Epilogue
Chapter 1
Trigger Encounter
(SOPHIA'S POV)
The courtroom is a battlefield.
And I?
I’m the reigning queen.
My heels click against the polished marble floor, each step a carefully measured beat of control. The air hums with anticipation—law clerks shuffle papers, reporters murmur into their recorders, and the scent of too-strong coffee clings to the tension thick in the room.
This isn’t just any case.
This is the trial of the year—the kind that doesn’t just make headlines, it makes or breaks careers. The kind that turns attorneys into legends.
And today?
The legend is me.
Chin high, shoulders squared, I glide to my table, my navy power suit my armor against the chaos. The weight of eyes on me is nothing new.
I thrive in it.
The scrutiny. The expectations.
It fuels me.
Nothing rattles me.
Nothing.
Until I look up.
And see him.
Sam Carter.
The air shifts.
He’s already standing at the opposing counsel’s table, sleeves rolled just enough to showcase those damn forearms—the ones legal interns whisper about, as if muscle mass correlates with legal brilliance. His dark blond hair is just the right amount of unruly, like he rolled out of bed looking like a walking HR violation.
And then there’s that smirk.
That smug, cocky, infuriating smirk that spikes my blood pressure on sight.
Ugh. Not today, Carter.
Of course, today—of all days—it had to be him.
I’ve argued cases against ruthless prosecutors, stone-faced federal attorneys, judges who could make a grown man cry.
But Sam Carter?
He’s different.
Not just because he’s good—though he is .
Not just because he matches me move for move—though he does .
It’s because he enjoys this.
The game. The push-pull.
The fact that he’s one of the only people who’s ever managed to get under my skin.
His gaze locks onto mine, amusement flickering in those annoyingly sharp blue eyes, as if we’re the only two people in this courtroom.
He leans in slightly, voice silky with challenge.
“Looking sharp, Blake. New suit? Or did you finally take my advice and start dressing for success?”
My jaw tenses, but I don’t blink.
I don’t react.
That’s what he wants.
“Oh, Carter.” My voice is smooth, edged in ice. “You almost made me laugh. A shame you wasted your best material before opening arguments.”
His grin widens, slow and predatory, like I just stepped right into his trap.
He loves this—the verbal sparring, the unspoken game beneath it all. Loves pretending our clashes are flirtation rather than outright war.
“Big case.” He adjusts his tie, casual. “You nervous?”
I tilt my head, letting my lips curl into a slow, lethal smile.
“You tell me, Carter. You’re the one sweating through your overpriced shirt.”
His chuckle is low, appreciative.
His gaze flickers over me, assessing, like he’s seeing more than I want him to.
“Damn. Remind me never to play poker with you.”
I arch a brow. “Oh, Carter. I would love to take your money.”
He grins.
A real one this time.
And for one traitorous second, my pulse stutters.
I shove the reaction down.
This isn’t a game.
It’s my career.
And I refuse to let some cocky, insufferable prosecutor knock me off my axis.
I turn my back on him—calculated, dismissive—as if he’s nothing more than a mild inconvenience instead of my most formidable opponent.
But as I lower into my seat, my pulse is still a fraction too fast.
My skin still tingles from the intensity in his eyes.
And I hate that he does that to me.
The sharp crack of the gavel slices through the courtroom, commanding immediate silence.
Judge Eleanor Chambers settles into her seat, her sharp gaze sweeping the room. But the tension doesn’t dissipate—it thickens, curling around me like a vice.
I can feel it.
The electricity in the air.
The weight of a case that could destroy reputations and reshape careers.
Sam Carter might have the jury’s curiosity—but I?
I own their respect.
The bailiff drones through the formalities, but I barely hear him. My focus is honed in on the man across the courtroom—the one person who’s ever made me feel like my impenetrable defenses have a tiny, infuriating crack.
