Lines of Defense

Ch. 1

Trigger Warning:

This chapter contains sensitive content that may be triggering for some readers. It includes discussions of stalking and sexual assault. Reader discretion is advised. If you feel uncomfortable or need support, please take care of yourself and seek help if needed. Your well-being is important.

ETHAN COLE

The wine glimmers, dark and thick like blood as I swirl it lazily in the glass. Across from me, she laughs—high, breathless, like a woman who's just tasted freedom. Maybe she has. I glance at the wine again, my thumb rubbing over the rim, feeling the cool curve of it beneath my skin. I know the sound it would make if I pressed just a little harder, like the crack of bone. I'd heard enough of it in court today.

"Honestly, I thought I was done for," she says, leaning closer, the candlelight flickering against her bare skin. Her voice is full of that sweet relief, the kind that makes her look like a new woman. She's not. She's the same woman who stood over her husband's body, knife in hand, still warm with his blood.

But no one would ever know that now.

"I told you," I say, taking a sip of my wine, the taste bitter against my tongue. "If you hire me, you walk."

Her smile widens, a slow, satisfied thing that stretches across her face, as if she's relishing the fact that she's free. That she's won.

What she doesn't know—what none of them ever realize—is that the system was never about justice. It's about who plays the game better. And as always, I won.

"You did more than that," she purrs, her fingers trailing the stem of her glass, her eyes catching mine with an offer that's been lingering since the verdict dropped. "I owe you."

Her voice dips, low and seductive. I don't flinch, don't even let the thought linger. I've been down that road with clients before, and it never ends in anything good. Besides, I don't mix business with... whatever this is. Not anymore.

"You owe me nothing," I say smoothly, setting my glass down and leaning back in my chair. "The money wired to my account covers it."

She laughs again, leaning forward, lips parting like she's about to say something coy, something that drips with the kind of allure she used to lead her husband to his grave. But I've heard enough for tonight. The night air in the restaurant is thick with heat, the kind that clings to the skin and suffocates. Or maybe that's just the weight of everything she's not saying, the unspoken words that hang like ghosts between us.

I rise, tossing a few bills on the table for the wine. "Enjoy your evening, Ms. Graves."

She watches me, that smile still plastered across her face, but there's something else in her eyes now. Maybe it's the realization that I'm just like her—another person who can bury the truth with enough effort. Or maybe, it's just the thrill of getting away with murder.

Either way, I walk out without looking back.

The night is cool outside, a sharp contrast to the heat I left behind. I shrug off the tension clinging to my shoulders, my fingers sliding into the pockets of my coat as I head toward the car. Another day, another guilty client gone free. It's all part of the job, part of the game.

But lately, there's something about the taste of victory that leaves me cold.

I check my wristwatch. It's past 9 p.m. The streets are cloaked in silence, the kind that should tell me to head home, let the events of the day settle, and maybe—just maybe—close my eyes without the feeling of guilt pressing down. But going home means facing the quiet, the kind of stillness that lets the day creep back in, lets every decision I made replay in agonizing detail.