Chapter 29
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
GRACE
Ifelt it before I saw him.
That shift in the air—an almost imperceptible pressure drop, like the room had collectively inhaled and then forgot how to breathe. My heels struck the courtroom floor with crisp, calculated taps, the rhythm of someone in control. I counted them. Three steps in. One heartbeat. Two.
And then there he was.
Mark Sinclair.
He looked exactly like his picture, almost insultingly so. Smooth lines, slicked-back hair, smug jawline, and a designer suit so expensive it practically had an ego of its own. But that smugness cracked the instant our eyes met.
I didn’t smile.
I didn’t blink.
I didn’t breathe.
And neither did he.
For a second—maybe less—he just stared. No greeting, no recognition twitch, no fake professionalism. Just raw, naked fear. The kind you try to hide behind a poker face, but it leaks out through your eyes anyway.
I’d worn my sister’s favorite lipstick. Not mine. She liked tones that bled confidence. I’d also worn her scent—a sharp blend of citrus and heat. It burned in the back of my throat every time I breathed in, but I needed the armor.
Because I wasn’t Grace right now.
I was Amorette—attorney, cool-headed legal warrior, and exactly the woman Mark Sinclair never wanted to see again. If I had any questions before, I had none now.
His Adam’s apple bobbed. His fingers twitched on the folder in his hand. I watched him try to recover, try to paste on that polite little smirk he probably used on every junior associate he was two seconds away from backstabbing.
It didn’t work.
And I savored it.
A polite nod was all I gave him. Just enough to be formal, not enough to be familiar. Because in this courtroom, I didn’t need to shout. I didn’t need to slam doors or throw accusations. All I had to do was sit down, cross one leg over the other, and let him stew in the silence.
He wasn’t the only one watching.
I could feel the weight of Voodoo’s gaze from the back row. I knew Bones, AB, Legend—all of them—were hearing every shift in my breathing, every pause in my steps. I didn’t let myself think about that.
Not right now.
Right now, this was about Sinclair.
I almost hoped he tried to escape. Almost.
But I wanted to be the one who confronted him, who got the truth, and if that required beating it out of him—a shiver went through me though I maintained and didn’t react—I wanted to be the one who punched him.
Even if the guys could do it harder.
“Mr. Sinclair…” The judge’s voice cut through the roaring silence that had ballooned out from where my gaze held Sinclair’s. His jerk to pivot and face the judge, broke the eye contact.
My pulse rabbited for a moment, the rapid and intensely hard thud of it, beating in my ears.
“Breathe.” Bones.
One word in his voice and the vise around my chest eased allowing me to take a long, deep inhale. It helped. The judge was talking to Sinclair and the other attorney. I barely registered what the content was, I just kept my gaze fixed on Sinclair.
And he knew it.
He had to know, I was still watching him.
That I hadn’t looked away.
That I wasn’t going to.
Whatever thread of composure he’d managed to reel in for the judge’s benefit seemed to fray by the second, and he couldn’t figure out what to do with his hands.
He set the folder down, then picked it up again.
Smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle from the sleeve of his jacket.
Shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
And still—my gaze stayed locked.
I didn’t need to speak to make him sweat.
I wanted him to wonder how much I knew.
I wanted him asking himself how Am was here. If she was just an attorney who quit—well, we both knew that had been a lie. If I hadn’t been dead certain of it before
The judge kept talking, oblivious to the slow bleed of panic radiating off Sinclair. He responded to a question with a clipped, “Yes, Your Honor,” but his voice wasn’t steady. Not really. Not if you were listening close enough.
I was.
He glanced at me again, quick and sharp, like a man checking for a sniper on the roof.
I tilted my head.
Just a little.
Nothing dramatic. Just enough to let him know: I see you.
I remember.
I’m not going anywhere.
He dropped his gaze first.
Good.
Let him wonder what came next.
The other attorney was speaking now, something about rescheduling a hearing due to a missing affidavit.
The judge looked annoyed but not surprised.
My stomach turned a little. That was the thing with guys like Sinclair—they always played just close enough to the edge of legal to be dangerous, but far enough from it to avoid jail time.