Sam leans back in his chair, obnoxiously relaxed for someone about to go to war. His long fingers tap an easy rhythm against the table, his gaze flicking between Judge Chambers and me, like he’s already five moves ahead in a chess game he’s certain he’s going to win.
Arrogant bastard.
And then it begins.
The opening statements are quick, brutal, and packed with enough tension to snap the air in half.
My voice is steady, controlled, every word landing with the precision of a well-placed dagger.
I lay the foundation, establishing my client’s credibility and the lack of direct evidence against him. The Reyes case is a monster—a scandal with enough weight to bury careers and shake the corporate world to its core.
And my job?
Protect my client at all costs.
Sam’s job?
Tear him to shreds.
And if there’s one thing Sam Carter is annoyingly good at, it’s playing to the damn audience.
I don’t even need to look at him to know what’s coming next.
The moment he stands, flashing that deceptively charming smile, I know exactly what he’s doing.
He doesn’t just speak to the jury—he commands them, shifting his weight like he’s standing in a conference room, delivering a pitch he knows they’ll buy. His tone is smooth, persuasive, balanced perfectly between authority and calculated charm.
Damn him.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he begins, his voice like silk over steel, “today, you’ll hear two sides of the same story. But I promise you—only one of them is the truth.”
He lets that hang, just long enough for a flicker of doubt to seep into the jurors’ expressions.
And then, with a slight tilt of his head, like he’s speaking to old friends over a glass of whiskey, he delivers the dagger.
“The defense will tell you that Evan Reyes is a victim. That he’s simply a businessman caught in a web of misunderstandings. That he had no idea where the missing millions disappeared to, no clue about the offshore accounts conveniently traced back to his name.”
He pauses.
Lets it breathe.
Then he turns—right to me—locking eyes like a wolf circling its prey.
And then he smiles.
Oh, I hate when he does this.
“—It’s bullshit.”
A ripple of reaction sweeps through the courtroom.
A gasp from the gallery. The shift of weight in jury seats. The quiet warning cough from Judge Chambers, though she doesn’t stop him.
Sam knows he’s toeing the line.
And he loves it.
I cross my legs, tapping my pen against my legal pad.
Oh, you want to play, Carter?
Fine.
When it’s my turn, I rise with practiced ease, my face unreadable, my confidence a steady pulse beneath my skin.
I won’t match his theatrics—that’s his game.
Mine is control.
Mine is precision.
Mine is absolute command.
I smooth my hands over my suit, letting the room settle before I speak.
“The prosecution wants you to believe,” I begin, my voice even, cutting, “that my client—a self-made businessman with a spotless record—suddenly decided to commit white-collar crime on a scale that defies logic.”
I pause, letting my words sink in.
“They’ll use half-truths, circumstantial evidence, and their own assumptions to paint him as the villain of this story.”
I turn slightly, addressing the jury directly.
“But the thing about stories, ladies and gentlemen, is that the details matter. Context matters. And what you won’t hear from the prosecution today—”
I finally let my gaze find Sam’s again.
And I hold it.
Long enough. Strong enough.
“—is the full truth.”
His lips twitch.
Damn him.
He lives for this.
For the battle.
For the push-and-pull.
For the thrill of the verbal fight.
And unfortunately for him?
So do I.
As I settle back into my seat, I feel him lean in slightly, his voice just low enough for only me to hear.
“You almost had me convinced, Blake,” he murmurs, his tone laced with amusement, with something darker beneath. “Almost.”
I don’t react.
I don’t turn my head.
I don’t acknowledge him at all.
Instead, I let my voice come out cool, smooth as the glass barrier I refuse to let him crack.
“Give it time, Carter.”
I murmur, my tone unreadable.
“We both know I play the long game.”
His chuckle is quiet, but there’s something unsettling in it—something that sends an unwelcome ripple down my spine.
This case is just beginning.
And we’re already toeing a dangerous line.
Courtroom victories aren’t always about who’s right.
Most of the time, they’re about who’s faster.
Who sees the loophole first.
