What? Why? No. Just fucking no.
“Everything okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Yeah, that’s honestly how it feels.” I haven’t seen or heard fromhimin over ten years. Not once. Not even accidentally, not even in passing. And that’s good. Perfect even.
We went to high school together, back when he wasn’t known under his very Americanized name Colton King and honestly, I have no idea why he wants to work with me. Back then, he was… God, the biggest asshole roaming those halls like it was his full-time job.
Granted, I looked completely different. Smaller. Softer. Easier to overlook. I played in the band, not on a field, not under stadium lights, didn’t go to parties, and that alone seemed to make me fair game. Add the fact that I looked like I was ten when we were all fifteen, and—well. Let’s just say I wasn’t exactly unforgettable in the way peoplewantto be remembered. The perfect victim for bullies.
My hands are shaking now as I hold his file, which feels ridiculous. It’s just paper. Just ink. Just a name I haven’t said out loud in a decade.
But the memories don’t care about logic.
They come anyway. The echo of a crowd, the scrape of sneakers on gym floors, the way his name and face are everywhere now. The face of my bully—larger than life, all confidence and certainty.
Of course, I noticed. Of course, I kept noticing.
Every time another headline popped up, every time Isla mentioned him, I felt that same tight, sour twist in my chest.And I told nobody. No one knows what happened to me in high school. What kind of a different person I was back then.
But in the end, it’s always the mean ones, isn’t it?
The ones who knew exactly where to hit so it would hurt the most—they’re the ones who end up winning in life.
I swallow, tightening my grip on the pages.
No. Absolutely not.
There is no version of reality—none—where I help someone like him climb any higher than he already has. And let’s be honest, he’s already way too high up there.
“Take a look, Jenna,” Ben says, far too cheerful for the existential crisis currently unfolding in my brain. “This case would be great for us. He’sfamousfamous.”
Of course, he is. But I hate him.
I don’t respond. I’m not sure I can. My fingers are still curled too tightly around the edge of the file, like if I loosen my grip, something inside me might spill out with it.
Ben lingers.
Not long enough to say anything else, but just long enough to notice. His gaze rests on me before he finally nods to himself and says: “Okay now I leave you to it. Just think about it. It would be a career turner for you.”
The glass door clicks softly shut behind him, sealing me in with the quiet hum of my clean office and a past I’ve done a very good job of avoiding.
And yet.
There it is.
Koltun fucking Kirillov.
My stomach twists again.
It’s almost funny, in a bleak, ironic kind of way. That he’d remember me at all. That out of all the people he could have chosen, his case somehow landed here. On my desk. In my hands.
I exhale slowly and start to read.
He asked for me right away. Jenna Davis. I can’t help but let out a stifled grunt. The fact that he even summoned back my name is crazy. My eyes dart to the case description. He’s seeking full custody of his six-year-old daughter.
The reason: his ex-wife is neglecting her.
I skim the page in seconds, my eyes snagging on the highlights like my brain refuses to fully commit.
