She wanted to backpedal?
Not here.
Not now.
The car slowed, tires crunching against pavement.
We pulled up to the courthouse steps like we were showing up to a fucking war.
I looked at her once more.
She still wouldn’t meet my eyes.
Didn’t matter.
She would.
Right before she signed my name into her skin.
I stepped out of the car like I was stepping into a battlefield.
Air was thick. Charged.
Not from nerves—from pressure.
Kennedy came out behind me, slow and deliberate, her steps sure but tight.
She stayed close, like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to lean on me or run.
Not happening.
The courthouse loomed like a fucking execution block.
But it wasn’t the building I was watching.
It was the man standing just outside it.
Jake Hathaway.
He looked like shit.
Wrinkled shirt. Rage burning in his eyes. Jaw locked so tight he probably tasted blood.
And next to him?
Some corporate prick in a black suit and shiny shoes—Delgado’s handler. The cleanup crew.
Slick. Controlled. Dangerous in the worst way.
I knew his type.
Smile in public. Knife behind the back.
Everything about him said: predator in a boardroom.
Jake stepped forward, fists clenched. “Get back.” Voice low. Tight. Strained like it was taking everything in him not to explode. “You’re not doing this.”
Kennedy didn’t flinch.
