The contrast is evident. He belongs in a glass-walled conference room sixty floors above a city. Instead he's standing on my mother's rug, next to the armchair where I used to read picture books.
"Ms. Reeves." He extends his hand. His grip is firm and brief. "Thank you for letting me in."
"You said True North sent you."
"Owen Calloway contacted my firm. The three of them retained me through the company." He sets his briefcase on thefloor beside the couch but doesn't sit. Doesn't presume. "They've hired me to represent you in whatever legal action you might contemplate. The decision is entirely yours," he continues. "Whether or not you pursue justice through the courts, my clients want you to know that the resources are available.""
The words land with specific weight.Whatever legal action.An open door with nothing behind it but resources and the decision left entirely in my hands.
The reflex is automatic. I want to object. But the objection dies somewhere between my throat and my mouth because this isn't a decision made for me. It's a door opened.
"I understand," he says, "that you've evaluated taking legal action before and werepersuadedagainst it."
I make a gesture inviting him to sit down. We might as well get ourselves comfortable.
"Please sit down," I say. "I'll ask my mother to make us some tea."
My mother appears in the doorway, still clenching my phone. I introduce Adrian as an attorney who's here to discuss some legal options. Her eyes move from him to me and back.
"Mom, would you mind making some tea for us?"
She nods. Grateful, I think, for the task. She disappears into the kitchen and I hear the familiar click of the kettle, the opening of the cabinet where she keeps the good cups. The ones with the blue glaze that she saves for company.
I turn back to Adrian. I have maybe five minutes to explain what my plan is.
"I'm not going to the courts."
He doesn't react. Doesn't blink. Just waits.
"It would take years. It would cost more than I have, even with your firm's resources. And Daniel is connected. The legal system is the terrain he knows best." I'm speaking faster than I mean to, the plan that's been assembling itself in my head for three daysnow pushing its way out. "His image is what he values most. His reputation. The Hargrove name and everything it gives him access to, the boards, the fundraisers, the firm. That's his weak point. Not the courtroom. The court of—"
"Public opinion." Adrian finishes the sentence.
I stop.
He leans forward. “What do you have?"
"Documentation. Screenshots of active profiles, timestamped and archived. Forum threads. And I've already reached out to Elena Voss at the Atlantic Ledger."
His eyebrows move. Fractionally. It's the first break in the mask.
"She's a reputable investigative journalist," I continue. "She has done work on this matter before. I think she might be interested in my case. But the focus won't be Daniel. The story is about women whose intimate images are shared online without consent. My experience is one case study among others. And if, when I’m asked about how this happened, all I have to say is the truth. It was because Daniel’s phone was hacked. He stated that in police records, so he won’t be able to deny it. The point is to tie his name to what was done to me. To shed light also on him."
Adrian studies me for a long moment. Then: "That's clever."
He opens his briefcase. "But it's not without danger." He grabs a legal pad and a pen and begins to write down. "Three risks. First: defamation. The moment his name becomes publicly associated with this story, whether you name him directly or not, his attorneys will look for grounds. Everything you say in that interview must be factually airtight and demonstrably true. Second: retaliation. Daniel Hargrove has the resources and, based on what I've reviewed, the disposition to escalate. You need to be prepared for that escalation to be creative and sustained. Third…" He looks up from the pad. His eyes are dark and flat and miss nothing. "Reputation attack. Against you.Your credibility, your history, your motives. They will attempt to reframe you as vindictive, unstable, or opportunistic. That's the playbook. It works more often than it should."
The words settle into the room like cold water. I feel them in my spine. He's describing the battlefield, and he's doing it without softening the terrain.
"That's where I need your help," I say. "I need someone who can guide me through every word of that interview so that nothing I say gives them ammunition."
"I can do that." He writes something on the pad. Quick, precise strokes. "I'll need access to everything you've documented. The screenshots, the forum analysis, the police records. I'll build a legal perimeter around the interview. What you can say, what you imply, and how to dance on the line. You stay on the right side of that line, and Daniel Hargrove's attorneys can file whatever they want. It won't hold."
My mother comes in with the tea. She sets the tray on the coffee table. Gives me a questioning look but I just nod in reassurance and she leaves us to it.
I take a sip. Chamomile. The taste of my mother's worry, served in porcelain.
"Mr. Kade," I say, aiming for nonchalance, "have you spoken recently with… the owners of True North?"