Who delivers the fatal blow before the opposition has time to react.
I thrive in that space.
Which is why, as I stand here, delivering a flawlessly constructed defense, I should be untouchable.
Every word is precise. Every argument calculated to disarm and dismantle.
The jury is locked in, absorbing, listening—exactly where I need them to be.
And then I see it.
The shift in Sam Carter’s posture.
It’s barely perceptible—a slight adjustment in his seat, a flicker of something sharp in his annoyingly perceptive blue eyes.
But I know that look.
It’s the look of a man who just spotted an opening.
Damn it.
I push forward, keeping my tone smooth, my expression unreadable.
I will not let him rattle me.
“Mr. Reyes had no reasonable expectation that his company’s internal audits would be used as evidence against him in this trial, given that they were conducted under the premise of regulatory compliance, not criminal intent.”
I’m already moving to my next point when—
“Objection, Your Honor.”
The words slice through the air like a blade.
I knew it.
Judge Eleanor Chambers barely glances up from her notes. “On what grounds, Mr. Carter?”
I don’t look at him.
I don’t have to.
I can already feel the smug energy radiating off him like heat from a fire.
Sam shifts forward slightly, his voice smooth as silk, sharp as a dagger.
“The defense is misleading the jury,” he says, calm, collected, deadly. “The internal audits in question were conducted under both regulatory compliance and legal scrutiny, per a subpoena issued six months prior. Ms. Blake’s argument hinges on a false premise.”
A murmur rolls through the courtroom.
I don’t react.
Not outwardly.
But my fingers tighten slightly around my pen.
Because I know he’s right.
Judge Chambers’ gaze flicks to me. “Ms. Blake, is that accurate?”
I school my expression, smoothing my hands over the hem of my jacket.
“With all due respect, Your Honor,” I say, my voice even, “Mr. Carter is conveniently ignoring the nature of that subpoena. It did not specify criminal liability, only corporate compliance.”
Sam doesn’t respond.
He doesn’t have to.
Because I can feel his satisfaction humming between us.
Judge Chambers exhales, adjusting her glasses. “Clarify, Ms. Blake. Are you stating that the subpoena’s intent negates its legal weight?”
For a fraction of a second, I consider pushing it further. Twisting the argument in another direction.
But I can’t.
Because we both know the answer.
I inhale quietly, lift my chin.
“No, Your Honor.”
Judge Chambers nods. “Point to the prosecution. Proceed.”
A hum of reaction rolls through the gallery.
The jury takes note.
And Sam Carter?
That bastard leans back in his chair, adjusting his tie like he just secured a championship title.
“Tough break, Blake,” he murmurs, his voice just low enough for me to hear.
I don’t look at him.
“Don’t get cocky, Carter.”
“Me?” His tone is all mock innocence, dripping with amusement. “I would never.”
I press my lips together, willing myself to let it go.
To move on. Focus.
But then—
He leans in.
Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to lower his voice to something smug, teasing, and entirely too close for comfort.
“Feels good, though, doesn’t it?”
I arch a brow, still refusing to look at him. “What does?”
“The pushback. The challenge.”
There’s a pause. A deliberate beat.
“Knowing I’m right here, waiting to catch you the second you slip.”
My head tilts just slightly, my gaze finally flicking to his.
“You wish I slipped.”
He smirks.
“Oh, but you did.”
I exhale slowly through my nose, keeping my expression calm.
But beneath the surface, something shifts.
Because for a second—just a second—this isn’t just a legal battle.
It’s something else.
Something dangerous.
Something neither of us should acknowledge.
And we both know it.
Then, just as quickly as it happened, I snap back into focus.
I smooth my papers, lift my chin, and give him the flattest, most unimpressed look I can muster.
“Enjoy your win, Carter.” My voice is cool, controlled. “It won’t last.”
His grin deepens, like he’s already looking forward to the next round.
Oh, this is going to be hell.
But damned if I’m going to lose.
