Many New Yorkers don’t drive, but I never even got my license. I tried to learn, but getting behind the wheel gave me panic attacks so severe that my parents finally gave up. My therapist calls it a control thing—I’m at the mercy of other drivers. Technically, I still am as a passenger, but at least I’m not responsible for navigating while dealing with that.
Traffic hums around us as we make our way through the crowded city blocks between my penthouse and the Central Manhattan Courthouse. Snagging a protein bar and a manila folder from my bag, I try to focus on preparing for today’s proceedings as I eat. Recovering from yesterday’s surprise witness is going to be difficult. I probably won’t be able to. I’m making peace with the fact that Mark will likely win this one, despite my best efforts.
Still, my mind drifts to last night. The way my body trembled beneath him, the hard, chiseled heat of his body, how I’d come apart again and again.
I shove those thoughts down. I can’t let this consume me. I can’t go there again. My omega will just have to get over it.
I exit the car and head up the steps, the courthouse looming in front of me. 100 Centre Street is an imposing monolith of a building, with fluted granite columns and subtle metalwork that catches the morning light. I walk inside, waving to the guards by the metal detectors as I put my briefcase on the conveyor belt. They nod back with easy, friendly smiles. As theywave the wand over my body, I glance up at the massive clock that hangs above the entrance, ticking away the hours.
I’m such a nerd for old architecture.
Clearing security, I head toward the courtroom, my pulse skipping despite my best efforts. Will he already be here? I bite my lip, anticipation curling low in my belly. Somehow, my traitorous, greedy body still aches for him. And that’s not even touching on my omega’s whining to be near him again. Jesus. Were the eleventy-billion orgasms not enough?
I push open the door and pause, scanning the room. Most of the seats are filling up, the voices fading to a low hum under the high ceilings. I’m arriving a little later than I normally do, thanks to my contemplations in front of the mirror.
Then I see him, leaning casually against his table, chatting with his second chair. Mark’s jacket is perfectly creased, and other than just the faintest puffiness at the corner of his eyes and a darker five o’clock shadow than normal, you’d never know he was running on only a couple hours of sleep. Meanwhile, I’d spent nearly fifteen minutes having to color-correct to be satisfiedI didn’t look like a zombie.
Men.
I bite back a sigh and force a smile to my face, straightening my posture. I refuse to look flustered. My professional court mask is firmly in place.
I am the viper. Not the needy omega whining in the back of my mind.
As if sensing me, Mark turns and catches my gaze. For a fraction of a second, his smile falters, and hungry recognition darkens his eyes just long enough to make my heart skip. Then, just as quickly, it’s gone, and his game face takes over.
“Counselor,” I say with a terse nod as I walk past him to my table.
“Ms. Kendrick,” he drawls. “Almost fashionably late. Drawing out the moment before you lose this case?”
I roll my eyes, though internally, I feel a small bit of comfort in the familiar exchange of barbs. I turn and smile reassuringly at my client, who is looking sullen and angry ever since the witness yesterday. I lean closer and whisper in his ear, “If you want the jury to believe that man is lying, you need to look a little less like you’re planning bodily harm against the DA, as tempting as it is.”
He gives me a dirty look, and I remind myself that this man is definitely a murderer, so not exactly someone I want to be antagonizingfor the fun of it.
The gavel slams, echoing through the courtroom, and with it, my case is over. I pack up my briefcase and sigh as Mr. Simmons is led out by the bailiff in handcuffs. I’m not overly sad that he’s facing the justice he deserves, but I do hate losing. Not to mention, the mob won’t be thrilled with the outcome. Hopefully I’ve kept enough of them out of jail that they’ll understand. Can’t win them all.
Mark had been his typical infuriating self, though on far better behavior today, which caused the reporters to look increasingly bored. They had apparently hoped for a round two.
I head out the door, bracing for the inevitable. He’ll linger and corner me somewhere, like he always does. And he’ll want to talk.
Sure enough, when I step into the corridor, he’s there.
He walks a few steps behind me, giving me space, matching my pace instead of taking control. It confuses me and makes me feel a little off-kilter. I glance back at him, and his face is carefully neutral.
Is he letting me take the lead on this? Decide how we will play it out?
If so, he’s going to realize that Ihave no desire to talk about it.
We exit the courthouse together, the city noise washing over us. Reporters linger outside, and he’s pulled over to make a comment on winning the case. Coward that I am sometimes, I take the chance to make an escape back to my car.
I see him glance at me, a look of annoyance flashing across his face, and I give a small wave. I ask Tony to take me to the Queens County Family Court, where I have the opening for Maya’s custody case this afternoon. Since I’m now hiding from the district attorney, I have a few hours to prep, and I intend to make every second count.
Tony unearthed quite a bit of information on Daniel, and Shelby filled in the blanks with a little bit of mildly illegal internet hacking. I claim an empty conference room at the courthouse and spread the files across the table, organizing them into piles that match the way my mind tends to lay things out. Work history. Financial records. Neighbor’s statements. Etc.
Maya was right that there wasn’t anything criminal on paper, but we’d recovered some of the 911 calls. There were also old pictures of bruises that she’d been smart enough to take and send to a friend for safekeeping. I also had the therapist’s notes, which paint an ugly picture of the children’s anxiety and the history of abuse in the home.
Family court is tricky. I have a duty to point out patterns of abuse, but I have to do so in a way that doesn’t come across like I’m just trying to block Daniel from his children. That would anger the judge. So there’s lesswiggle room than I have in the criminal courtroom. I can only stick to evidence and not leave breadcrumbs of insinuation for a jury to pick up on.
First, I need to focus on showing Maya to be the anchor of the family, the reliable parent. This, thankfully, is incredibly easy to do. I have an abundance of documentation showing her at every doctor’s visit, class party, PTA meeting, etc. I have a written statement from the school secretary and the children’s teachers that they have never so much as spoken to Daniel and wouldn’t know who he was if he came to pick up the children.
