend the rules don’t apply.
The victim’s face flashes in my mind. Pale and bruised. Eyes rimmed red in the intake photo. I remember the images, the statements, the video footage I can’t unsee. I remember the fury that crawled up my throat when I read the toxicology report. She never stood a chance.
And my father wants her rapist protected as a fucking favor to his friends.
The Lemaire family is filled with atrocious people.
No, I won't be that kind of woman or that kind of attorney.
And I won't be my father’s pawn.
I refuse to bury this case and pretend this girl doesn’t matter. And I won’t let the legacy of my name make me complicit in something vile.
Chapter 19
Bastien Montclaire
Patience isa dangerous kind of foreplay.
Laurette spent the afternoon on her couch with case files balanced on her knees, glasses sliding down her nose. Her laptop glowed against the dimming light. She never looked up. Never glanced at the camera. Never sensed my eyes tracking her every move.
The light fades by degrees, the sky blushing, then bruising, then vanishing into shadow.
I go through the motions of bedtime—lights off, teeth brushed, shirt discarded. But my pulse remains steady with desire. I stretch across the bed, one arm dropped over the space where she’ll be soon.
I imagine her here in my bed, the shape of her, and how she’ll come apart.
My burner phone buzzes.
I’m thinking about you.
Her text is more than a message. It’s a match struck in a gasoline-soaked room. A flame in the dark—immediate andconsuming.
And I don’t hesitate. My fingers move before thought can catch up.
I’m ALWAYS thinking about you.
It’s a confession, simple and raw. No shadows to hide behind.
I’ve given her time—more than I probably should have. Time to turn away, rethink, close that door and pretend none of this ever reached her. But she’s still here. Still reaching. Still sending messages that spark with intent, impossible to ignore.
And I’m done pretending I’ve got the patience to play it slow.
I’m done circling.
I want you.
Fuck.
You have my attention.
Her message hits like a live wire, short-circuiting my thoughts, my breath, and the last of my restraint.
I sit up, the force of her words slamming through me. Heart pounding. Cock hardening.
No fantasy has ever burned this way.