I don’t lose.
I don’t stumble.
I don’t get caught off guard.
And I sure as hell don’t let Sam Carter—of all people—get under my skin.
But right now?
I feel off-balance.
I exhale quietly, flicking my gaze back to my notes, forcing myself to focus on the case, on the strategy—on anything other than the fact that Sam Carter just forced me into a corner in front of a packed courtroom.
But my brain won’t let it go.
It replays the way he leaned in—not just as an attorney looking to dismantle an argument, but as a man who knew exactly how close he was to making me unravel.
The way his voice dipped lower, rich and teasing, like he wasn’t just issuing a legal challenge, but something more.
It’s infuriating.
Because, for a second—just a damn second—I didn’t see him as my opponent.
I saw him as a man.
A ridiculously attractive, sharp-witted, dangerously perceptive man.
God, I hate that.
I hate that despite the carefully constructed walls I’ve spent years reinforcing, my body betrays me in small, subtle ways.
The way my skin prickles when his voice dips too close.
The way my stomach tightens at the intensity in his eyes.
The way my traitorous pulse stuttered when he murmured,
"Feels good, doesn’t it? The challenge."
Because he wasn’t just talking about the case.
And we both knew it.
I press my fingers to my temple for the briefest moment before forcing my hand to drop.
Get it together, Blake.
I have spent my entire career proving that I can handle any opponent. That I don’t flinch, don’t falter, don’t let distractions —especially distractions that come in the form of an irritatingly charming prosecutor—interfere with my work.
And I refuse to start now.
Especially not because of him.
I straighten in my seat, forcing my focus back to Judge Eleanor Chambers, back to the courtroom, back to winning.
Then—
A sharp clearing of a throat.
Judge Chambers.
Snapping the moment in half like it never existed.
I tear my gaze away, pretending like none of it ever happened.
I am Sophia Blake.
I do not get rattled.
And I am definitely not attracted to my biggest rival.
No matter how many times my body tries to convince me otherwise.
The moment Judge Eleanor Chambers dismisses us for the day, I’m out of my seat, gathering my files with the same precision I apply to my arguments.
Every movement is controlled. Intentional.
No unnecessary gestures. No outward sign that today rattled me.
Because it didn’t.
Not the case.
Not the legal back-and-forth.
And definitely not the six-foot-two smug bastard sitting across from me.
I slip my laptop into my bag, straighten my shoulders. The courtroom is still buzzing—reporters whispering, interns scrambling, the steady hum of this is going to be a bloodbath lingering in the air.
I don’t rush.
I don’t need to.
I just focus on getting out, on putting distance between myself and—
“You’re slipping, Blake.”
I freeze.
Dammit.
I should have known he’d try something.
That Sam Carter, in all his insufferable, cocky, deliberately-irritating glory, wouldn’t let me leave without getting in one last word.
With a slow inhale, I turn.
And he’s right there.
Too close.
Standing just enough in my path that I’d have to brush past him to leave.
His suit is crisp, but his tie is loosened just slightly, like today’s battle barely put a dent in him.
And his smirk?
It’s practically weaponized.
I arch a brow, keeping my expression cool, unreadable.
“Move, Carter.”
He doesn’t.
Of course he doesn’t.
Instead, he leans in—just slightly, just enough that his voice drops to something only I can hear.
“Rough day for you.” His tone is smooth, teasing, like he’s savoring this moment. Enjoying it too much.
“Maybe I should go easy on you tomorrow.”
I don’t react.
Not outwardly.
But internally?
Oh, I want to wipe that smirk off his face.
I tilt my head, letting my gaze drag over him slowly, like I’m actually considering his offer.
Then I step in, close enough that the scent of his aftershave—woodsy, sharp, annoyingly enticing—brushes against me.
Then, in the same calm, lethal tone I use to dismantle opposing counsel, I murmur:
“You could go easy on me.”
I pause—just long enough to let him think, for half a second, that I might entertain the idea.
