“Colton, I’m sure this is hard for you, but like I said I’m booked. Talk to my boss. We have other great lawyers here.”
His head dips. “But none have your one hundred percent win rate.”
“My record’s because I know what I can win and what I can’t. Your case is too uncertain. Have a good day.”
“You were nicer back then.”
“You didn’t even remember me, Colton, and we spent three years in high school together. Says a lot, doesn’t it?”
He scoffs but finally leaves.
I sit down again and my hands tremble—almost like back then, in that hallway, when they cornered me and laughed.Dirty witch.
Bullies steal your happiness, it’s just fair that I steal his now.
THREE
Colton
BEFORE
Fucking bitch.
I say it out loud as I crumple the stupid business card in my hand—the one I got from Jenna’s idiotic assistant.Benjamin Holderbuild.Yeah, right, that’s who I’m supposed to call.Sorry that Miss Davis isn’t available.Sure. I don’t want some Holder-shmolder, damn it. I want Jenna Davis, the best family attorney in New York, because I fucking need the best help I can get.
Okay, fine, maybe it was my fault I should have recognized her, but nobody would know that killer woman in there is Blueface. Maybe her name should’ve rung a bell, though, but it’s been fifteen years since we last spoke, and I’ve dealt with so many people since then—and I honestly didn’t have room in my head for that.
I’m looking for a lawyer, not a friendly favor.
I toss the remains of the card in the trash, then storm down the street lined with skyscrapers as I call Ethan. He’s Riley Huntington’s PR manager—Riley, my right-winger and best friend. Thanks to his little escapades, Ethan is now our team’sso-called “problem-solver.” Whatever pops up, you call Ethan, and he fixes it. At least that’s how it’s been. I’m not even sure anymore if those rules apply to me too.
My phone keeps ringing with no answer.
I head to the underground garage where I parked my Bentley and kick the wall for no reason. The phone is still ringing, and I curl my free hand into a fist. Come on, man—where are you?
“Yeah?” Ethan’s voice finally grumbles through the speaker.
“She won’t take me on,” I growl back, stomping so hard my footsteps echo off the concrete. Sounds like a hockey puck ricocheting.
“Then we’ll find someone else,” Ethan says, and I hear him tapping away at his laptop.
“No.”
“As always, a man of few words,” he sighs, and I unlock my Bentley.
An orange glow flickers inside, and I slump into the driver’s seat, forehead on the wheel.
Yeah, everyone says I don’t talk much.
I guess that’s what happens when you’re shipped to a foreign country whose language you don’t speak. You learn to say little, and people mistake it for arrogance. It’s not. Well, okay, maybe a bit of self-confidence—necessary if you’re going pro in sports. Without believing in yourself, you get nowhere. Other people knock you down enough.
What I’ve learned so far is that talking really is silver. Silence is golden.
“I don’t want another lawyer,” I hiss, start the engine, and pull out.
Above ground, my phone switches to the car speaker.
Perfect—now I’m stuck in 6 p.m. traffic. Rush hour. People darting home from work. That means Livy’s probably at home too, but if I show up there again, my ex will call the cops. Still, Ihave to check on my daughter. She’s six fucking years old—who knows what scares her when she wakes up alone at home?
