But lately the appeal has dimmed. Conversations that lead to a single night that lead to a clean exit used to feel like enough. Lately not so much..
Hard and fast. That's how I've been living. Because the alternative requires a kind of time I've stopped assuming I have.
"Mrs. Cross." I wait until she pauses for breath. "I hear your concerns. Let's address them when all parties are present."
The door opens.
The click of the latch is sharper than it should be in a room padded by carpet and money, and then my assistant steps in, angling her body to hold the door open for someone behind her.
And in an instant everything changes.
Like a system that's encountered input it doesn't have a category for and is taking longer than it should to process.
She's small. Five-two, maybe less. Dark navy suit, tailored close but not tight. Her hair is up, a loose knot at the crown of her head, wisps framing her face, softening the line of her jaw. Big brown eyes. Long lashes. No jewelry except a thin chain at her collarbone, catching the overhead light in a single bright point.
She stands in the doorway for half a second. Surveys the room.
My body has a mind of his own and I'm on my feet before I've decided to stand.
"Adrian Kade." I extend my hand. "I'm the attorney managing your father's estate proceedings."
She takes it. Firm. She meets my eyes and doesn't fill the silence with pleasantries.
I feel the exact moment she starts to pull back and I haven't let go yet. My thumb still pressed against the ridge of her knuckles, the contact registering somewhere lower than my hand.
She doesn't look at my hand after. Doesn't react. Just waits.
I release. Step back. My voice takes a beat to arrive.
"You know Mrs. Cross." I gesture toward Paula, keeping the introduction brief. Then I indicate the far end of the table, where an associate sits with a laptop and a legal pad. "And my associate, who'll be taking notes for the record."
I pull out the chair across from me. "Please, sit. Can I get you something before we start? Water, coffee?"
"Perhaps a shot of whiskey." Paula's voice cuts across the room, bright and precise as a slap. Her smile is pleasant. And fake.
Color climbs along Sienna's neck, slow, reaching toward her jaw. She doesn't flinch. Doesn't look at Paula. Her shoulders settle a fraction lower, and when she speaks her voice hasn't changed at all.
"I'm fine, thank you."
Something tightens along the back of my neck. I nod to my assistant, who reads my expression correctly and leaves, pulling the door shut behind her.
The click of the latch sounds different this time. Heavier. Sealed.
I sit. Straighten the folder in front of me. Reset.
"Now that everyone's here, let me outline where we stand." I open the folder. "Conrad Cross died intestate. Under California law, that means his estate, including all real estate properties, financial holdings, and personal assets, will be distributed according to statutory guidelines. The purpose of this meetingis to begin that conversation and, ideally, reach a preliminary understanding of each party's position—"
"You shouldn't get anything." Paula's composure cracks open. She turns on Sienna with the kind of directness that bypasses civility entirely. "You ungrateful bitch. You weren't there. You didn't care. You don't get to walk in here and take what's mine."
I open my mouth to stop her rant, but before I can, Paula carries on.
"You threw him away," Paula continues, volume climbing, body leaning forward, one finger pointed across the table. "You broke his heart. He waited for you. Every holiday, every birthday, he waited, and you couldn't even show up for his funeral."
Sienna doesn't move.
She sits with her hands flat on the table, palms down, shoulders level. Her expression hasn't shifted. She's watching Paula without surprise, without flinching, measuring only the distance.
"Mrs. Cross." My voice, harder now. "I need you to—"