Then I smile.
Sweet. Deadly.
“But then you’d lose.”
I don’t wait for his reaction.
I step around him, my shoulder just barely brushing his as I move past—
And I swear I hear him chuckle.
Dammit.
I don’t look back.
Because if I do, I might see something in his expression I don’t want to acknowledge.
And I refuse to give Sam Carter that power.
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Chapter 2
Underneath the Armor
(Sam’s POV)
Sophia Blake is the most infuriating woman alive.
And yet, I can’t look away.
She moves through the courtroom with practiced precision—head high, shoulders squared—like she’s carved out of stone and fire all at once. Unshakable. Untouchable. At least, that’s what she wants everyone to believe.
And yet—
That tiny hesitation before she walked out? That flicker of restraint, like she had to remind herself not to look back at me?
Yeah.
I saw that.
And it tells me everything.
Because Sophia Blake doesn’t hesitate. She doesn’t waver.
Unless it’s me.
I drag a hand through my hair, exhaling sharply as I loosen my tie. The moment she’s out of sight, the tension in my shoulders should ease.
But it doesn’t.
Because she’s still in my damn head.
The way she squared off against me today, words sharp and controlled but not without heat. The way her pulse jumped just slightly when I leaned in. The way her eyes flashed when she told me I’d lose.
Fuck.
She’s the one person I’m supposed to hate.
And yet, every time we clash, I crave it.
I should want to break her. Should want to watch her stumble, just once.
But instead?
I want to know what she looks like when the mask slips.
She’s cocky. Cold. The epitome of perfectionist arrogance wrapped in a navy-blue power suit.
She argues like a machine—barely flinching, every move calculated, every rebuttal designed to cut my case down with surgical precision.
But the thing is—
Beneath that ice-cold veneer, I know there’s something else.
I saw it today.
For half a second, I caught it. The flicker in her eyes—the moment she realized I’d backed her into a corner with no room to fight her way out.
She hated it.
And I?
I loved it.
Not because I want to see her fail—
But because she never lets herself be human.
And for a moment, she was.
I lean against the defense table, watching reporters file out, eager to dissect every second of today’s trial. My name will be in the headlines, but so will hers.
Sam Carter delivers crushing rebuttal against top defense attorney Sophia Blake.
Prosecution strikes first blow in high-stakes Reyes trial.
Legal rivals Sam Carter and Sophia Blake face off in explosive first day—who will win?
It’s always us.
It’s always her.
And that should make me want to beat her at all costs.
But all I can think about?
The way her voice sounded when she told me I’d lose.
Low. Confident. Dangerous.
I push off the table, shaking my head.
I should be thinking about the case—not the way she smells like something expensive and entirely too tempting.
The problem with Sophia Blake is that she makes my job feel like a game.
And not just any game—
A game I want to keep playing.
Every other defense attorney plays checkers.
Sophia Blake plays five-dimensional chess.
She’s not just good—she’s relentless. Unpredictable. Impossible to rattle.
Except today?
Today, I saw a crack.
She’s like a storm—rolling in slow, steady, and utterly devastating when she finally hits.
And even knowing that, I still step into the damn rain.
Idiot.
I scrub a hand over my face and force myself toward the door.
The sooner I get out of here, the sooner I can get my head on straight.
Sophia Blake is not a distraction.
She’s a rival. A thorn in my side. A damn good attorney.
And nothing more.
That’s what I tell myself as I loosen my tie, shove my hands into my pockets, and force my legs to carry me out of the courtroom.
But my pulse? Still too fast.
My thoughts? Still tangled up in her.
And the worst part?
I don’t know if I want to fight it—
Or let it pull me under.
I should just walk out of this courthouse.
Leave the tension of the day behind, grab a drink, maybe even head to the gym to burn off the frustration still simmering under my skin.
But of course, the universe has other plans.
Because as soon as I push through the heavy courtroom doors and step into the hallway, I see her.