This time, he’d miscalculated.
The bailiff moved to the front, murmured something to the judge. Sinclair turned toward the bench, and I saw his profile tighten. Jaw clenched. One hand flexed at his side.
He felt trapped.
He should.
I leaned back in the pew—just a breath. Crossed my legs in the other direction. Shifted my briefcase slightly, letting the faint glint of my bar ID badge—the guys thought of everything—peek out. Not enough to draw attention from the court.
Just enough for him.
His eyes cut toward it like a whip crack.
There it was again—fear.
Sharp and wild behind those calculated eyes.
He hadn’t planned for me.
He never planned for me.
Now he was off-script. I’d seen that kind of sweat bead on a man’s upper lip before. Trapped.
I didn’t smile.
But inside, I was grinning. It was probably more of a grimace, a baring of teeth. Didn’t matter. He knew.
He fucking knew.
I wanted what he knew. I wanted to know what he’d done.
The judge dismissed them both with a few closing remarks.
Sinclair stepped away from the table, gathering his folder, fumbling with the clasp.
His polished veneer was slipping, fast. The other attorney moved past him without a second glance—probably used to his particular brand of rattled arrogance.
Sinclair turned toward the aisle.
And I stood.
Smooth, fluid, unapologetic. He stopped short. Just a half-step.
Like he wasn’t sure whether to go around me… or through me.
He wouldn’t do either.
“Play it cool, Firecracker,” Voodoo murmured in my ear. “Don’t spook him. Much.”
But I wasn’t spooking him.
I was the spook.
I met his eyes again. Let the silence stretch like a blade between us.
Then—finally—he found the nerve to move.
One foot in front of the other. Past me. But not before he whispered, low and fast: “I don’t know what you think you’re doing.”
I turned my head, just enough that he saw the flash of my smile.
“I think you do.”
He didn’t respond. Didn’t look back.
But his shoulders? They were hunched like he’d just walked into a storm.
Because he had.
And this time, he wasn’t going to walk out clean.
I didn’t move until he was out the door. Even then, I gave it a beat. Just long enough to let him think he’d left me behind.
Then I turned and followed.
The hallway outside the courtroom was quiet, sterile. The fluorescent lighting buzzed above, faint and mechanical. I walked with purpose, heels striking tile, each step deliberate, steady. This wasn’t a chase. It was a shadow. I wasn’t hurrying.
I was closing in.
Sinclair had a decent lead, but not enough to matter. I rounded the corner and spotted the door swing of the men’s restroom just as it eased shut.
Of course he ducked in there. Coward.
I kept walking until I reached the wall across from the bathroom, where I set down my briefcase and crossed my arms. No fanfare. No theatrics. Just a quiet sentinel.
And I waited channeling my inner Bones. The absolute relentless patience of the man who said he would never stop and never give up.
He had maybe thirty seconds before the walls started closing in.
Sixty before the mirror stopped reflecting his confidence.
Ninety before his pulse betrayed him in his ears.
“Talk to me, Dollface,” Bones said in my ear, his tone low and smooth. “You tailing him?”
“Bathroom,” I murmured. “Waiting outside.”
A pause.
“Copy that. How’s he look?”
“Panicked.” I glanced at the door. “Trying not to be.”
“Poor bastard,” Voodoo chimed in, humor dry as kindling. “Nothing like a power piss to make you reevaluate your life choices.”
I didn’t reply. My focus was on the door.
Ten more seconds passed.
Fifteen.
Then it opened.
He stepped out.
I caught the moment he saw me, froze like he’d touched a live wire. Color gone. Forehead glistening. His hair, so perfectly slicked back earlier, now looked slightly damp at the roots.
He hadn’t just peed. He’d tried to regroup.
Didn’t work.
I tilted my head, slow and deliberate, watching him. Reading him.
He wiped his palms on the sides of his pants. The folder in his left hand was crumpled at the edge now. Not enough to be obvious to a judge or client.
But I saw it.
“You following me now?” he asked, voice low, brittle around the edges. He didn’t step back, but he didn’t come closer either.
