Chapter 37 MAYA
MAYA
Adrian Kade fills the doorway completely, without effort, as if the architecture adjusted to accommodate him rather than the other way around.
I step back. He enters with the economy of a man who has walked into rooms far more hostile than this one and rearranged them by the time he sat down.
Dark suit, no tie. He holds his briefcase loosely at his side, the way someone carries a tool they've used so many times it has become an extension of the hand.
The contrast is evident. He belongs in a glass-walled conference room sixty floors above a city. Instead he's standing on my mother's rug, next to the armchair where I used to read picture books.
"Ms. Reeves." He extends his hand. His grip is firm and brief. "Thank you for letting me in."
"You said True North sent you."
"Owen Calloway contacted my firm. The three of them retained me through the company.
" He sets his briefcase on the floor beside the couch but doesn't sit.
Doesn't presume. "They've hired me to represent you in whatever legal action you might contemplate.
The decision is entirely yours," he continues.
"Whether or not you pursue justice through the courts, my clients want you to know that the resources are available. ""
The words land with specific weight. Whatever legal action. An open door with nothing behind it but resources and the decision left entirely in my hands.
The reflex is automatic. I want to object. But the objection dies somewhere between my throat and my mouth because this isn't a decision made for me. It's a door opened.
"I understand," he says, "that you've evaluated taking legal action before and were persuaded against it."
I make a gesture inviting him to sit down. We might as well get ourselves comfortable.
"Please sit down," I say. "I'll ask my mother to make us some tea."
My mother appears in the doorway, still clenching my phone. I introduce Adrian as an attorney who's here to discuss some legal options. Her eyes move from him to me and back.
"Mom, would you mind making some tea for us?"
She nods. Grateful, I think, for the task. She disappears into the kitchen and I hear the familiar click of the kettle, the opening of the cabinet where she keeps the good cups. The ones with the blue glaze that she saves for company.
I turn back to Adrian. I have maybe five minutes to explain what my plan is.
"I'm not going to the courts."
He doesn't react. Doesn't blink. Just waits.
"It would take years. It would cost more than I have, even with your firm's resources.
And Daniel is connected. The legal system is the terrain he knows best." I'm speaking faster than I mean to, the plan that's been assembling itself in my head for three days now pushing its way out.
"His image is what he values most. His reputation.
The Hargrove name and everything it gives him access to, the boards, the fundraisers, the firm.
That's his weak point. Not the courtroom. The court of—"
"Public opinion." Adrian finishes the sentence.
I stop.
He leans forward. “What do you have?"
"Documentation. Screenshots of active profiles, timestamped and archived. Forum threads. And I've already reached out to Elena Voss at the Atlantic Ledger."
His eyebrows move. Fractionally. It's the first break in the mask.
"She's a reputable investigative journalist," I continue. "She has done work on this matter before. I think she might be interested in my case. But the focus won't be Daniel. The story is about women whose intimate images are shared online without consent. My experience is one case study among others. And if, when I’m asked about how this happened, all I have to say is the truth. It was because Daniel’s phone was hacked. He stated that in police records, so he won’t be able to deny it.
The point is to tie his name to what was done to me. To shed light also on him."
Adrian studies me for a long moment. Then: "That's clever."
He opens his briefcase. "But it's not without danger.
" He grabs a legal pad and a pen and begins to write down.
"Three risks. First: defamation. The moment his name becomes publicly associated with this story, whether you name him directly or not, his attorneys will look for grounds.
Everything you say in that interview must be factually airtight and demonstrably true.
Second: retaliation. Daniel Hargrove has the resources and, based on what I've reviewed, the disposition to escalate.
You need to be prepared for that escalation to be creative and sustained.
Third…" He looks up from the pad. His eyes are dark and flat and miss nothing.
"Reputation attack. Against you. Your credibility, your history, your motives.
They will attempt to reframe you as vindictive, unstable, or opportunistic.
That's the playbook. It works more often than it should. "
The words settle into the room like cold water. I feel them in my spine. He's describing the battlefield, and he's doing it without softening the terrain.
"That's where I need your help," I say. "I need someone who can guide me through every word of that interview so that nothing I say gives them ammunition."
"I can do that." He writes something on the pad.
Quick, precise strokes. "I'll need access to everything you've documented.
The screenshots, the forum analysis, the police records.
I'll build a legal perimeter around the interview.
What you can say, what you imply, and how to dance on the line.
You stay on the right side of that line, and Daniel Hargrove's attorneys can file whatever they want. It won't hold."