Sophia Blake.
She’s standing there, head bent slightly, scrolling through her phone, her expression a perfect mask of bored disinterest.
Like today’s battle didn’t shake her.
Like she didn’t just barely recover from a brutal challenge in front of a full jury.
Like she didn’t just walk away with a loss.
Most attorneys—hell, any rational human being—would still be licking their wounds.
But not Sophia.
She looks collected. Unbothered. Every inch the ice queen she’s built herself up to be.
And that? That grates on me.
Not because I want her to fail.
But because I know it’s bullshit.
I should keep walking. Let her pretend she’s unshaken, let her hold on to that armor she wears so damn well.
But I don’t.
Because something about her pulls me in like a goddamn magnet.
So, instead of heading toward the exit, I slow my steps.
“I’d say ‘tough loss,’ but you’d probably just call me a liar.”
Her fingers pause on her screen, just for a fraction of a second, before she slides her phone into her bag and looks up.
And there it is.
That cool, calculated expression—the one that tells me she’s already crafted three different ways to verbally cut me down.
“Smart of you to admit you’re a liar, Carter. It’s the first step toward self-awareness.”
I huff out a low chuckle, shaking my head.
God, she’s good.
I take another step closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of whatever expensive, maddening perfume she wears.
And because I’m a stubborn asshole, I push back.
“I just think it’s fascinating how you spin every near-loss into some elaborate intellectual victory. How does that work, exactly?”
She tips her head slightly, her lips curving just enough to look pleased, amused, and mildly lethal all at once.
“Oh, Carter.” Her voice is smooth, slow, deliberate. “You should know by now—I don’t do near-losses.”
The hallway is empty now.
The last stragglers from today’s trial have disappeared, leaving nothing between us.
No judge. No jury. No courtroom rules.
Just her and me.
And somehow, that makes this moment sharper.
“Could’ve fooled me,” I murmur, watching her reaction closely.
She doesn’t flinch.
Instead, she crosses her arms—slowly, deliberately—like she’s settling in for a fight.
“That’s funny.” Her voice is cool, measured. “You seem awfully invested in whether or not I take this personally.”
“And you seem awfully invested in pretending you don’t.”
Her eyes narrow slightly.
There it is. That flicker of challenge.
She likes this.
She won’t admit it—won’t say the words—but she enjoys these little games just as much as I do.
I step closer, just a fraction, just enough that her chin tilts up slightly to keep eye contact.
She doesn’t step back.
Interesting.
“Tell me something, Blake,” I murmur, my voice dropping just enough to be dangerous. “When’s the last time someone really pushed you?”
Her lips press together.
It’s subtle, but I see it—the moment she registers that this isn’t just about court.
It’s about us.
I swear I hear the faintest hitch in her breath before she recovers.
“That’s cute, Carter. Are you under the impression you’re special?”
“No.” I tilt my head, letting my gaze flick over her. “I know I am.”
Her mouth parts slightly, like she’s about to fire back something sharp—something cold—
But she doesn’t.
Instead, she holds my gaze for just a second too long.
And for the first time since I met her, I see hesitation.
Not fear.
Not uncertainty.
Something else.
Something that tells me she’s thinking about this just as much as I am.
Fuck.
I should walk away.
I should say something smug, call it a victory, and leave her standing there.
But for some reason, I don’t move.
And neither does she.
The silence stretches. Tight. Charged.
And then—
A voice cuts through the tension like a blade.
“Mr. Carter?”
I blink, my head snapping toward the voice.
A clerk.
Right.
Real life.
Sophia takes that split second of distraction and steps back, breaking whatever the hell that moment just was.
And when I turn back to her?
She’s already composed again, mask firmly back in place.
“Have a good night, Carter.”
Her voice is smooth, effortless, like we didn’t just stand inches apart, playing with a match in a room full of gasoline.
Then she strides past me.
Without looking back.
And for the first time since I met her—
I’m the one left standing still.