“I’m observing,” I said, letting Amorette’s cadence slide out—smooth, educated, just cool enough to cut. “It’s a free hallway, isn’t it?”
He glanced around, like someone might pop out of the shadows to save him. No one did.
Because no one could.
“I don’t know what kind of game you think you’re playing,” he said, trying to recover that clipped tone lawyers used when pretending they weren’t panicking. “But if you’re looking for some kind of settlement or blackmail opportunity—”
“Mark.”
His name stopped him cold. Not Mr. Sinclair.
Just Mark. Familiar. Personal. Dangerous.
“You should be very careful about assuming what I’m after.” I stepped away from the wall, slowly, not closing the distance, not threatening, just present. What had Legend called me? A grenade with the pin out?
He backed up half a step. Not much. Just enough.
His throat worked. “I don’t know who the hell you think you are—”
“You do,” I said, and this time I let it slip, just a fraction of heat behind the words. “That’s why you’re sweating.”
He looked like he wanted to argue. But he didn’t. Couldn’t.
So I nodded, gave him one more look, and stepped past him. My shoulder brushed his sleeve, and he flinched like I’d burned him.
I kept walking.
Didn’t look back.
Not even when he turned to watch me go.
I didn’t go far.
Turned the corner, past the elevators, into a shallow alcove near the stairwell—just far enough to be out of sight, just close enough to keep eyes on the hallway.
Sinclair hadn’t moved. He was still standing in front of the bathroom like he wasn’t sure whether to run or pass out.
Then—finally—he shifted. Straightened his shoulders. Took a sharp breath like he was about to head into a deposition. He tucked the folder under his arm and started walking.
Right past the courtroom. Straight for the elevators.
Smart boy.
When the panic hits, get to the car. Get to the phone. Get to whatever backup plan you thought was going to save you.
“Voodoo,” I said under my breath, already moving.
“Got him,” came the smooth reply. “He’s heading toward the west doors.”
I took the stairs down. No need to pretend anymore. My heels clattered against the concrete, fast and sharp.
I exited through the east side and looped around the building’s perimeter. There was a courtyard along the front step, mostly empty. A couple of lawyers talking near the benches. A security officer scrolling through his phone. Nothing that would hide him.
“He’s almost out,” Voodoo said. “Lunchbox get ready to tag in.”
Sinclair burst out the west doors with that stiff-shouldered walk people use when they think they’re composed. But his pace was too quick, his gaze too shifty. He hit the sidewalk and cut hard left, heading down the block with a hand already fishing for his phone.
He didn’t even notice me half a building away, following his every move.
“Got him.” Legend’s voice crackled quietly in my ear. “He’s calling someone. Not on his work phone.”
“Burner?” Bones asked.
“Yup.”
“Working on seeing if I can grab it.” AB’s tone was distracted, but if it could be done, he’d do it.
Sinclair turned the corner at the end of the block. I followed, keeping my distance, my pace steady, even. I could still hear him through Legend’s comms mic.
“No, she’s here. I told you—I saw her. She looked right at me.”
There was a distinct pause, then…
“No, I don’t think it’s Amorette. It’s not—something’s off. I don’t know. I don’t know. I’m telling you this isn’t good.”
Legend murmured, “He’s scared. Voice cracking. He’s headed for the garage.”
My stomach tightened. Underground garage meant fewer witnesses, fewer exits. If he bolted—if he panicked—we risked losing him before we had what we needed.
“Lunchbox stays with him,” Bones cut in, his voice the calm in the center of the storm. “Dollface, roll it back.”
I stopped moving mid-step.
“Time for step two,” Bones said, firm. “You did what you needed to do.”
I hesitated. Just for a second.
I could still see him—Sinclair pacing by a black car, waving his hands as he hissed something else into the burner. His hair was sticking to his forehead. His back was hunched. He looked like a man already digging his own grave.
God, I wanted to watch him fall in.
But this wasn’t about me.
“Copy that,” I whispered and it hurt to back off.
I turned. Let the city swallow him.
Let Legend follow.
Let Bones plan.
Let Sinclair sweat.
Step one was complete.
Now it was time to take him apart.