Chapter 10 The First Fight Back
(Ryder)
I learned to placate Mira even more after the confrontation with December.
Maybe she sensed the shift in me, maybe she even noticed how stiff my smile had become, but if she did, she chose to ignore it when I pretended to have forgotten the whole thing.
It was killing me inside. Every fake laugh, every forced touch was a betrayal to myself, but it was also strategy.
If keeping her calm bought me the time to build my case, to gather the proof, then I'd endure it.
I had already lost December. I wasn't going to lose the fight against Mira.
Working with her became an art of survival. Every word I spoke had to be softened at the edges, every movement measured so she wouldn't mistake it for rejection. I was constantly aware of the balance: give her just enough to keep suspicion at bay, but never enough to let her sink her claws deeper.
"Why are you texting so much?" she'd snap, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. Her tone was coated in sugar, but the venom underneath was always there, waiting.
"Spence," I'd answer smoothly, even when my pulse spiked. "He's on my case about the gym again."
Spence became my shield, my convenient scapegoat. If she thought my distance had a name, she wouldn't imagine it was me gathering evidence and building a case. She wouldn't dig deeper, and as long as she didn't dig deeper, I could keep maneuvering in the shadows.
But Mira was unpredictable, like a storm I could never fully track.
Sometimes her jealousy turned into interrogation, sometimes into sudden, explosive violence.
There were nights she threw things across the room just to watch me flinch, nights she pressed her forehead against mine, her breath hot with rage as she dared me—dared me—to raise a hand back.
I stayed long enough to calculate her moods like weather patterns—when to brace, when to bend, when to feign warmth so she didn't combust. Survival demanded it.
Gathering proof demanded it, and every time her rage cooled into that fragile imitation of affection, every time she touched me like she hadn't just tried to destroy me, I hated myself everytime she touched me.
But beneath the shame, beneath the fear, was something sharper. Determination. Mira thought she had me trapped, thought my silence was weakness. But she was wrong. I was done being her victim. Survival had a cost, and this time, the cost wasn't going to be me.
Mel set up the meeting with January Harding, a lawyer she swore could help.
The first thing I noticed wasn't her office. It was her.
When January walked into the room, the atmosphere shifted.
Conversations in the outer hall snapped shut like doors slamming; younger associates suddenly found the floor fascinating.
No one dared meet her eyes. She had that kind of presence—like if she decided to dismantle you, it wouldn't be with raised voices or chaos, but with precision, clean and surgical, leaving nothing standing.
Her clothes mirrored that authority: a sharply tailored black suit, silk blouse the color of fresh bone, heels that clicked against the marble with the certainty of a gavel.
No jewelry beyond a slim platinum watch that probably cost more than my car.
She radiated restraint and money, but not in a showy way—it was weaponized, controlled, designed to remind you she belonged in rooms where power was currency.
Her office was the same. Dark wood paneling, glass shelves holding rows of legal volumes that looked untouched but pristine.
A sleek desk, bare except for a Montblanc pen, a leather-bound planner, and a single, symmetrical stack of case files.
A piece of modern art in grayscale hung on the wall, deliberately chosen to intimidate rather than soothe.
Even the air felt curated—expensive perfume faintly mixed with the undertone of paper and ink.
She sat down across from me, folding her hands on the desk like a judge, her expression unreadable. For a second, I wasn't sure if she was here to protect me or to take me apart herself.
"I'm December's friend," January said at last. Her tone was steady, cold as steel, but I could feel the fire beneath it.
"And let me make something perfectly clear before we proceed, I am furious with you.
Furious that you pulled her into this. Furious that you lied to her.
Furious that you let her stand in the shadow of a danger she never should have been anywhere near. She deserved truth and safety."
The words hit me harder than a fist. Shame bloomed hot under my skin, but before I could form an answer, she raised a hand commanding me to stop.
"You don't speak until I finish." Her eyes narrowed, sharp as glass, her voice cutting the room clean in half.
"I have two reasons for accepting you as a client.
Only two. The first is Mel. I owe her a favor, a huge one, and she cashed in that debt.
That's the only leverage that got you through my door. "
She paused then, just long enough that for the first time she looked less like an executioner in silk and more like a human being. Her posture softened a fraction, her voice dipped an octave.
"The second is this—I know what abuse does to people.
I've seen it. I've seen how it rewires the mind, twists survival into silence, makes judgment collapse under fear.
What looks like weakness from the outside is, on the inside, just staying alive.
So no—I don't blame you for being abused, Ryder.
You're a victim. That part I understand. "
Then she leaned in, her words sharp enough to leave a mark. "But you're also a man who put someone I care about in harm's way, and that, I won't forgive."
I swallowed hard, forcing the word out. "Okay."