I should let her walk away.
I should smirk, chalk this up as another round won, and watch her disappear down the hall like she always does—like she’s completely unaffected.
But something about this moment feels different.
More charged.
More dangerous.
She moves past me, her shoulder barely grazing mine, and before I even register what I’m doing—
My hand is there.
Catching her wrist.
Holding her still.
Not hard. Not aggressive.
Just enough.
And the second my fingers close around her skin—
Everything shifts.
A spark ignites where we touch. Hot. Sudden. A live wire straight to my bloodstream.
It’s not just a touch—it’s a shock. One that races up my arm, sinking into my chest, into something deeper. Something I don’t have a name for.
I don’t know what I was expecting.
But it sure as hell wasn’t this.
And judging by the way Sophia stills, the way her breath hitches almost imperceptibly, I know she feels it too.
Fuck.
I should let go.
I should step back.
I should remind myself that she is not someone I can afford to touch.
Not like this.
Not in a way that makes my breath hitch.
That makes my brain stall.
That makes me want to pull her closer instead of letting her go.
But my fingers stay locked around her wrist.
Her skin is warm.
Her pulse?
Too fast.
And when she finally looks up, her gaze sharp and unreadable, my whole body locks tight.
Because I recognize that look.
It’s not anger.
Not annoyance.
Not even the usual cocky dismissal.
It’s awareness.
She’s processing this, just like I am.
And that?
That’s fucking dangerous.
Sophia doesn’t pull away immediately.
She could. She should.
She’s always so damn quick to shut things down, to maintain control.
But for a fraction of a second—
She hesitates.
And in that hesitation, the tension between us coils so tight it’s suffocating.
Her lips part slightly, like she wants to say something.
Like she wants to acknowledge this.
And I?
I’m barely breathing.
Because I’m suddenly very aware of how fucking close we are.
The way her wrist feels delicate but strong beneath my grip.
The way her pulse beats faster than it should.
The way my body reacts to hers without permission.
Jesus Christ.
I shouldn’t be thinking about this.
Not about her skin against mine.
Not about the fact that I suddenly want to test a theory—
To see if touching her like this everywhere would send the same jolt.
Would she still pretend to be unaffected if I ran my fingers down her arm?
If I brushed my hand over the curve of her hip?
If I—
Fuck.
I shove the thought away before it can fully form.
Because that’s not why we’re here.
That’s not what this is.
And yet—
I still don’t let go.
Neither does she.
It’s Sophia who finally moves first.
She exhales, just barely, and then—slowly, deliberately—she pulls her wrist from my grip.
Not a yank.
Not a snap.
A retreat.
One she doesn’t want to make—but does anyway.
And I feel it—
The exact second her warmth slips away.
The absence of her skin feels almost louder than the contact itself.
Her eyes flicker—something I can’t quite name.
Something new.
And then, just like that, her expression smooths.
Perfect. Controlled. Untouchable.
“If you wanted to hold hands, Carter, all you had to do was ask.”
That little smirk is back, but I see it.
The way her fingers twitch at her side.
Like she’s still feeling it too.
Like she’s still thrown off balance.
And that?
That makes me grin.
Because now I know the truth.
She’s not immune to me.
And that?
That’s a fucking problem.
I should be thinking about the case.
The next move.
How to push Sophia further into a corner when we’re back in court.
But as I step outside into the crisp evening air, my mind does something I hate—
It wanders.
And instead of legal strategy, instead of case law or closing arguments, I’m thinking about something else entirely.
Her skin.
The way it felt under my hand.
The fact that she didn’t pull away immediately.
How, for just a second, her mask slipped.
Fuck.
This isn’t just bad.
It’s reckless. It’s fucking stupid.
I scrub a hand over my jaw, exhaling slowly. The cool air should clear my head, ground me, remind me of what matters.
It doesn’t.
Because Sophia Blake is still in my damn head.
And that?
That’s a problem.
