CHAPTER 9

Black clothes. Green eyes like glass in sunlight. Hair that looks like it was styled by flirty demons that would wink at you.

And that mouth.

Filthy. The actual kind. F-bombs, low growls, and threats likeTry me again and I’ll make you wish you’d chosen tax fraud.

I once heard him say that. I had to excuse myself and scream into a folder.

But on the rare occasion that I find myself in his vicinity? I forget how to breathe. I start to rethink that celibacy thing and have... other thoughts.

It’s not my fault. He’s just so brooding.

He’s basically my mother’s grumpy fae prince, if the fae were armed, tattooed, and emotionally constipated.

Five o’clock shadow: perfect.

Scowl: weaponized.

Sleeves: always rolled just enough to raise the collective blood pressure of the DA’s office.

I’ve never once seen him smile like a normal person. Maybe once, at a vending machine, when two Snickers bars dropped at the same time. But it could’ve been gas.

And that man just told his lieutenant to eat dog poopie and called meCounselorin the same breath.

So yeah. I choked on my spit.

But that’s fine. I’m fine.

Totally fine.

I press the elevator button like I don’t have sweaty palms. There is no time for fangirling when I have a rapist to catch.

As soon as I step off the elevator, Benjamin is there—arms crossed, brow raised, mugless.

“Coffee?” he grunts.

That’s it. Not hello, not good morning, not is your client still alive, just . . . “coffee.” Like a raccoon demanding tribute.

He looks at the two cups in my hands, knowing neither is for him.

I arch a brow and keep walking. “No patrols. No coffee.”

My tone is sweet. My nose is in the air. My irritation is very much on display.

He falls into step beside me, exhaling like I personally created the staffing shortage.

Sebastian can sense my presence in the office and emerges from his. Both hands out, flexing his fingers, saying, “Gimme, gimme,” until his hot caramel macchiato is in his hands.

“Paty, you know the precinct is short-staffed and can’t just give up uniforms when we say jump. Especially when there’s no active case.”

“D-rama-a,” Sebastian sings out, continuing into my office.

I stop just short of my office door and turn to face him. “There is an active case. There’s a victim who’s been stalked, harassed, threatened, and terrorized in her own home. Her attacker is escalating. That sounds pretty active to me.”

He shifts his weight, jaw tight. “You know what I mean. There’s no formal filing. No judge is going to approve protective measures without new charges.”

I hold his stare, heat simmering low beneath my rib cage. “So, we wait until she’s dead? That the plan? We keep our hands clean while he tears her life apart and then send her mom a condolence fruit basket?”

“Paty—”

“No. I want this documented.” I take a breath, low and controlled. “I want her most recent report entered and attached to the original case. I want it escalated with precinct contact, and I want her dirty condom and note analyzed today. She deserves to feel like someone gives a crapola.”

“Preach, Diva,” Sebastian calls out from inside my office.

“Do we have to do this on a Friday?” Benjamin sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose like it’ll make me disappear. “I’m one bad headline away from a desk job.”

“Then I hope the story includes the part where I tried to stop another woman from becoming a statistic, but you were too worried about your coffee.”

We stare at each other a second longer—me, with the fire of a thousand unpaid internships behind my eyes; him, with the weariness of a man who used to care but misplaced it somewhere between budget meetings and bottled antacids.

He finally mutters, “I’ll see what I can do,” and walks off.

Yeah, I’m sure you will.

Sebastian’s phone rings and he rolls his eyes, taking a drink of his coffee before answering. “Courts! How is my favorite socialite jailbird?”

I exhale through my nose and step into my office—my little pink-lit sanctuary in a building that smells like anxiety and . . . nickels.

It’s almost lunchtime, but I don’t care. Routines don’t get canceled just because the clock’s ticked past its usual hour.

Lights on. Bag down. Computer on.

“Well, slay! How–ever, sweets, that many drugs on you at once could totally be taken for trafficking, and hun, orange is not your color.” More coffee makes it down Sebastian’s throat as he nods at whatever his client is going on about.

I cross to the window, twist the rod to open the blinds, and let in a sliver of stubborn New York daylight. The wax warmer gets switched on next—lavender and lemon zest, a scent that says we’re going to pretend we have our lives together today.

I walk to the corner of my desk and greet my favorite coworker.

“Good morning, Keanu Leaves,” I murmur, brushing a finger across its glossy leaf.

He’s the only one I’ve managed to keep alive.

I used to overwater. Over-monitor. Hover like a helicopter plant parent until everything wilted out of stress or spite. But this one? I learned to back off. Give it space. Trust that sometimes, survival means letting things breathe.

And look at him now. Thriving.

“Those of us in the legal biz call that an A-1 felony.”

Sebastian pauses. More nodding.

“Well, fifteen to twenty years, girlie-pop.” He looks at me, shaking his head and raising his hand. “Your lip fillers won’t last that long, babe.”

I plop into my chair, already reaching to sort through the stack of envelopes internal mail slid sitting on my desk. I kick off my heels and slide into my cozy fuzzy slippers as I look through the parcels.

Sebastian keeps going with his conversation. “Yes, that is what we want. Multiple men groveling at those diamond-pedicured feet of yours. Not multiple felony charges, so don’t you dare cross the border with those, mkay?”

“Mkay. Yes, brunch when you get back, girl. Mimosas are on you though. Your retainer is almost gone. Okay. Byeeeeee.” He draws out the last syllable ridiculously long before hanging up. “I don’t get paid enough.”

“Sounds fun,” I tease, flipping one envelope to the back of the pile, then another.

A few standard motions, a court update, one demand letter from a defense attorney who clearly thinks he’s the smartest man in the room.

And then . . . something odd.

It’s not in the usual envelope. No seal. No court header.

Just my name on the front. Typed clean and precise.

I turn it over slowly, brows pulling together.

Something about it feels . . . off.

I hold up the envelope between two fingers, not quite touching it. “Did you see who dropped off internal mail today?”