My mother comes in with the tea. She sets the tray on the coffee table. Gives me a questioning look but I just nod in reassurance and she leaves us to it.
I take a sip. Chamomile. The taste of my mother's worry, served in porcelain.
"Mr. Kade," I say, aiming for nonchalance, "have you spoken recently with… the owners of True North?"
I don’t think I am as smooth as I intended.
"I discussed the case with all three of them," Adrian says.
"Briefly. They provided the minimum necessary context and made it clear that any further detail would come from you, at your discretion.
They were quite specific about that." A meaningful pause.
"They left any personal matters out of the conversation entirely. "
Something in me deflates. I knew they would be careful and discreet. But some stupid, stubborn part of me had hoped for… what? A message passed through the attorney?
Adrian sets his tea down. Picks up his briefcase. Stands with the same contained efficiency with which he sat. He extends a hand and I take it.
"I'll begin reviewing the documentation tonight.
We'll schedule a preparation session before the Voss interview.
Nothing goes on the record until we've stress-tested every sentence.
" He holds my gaze for a beat longer than professional convention requires.
"I'll let Mr. Calloway know you've retained me as your attorney. "
He moves toward the door. Then turns back. One hand on the doorframe.
"Or you could let them know yourself." He adjusts his cufflink. A precise, unhurried motion. "I'm sure they'd appreciate hearing it directly."
A wink. Brief. So controlled it barely qualifies. Gone before I can decide if I imagined it.
"Ms. Reeves. People like Daniel Hargrove operate on the assumption that the people they've hurt will be too afraid to retaliate." He doesn't smile. "They are rarely prepared for the moment that stops being true."
The door closes behind him. The house is quiet.
My mother is watching me from the kitchen.
"He seems competent," she says.
"He's more than competent, Mom."
"Then we have a plan."
"We have a plan."
She touches my cheek. Brief. Warm. Then she collects the tea things, and carries them to the kitchen. I hear the water run. The clink of cups being washed. The ordinary sounds of a woman who has decided that things will be all right and is expressing that decision through clean dishes.
When I hear her footsteps on the stairs, heading up to rest, I reach for my phone.
I don't know who to call. I can't choose. So I don't.
I open a new group chat on my phone. Add all three numbers. My thumb hovers over the phone for a long moment, the screen glow the only light in the dimming living room.
I type.
MAYA: I just had a meeting with Adrian Kade. Thank you so much for all your help.
I watch the three dots appear almost immediately. Reid's response comes first.
REID: Don't mention it. Owen says he's a shark.
Then Owen, right behind him:
OWEN: How is your father doing?
My throat tightens.
MAYA: Much better. We are all doing better now that we have a plan. Adrian did seem very charismatic.
JACE: Careful, I'm starting to get jealous.
I laugh. Out loud. Alone in my parents' living room
Twelve days since I left Montana. Since I stood in the driveway with my bag and looked at three men who let me go because I asked them to.
Twelve days of my father's hospital room and my mother's fear and Daniel's shadow. And Jace teasing words from a thousand miles makes me remember how it feels to laugh again.
I type the words before I think them through.
MAYA: I miss you. All of you.
I stare at the screen. My thumb moves to the backspace key. Hovers. The cursor blinks at the end of the sentence like a heartbeat.
I should delete it. It's too much.
I hit send.
The pause is long enough to hear my own breathing.
REID: We miss you too.
OWEN: Same.
I take a deep breath.
MAYA: Maybe when this is all over we can talk.
JACE: Why?
The word sits on my screen. One syllable. No punctuation.
My stomach drops.
I reread it. Why. The bluntness of it. The finality. I set the phone down on the couch cushion beside me and press my palms flat against my thighs, resisting the urge to bury my fingernails in the palms of my hands.
They've had twelve days to think about this.
About the chaos I brought into their lives.
I am a woman who comes with shame attached to her name and they are men who built something real and I threatened it by existing in their proximity.
Of course Jace would be the one to say it plainly.
He's always been the one who says it plainly.
Then the phone pings.
JACE: I meant why wait until this is over?
The air leaves my lungs in a single, uncontrolled exhale. I read it again. And again. The words rearranging the last forty-five seconds of dread into something that tastes like relief and smells like possibility and sounds like Jace being exactly, infuriatingly himself.
Why wait. Not rejection. Impatience. The particular impatience of a man who has never seen the point in waiting for things to be safe before reaching for them.
I'm still holding the phone when it pings again.
REID: Maya, open the door.