I’ve spent years going up against cutthroat defense attorneys.
Men and women who twist facts, bend the law just enough to keep their clients out of prison.
I don’t get distracted by them.
I don’t let them crawl under my skin.
And yet, Sophia Blake?
She lives there now.
Rent-free.
Permanently.
It’s not just that she’s good.
Good, I can handle.
Good, I expect.
But Sophia?
She’s something else entirely.
She doesn’t just counter my arguments—she dismantles them.
She doesn’t just push back—she shoves, fights, bites.
And worst of all?
She makes me enjoy every damn second of it.
That’s what fucks with me the most.
I shouldn’t be wondering.
I shouldn’t be standing here, staring at the streetlights, thinking about what it would be like to see her come undone.
To watch her lose control.
Not in the courtroom.
Not in an argument.
But in a way that’s real.
Raw.
Unfiltered.
To see her lips part on something other than a retort.
To hear my name in a way that’s not a challenge—but a surrender.
Would she fight it?
Would she resist the same way she does in court—
biting, sharp, determined to prove she’s the one in control?
Or would she finally stop pretending?
Finally admit that this thing between us isn’t just some courtroom rivalry?
Would she let me strip away that armor, piece by piece?
Or would she claw into me just as much as I’d sink into her?
Fuck.
I shove the thought away before it can fully take root.
Because this isn’t about that.
It’s about the case.
The strategy.
The goddamn win.
And her?
She’s the enemy.
No matter how much my body keeps trying to convince me otherwise.
This is war.
And I’ve been playing it long enough to know how it works.
I don’t lose focus.
I don’t get distracted.
And I sure as hell don’t start wondering what my biggest opponent tastes like.
I roll my shoulders, forcing my mind back to where it should be—
on Reyes, on the prosecution, on the next move I need to make.
Sophia might have won a battle or two.
But she’s not winning the war.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
Even as my body still remembers exactly how she felt beneath my fingertips.
And worse?
I don’t think I want to forget.
I should turn around.
Walk away.
Focus on my next move—how to take her down in court, how to win.
But I don’t.
Because for some reason, my feet stay planted.
My pulse stays too fast.
And my eyes?
They’re locked on her.
Sophia Blake.
She moves like she always does—head high, spine straight, like she owns this damn courthouse.
Like she didn’t just barely recover from losing a round in front of a full jury.
Like today didn’t shake her.
I should stop watching her.
I should let it go.
But then—
It’s nothing.
A flicker.
A fraction of a second.
But it changes everything.
Because just before she disappears around the corner—she looks back.
Not a full turn.
Not a deliberate hesitation.
Just the quickest flick of her gaze over her shoulder.
Like she’s checking.
Like she’s making sure I’m still standing here.
Like maybe—just maybe—she’s not as immune to this as she pretends to be.
My pulse spikes.
Heat flashes under my skin.
Because Sophia Blake doesn’t look back.
She’s calculated to the bone.
Everything she does has purpose.
Precision.
She doesn’t fidget.
She doesn’t hesitate.
She doesn’t make frivolous movements.
She moves forward.
Always.
And yet—
Tonight, she looked back.
At me.
And suddenly, I feel like I’m the one in trouble.
I tell myself it was nothing.
A fluke.
A coincidence.
A meaningless glance.
She wasn’t checking for me.
She wasn’t wondering if I was still watching her like an idiot—standing here, pulse hammering, still feeling the ghost of her skin under my fingers.
Except—
That’s exactly what she was doing.
And suddenly, I can feel it happening.
This thing between us?
This slow, inevitable pull?
It’s not one-sided.
She felt it too.
And that?
That’s going to make this a whole lot more complicated.
Because tonight, for the first time, I have to admit—
I don’t just want to beat her.
I want to figure her out.
I want to know what’s under that armor.
How far I can push before she finally breaks.
And the worst part?
I think she’s starting to wonder the same damn thing about me.
Want to see how this story ends??