By the Book

Chapter Forty-Five: Unspoken Tensions

The conference room was stark and unwelcoming, all white walls and too-bright fluorescent lights that buzzed faintly overhead. A long table stretched across the center of the room, its dark wood surface gleaming beneath the harsh light. A stack of pristine legal pads sat at one end, along with a pitcher of water and three glasses—perfectly arranged, perfectly detached, perfectly clinical.

I stepped inside, the sound of my heels clicking against the tile loud in the oppressive quiet. My chest felt tight, my lungs refusing to fill properly as I forced myself to keep my shoulders straight and my expression blank. The echoes of our earlier conversation still rang in my ears—his voice raw, my own trembling, the truth I hadn't meant to confess hanging between us like a live wire.

Dr. Harlan was already there, seated at the far end of the table. Her gaze flicked up from her tablet as I entered, offering a curt nod.

"Ms. Donovan," she said briskly. "I trust you're prepared."

"Yes," I replied, my voice even though my stomach churned. "I've reviewed all the materials."

Dr. Harlan nodded again, her focus already back on her screen. "Good. We have a lot to get through."

I moved to a seat near the middle of the table, setting my notes down with deliberate care. The movement was mechanical, a lifeline to keep me grounded as I worked to block out the storm raging in my chest.

I wasn't here for me. I was here for Miles. Because despite everything—despite the pain, the broken pieces he'd left behind—I still couldn't let Brighton take away the last thing he had of Eleanor. The shop was his. It was hers. And I'd see it protected if it was the last thing I did.

The door opened behind me, and my breath hitched. He was here.

I didn't need to look to feel his presence, the measured rhythm of his footsteps as he crossed the room sending a fresh wave of tension coursing through me. He paused briefly before pulling out the chair across from mine, the scrape of wood against tile loud in the silence.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, his voice low but steady. Too steady. It was the voice of a man holding everything together by sheer force of will.

"You're just in time," Dr. Harlan replied curtly, not bothering to look up.

I risked a glance at him, and it nearly undid me.

The cracks were there—subtle but unmistakable. His hair was slightly disheveled, the shadows under his eyes deeper than they'd been even minutes ago. His jaw was tight, his shoulders rigid, his hands resting on the table with a false stillness that betrayed the tension running through him.

Then his eyes found mine, and it was like looking into the mirror of my own wreckage. The heartbreak was there, raw and unfiltered, and it mirrored the ache lodged deep in my chest.

I looked away instantly, my gaze snapping down to the legal pad in front of me. If I kept looking, I knew I'd break.

Dr. Harlan's voice cut through the silence, brisk and efficient. "Let's get started. Brighton's fraudulent schemes are well-documented, but our focus today is on their predatory tactics and how they specifically impacted Eleanor Lockwood's estate. They manipulated her trust, drained her finances, and left the shop burdened with insurmountable debt."

The name hung in the air like a shard of glass, sharp and unforgiving. Miles shifted in his seat, the movement subtle but enough to draw my attention despite myself.

"They targeted her because she was grieving," Dr. Harlan continued, sliding a document across the table toward me. "Ms. Donovan, your analysis of the shop's financial history is thorough, but we need to emphasize the emotional manipulation in addition to the financial exploitation."