The dinner at Pierre had been a rare peak in a week of valleys, but the drive back to the house—Evander the evil's house—brought the reality of my situation crashing back down. Marcus was silent at the wheel, his profile sharp against the passing city lights, and I was too drained to even attempt to break the tension. When we arrived, the air in the foyer felt stale, a reminder that I was living in a place that wasn't mine. We parted ways with nothing but the sound of our own footsteps echoing on the hardwood.
I pushed open the door to the master suite, and there he was. Evander was already claimed his territory on the bed, looking like a king of nothing in one of his "Lazy" hoodies. I have a love-hate relationship with those hoodies; they're the only things in this house that feel soft enough to live in. I'd actually ended up giving 250 bucks to this loser just so I could keep a few of them for myself, a price I was willing to pay for a shred of comfort.
He looked up at me, his eyes taking in the black dress and the lingering scent of the restaurant. "Hot date?" he asked.
It was amazing, really. He asked it with that faux-casual tilt to his voice, pretending to care while he probably just wanted to make sure I wasn't late for whatever "sensory anchor" duty I was supposed to be performing.
"Reconciliation dinner," I corrected him, moving past the bed and toward the closet area.
Evander had managed to make a small space for my life in there—a narrow makeup area and a sliver of a closet that felt like a joke compared to the size of the room. It was a sprawling labyrinth of a house, yet I was living out of a corner like a stowaway.
"Oh! I see. It was with Marcus, right? What happened to make you guys reach out for a reconciliation dinner?" He made his voice louder, knowing I was in the closet changing area and couldn't see his face. "I thought you were ready to murder him yesterday."
I bit my lip, the word "reconciliation" feeling like a lead weight in my mouth. I should have never let it slip out from my filthy tongue. It sounded too official, too intimate, and it gave Evander exactly the kind of leverage he loved to use.
"He mocked me," I said, my voice sharp as I pulled the dress over my head.
"Umm... really? You're getting this upset by mocking? I get the concept, Juliet, but it seems a bit dramatic even for you."
He sounded like he didn't buy the excuse for a second, his voice dripping with that older-brother skepticism that usually made me want to scream. Well, fuck his opinion. He wasn't there to see the way the light hit Marcus's suit or the way the conversation felt like a high-stakes game. I changed my mascara, wiped away the gloss, and threw on one of the oversized hoodies I'd bought from him.
When I finally climbed into bed, Evander didn't move an inch. He's a huggy guy, the kind of person who naturally gravitates toward people, but I don't like physical touch. It feels like an invasion of my mental perimeter. To his credit, he kept my comfort zone, staying on his side but remaining close enough that his presence acted as that "sensory anchor" the doctors had prescribed. And Mary—God bless her—was right. It worked. Having him there reduced the night panics, because his steady breathing was a tether to reality back in the days where none of this haunting memory had occurred.
I remember the first time a shadow didn't just look like a shadow; it looked like a threat I couldn't outrun.
The next morning, the reality of my career was waiting for me like a slap in the face. I work as a private assistant to Alan, who is supposedly the world's most wanted prosecutor. I wanted to be an attorney—I had the vision for it—but my detective skills woke up too early. I started seeing the truth behind cases before the law could catch up, and I missed my chance to take the traditional path. I regret it every single day.
Now, I'm tethered to Alan. He is a thief of the highest order. He steals knowledge from me, taking credit for every breakthrough I have or every hint I give. I can't even resign because I've signed a four-year contract with this busted jerk. I'm legally bound to be the ghostwriter for his success.
Today was a special kind of hell. A professor had come to the firm to scout talent for the HPBCB—the Highest Paid Big Case Prosecutors. This organization is the ultimate league; they work with high legislative and judicial branches, and once you're in, you're untouchable. You get paid even if a case hasn't been held yet, a level of security that felt like a dream to someone like me.
The professor was investigating our skills on a massive heist case I'd spent weeks deconstructing. He was looking for the flaw in the entry plan, the one thing that didn't add up. I knew exactly what it was. I answered him, but my voice was too low, a reflexive habit of trying not to take up too much space.
I bet the professor hadn't heard me. He didn't even turn his head. But Alan? Alan heard me perfectly.
Before the professor could even repeat the question, Alan stepped forward into the light. He copied my answer word-for-word, delivering it with a flourish that made it seem like he'd been thinking about it for years. He got the spotlight. He got the nod of approval from the professor. What a jerk.
My mood crashed through the floor. I watched him bask in the praise for a thought he'd stolen from me ten seconds prior. I couldn't stay there. I checked out early, the weight of the contract and the injustice of it all feeling like a physical ache in my chest.
Now, I'm at the club with the girls. The bass is thumping so hard I can feel it in my teeth, and the neon lights are blurring into a kaleidoscope of pink and blue. I need the noise. I need the distraction.