𝗙𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗕𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗩𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗮 𝗨𝗻𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗲.
𝐅𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐞
I am the judge, the jury, and the executioner.
Francesca "Frank" Monroe. One of the most successful criminal defense attorneys in the history of Illinois. The woman everyon...
"A need for revenge can burn long and hot. Especially if every glance in a mirror reinforces it."
- Suzanne Collins
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Relentless.
Fucking sleepless.
Paranoid as hell.
I'd turned into a goddamn watchdog, obsessively tightening security until it was suffocating. Even the house staff couldn't take a step without an escort, and I didn't give a shit if they hated it.
Most nights, sleep was a joke. Instead, I was on the balcony, fingers twitching near my sniper rifle, scanning the dark like a goddamn lunatic. Every creak, every shadow sent my pulse into overdrive. My nerves were shot, my mind stretched so fucking thin it was a miracle I hadn't snapped yet.
My coffee sat untouched, steam curling up like some ghost whispering at my face. I stared at it blankly, my body wired but dead inside.
Then the phone rang. Sharp. Shrill. That sound had become my trigger. Adrenaline slammed into my system like a bullet to the chest-palms sweaty, breath catching, heart pounding like I was about to walk into a goddamn warzone.
I snatched it up, voice flat, hiding the storm raging inside me. "Yeah, Scotty?"
My grip tightened, the plastic creaking in my hand. If I clenched any harder, I'd crush the damn thing.
"You skipping the office again, Frankie?" Scott's voice held that edge of concern, like he knew I was unraveling but wasn't dumb enough to say it outright.
I exhaled, slow and sharp, my breath a fog of exhaustion. I missed normal. Missed when work was just work and not a fucking balancing act over a pit of knives.
"Just tell me where I need to be," I muttered, my voice rough with fatigue and barely contained frustration.
"You've got a meeting with Taylor Williams at 2:00, then a status conference at 3:00," he informed me.
"Got it. I'll be there in an hour," I said before cutting the call.
Work was just another battle now. Another warzone, just with different weapons. And I was fucking exhausted.
Sawyer walked in, looking like he'd just crawled out of hell, his expression confirming exactly what we fucking feared-whoever was behind that letter and those surveillance photos was still a ghost.
"Sorry," he muttered, shoulders sagging under the weight of failure. "I don't have the news you're hoping for."
"Don't do that shit," I said, pushing up from my desk, making my way over. "You're the best man I've got. If you can't find him, it's because the bastard doesn't want to be found."
"But we have to," Sawyer snapped, his voice fraying at the edges. That quiet, desperate panic that neither of us wanted to acknowledge was creeping in. "He's been watching, waiting, and now that he's sent a direct threat? He's fucking ready. And we have no idea when he'll strike."
