“You’re late,” I say, trying to keep my voice as cold and controlled as possible. I know I can only pull this once before my patience snaps.
His steel-blue eyes dart irritably to the big clock behind me. “One minute.”
“I only respect punctual people.”
“I just waited thirty minutes for yourmatchalatte because you apparently refuse to drink normal coffee,” he snaps, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow that almost throws me off balance.
“And you waited thirty minutes and came back without one single matcha?”
He says, mimicking my voice, “Matcha pumpkin, matcha chili, matcha shoot-me-now—I got you every damn matcha they had!”
My lip twitches into something like a smile.
How can one guy be so… annoying and charming at the same time?
He steps in, slams the door, and plops the cardboard box on my desk. A splash of green liquid nearly lands on my notebook. I bite back, “You got a regular matcha latte at least?” and simply nod toward the chair.
“The one to your left, princess.”
“All right, one exception. Your time starts now. You’ve got…” I glance at my smartwatch. “…Twenty-seven minutes left.”
I snag one of the cups and take a sip. I don’t know which matcha it is, but it’s not bad. At least there’s that. I have no clue what to do with the other three, but it’s sweet he brought extras to get my taste right. When it comes to coffee or matcha, I drink anything. He doesn’t need to know I’m not that picky.
He growls, a deep, primal sound as if evolution just spat him out of a cave. I suppress a grin. It’s ridiculously easy to get under his skin.
“Thanks for your time. So…” He rummages in a backpack, crudely pulls out crumpled papers. Typical man—can’t even organize documents in a folder.
I force myself to review sick notes from his daughter’s kindergarten and school, missed doctors’ appointments, homework, skipped parent-teacher conferences. The pagessmell of printer ink and coffee—likely from frantic mornings. Then come photos and videos: a cluttered apartment, dirty dishes, clothes on the floor. Signs of neglect… or could be just chaos. Hard to tell. My inner judge snarls at my heart: it could be a misunderstanding. As a lawyer, I must anticipate the other side’s arguments. Always stay skeptical, stay prepared.
“I don’t know—got more?”
He shoots me a glare that says, “Still not enough?”
I remain unmoved, stare him down. “No. You’d need more to win.”
“We.”
“You. I’m not taking you on.” I check the clock. Fifteen minutes left. “You haven’t convinced me.”
“I still have time.”
“Well?”
“Here—a video of me finding her alone in bed.” He holds out his phone. I wave it away.
“Colton, that could be staged. To prove neglect in court, you need concrete, documented, repeated evidence. Single incidents won’t cut it. The child’s welfare and any lasting danger are what matters.”
“But it is danger,” he says, voice rising, cracking.
The latch squeaks. My eyes flick to the door.
I’m expecting my assistant but it’s a little girl.
Barely as tall as the doorknob, her head at knob level, tiny fingers grasp the frame. Instantly, I see her father in her: his sharp features softened into her gentle ones. The same steel-blue eyes, huge and fringed with black lashes, brimming with curiosity and untouched innocence. Her blonde hair’s a tangled mess. She’s like Boo fromMonsters, Inc.—but older. Warmth floods me, panic tangles with protectiveness. I’ve always wanted kids—with Matthew, though? He shrinks from the idea andmaybe I should say thank you because who wants kids with Matthew…
She wears clothes that are too small—tight at the arms and legs—her hair is definitely matted, and there’s a bruise on one little hand. A tug at my chest. She looks so vulnerable. I want to leap up, scoop her into my lap, wrap her in my arms. She looks too pale, as if she’d for sat hours in an apartment. Not at a playground.
“Papa? Did you tell her I want to stay with you?” Her voice melts my heart. High pitched. Fragile.
