4. Caleb
Caleb
" T ell me she actually showed up."
Bennett's voice fills my ear before I even say hello.
I'm still staring at the door Serena just fled through—fled, because that's what she does now, apparently.
Runs from me like I'm contagious. My office still holds her.
That vanilla perfume that's been haunting me for six months, the lingering sweetness of snickerdoodles from her skin, the barely-there warmth in the leather chair where she sat.
Where she sat and crossed those legs in that black skirt suit, the fabric pulling taut across her thighs.
Where she leaned forward and I caught a glimpse of her black lace camisole.
Where she bit her lower lip—that same spot she bit when we were dancing, when I whispered something filthy in her ear just to watch her react.
Christ. I'm half-hard just from the ghost of her.
"She showed," I confirm, my voice rougher than intended.
I glance at the folder she brought, everything meticulously organized in her careful handwriting.
Even seeing her pen strokes makes my chest tight.
Those controlled letters, nothing like the woman who spent a whole night laughing in my arms six months ago.
"And?"
"And she looked..."
Like every fantasy that's kept me awake.
Like she'd rather be anywhere else. Like she wanted to climb into my lap and disappear at the same time.
The way her pulse fluttered at her throat when I got too close.
The way her breath caught when I we made eye contact.
The way her pupils dilated when I mentioned tomorrow.
"Professional."
Bennett snorts. "Sure she did. That's why you sound like someone hit you with a baseball bat."
He's not wrong. My entire body feels like it's been through a prize fight—tense, aching, ready to snap. Twenty minutes in my office and she's undone six months of convincing myself I was just fine without her. Lies.
"What's your take on all this?" I ask, forcing myself to focus on why she was here. Not on the way she kept touching her collarbone when she was nervous. "You were there after she got the news, right? What's your read?"
"It's bad, Caleb. Radiance played this perfectly. The timing, the evidence trail—someone orchestrated this from the inside."
I lean back and close my eyes, but it's a mistake.
I can still see her across from me. The way she perched on the edge of her seat like she might bolt, the way that camisole gaped when she leaned forward to show me the paperwork, revealing just enough black lace to scramble my brain.
The way she shifted, causing her skirt to ride up another inch, and I had to grip my pen to keep from reaching over and?—
Fuck. I adjust myself under the desk, grateful Bennett can't see me.
"She didn't do it," I say, the words coming out more growl than statement.
"I know that. You know that. But Luminous has her access logs all over the leaked files."
"Someone used her credentials." The possessive anger that's been simmering since yesterday burns hotter. "Someone she trusted."
"That's what I'm thinking too." There's a pause. "Logan could help with this."
Bennett's tech specialist. Our most awkward friend.
The human blacklight who finds every hidden stain.
"Not yet. Let me get through Friday's meeting first. David is Luminous's in-house counsel, and while he can't break privilege, he'll at least give us a clear indication of what we're dealing with. "
"You sure you can handle this?" Bennett's voice carries an edge of concern. "Given your... history."
I pick up my pen, spinning it between my fingers. "There's no history that matters. She made that clear six months ago."
"Be honest here, Caleb. You ask if she's coming every time we go out as a group and then proceed to pounce on every sliver of information about her."
The truth of it stings, so I don't bother to respond. He's right. I've been pathetic—parsing every mention of her name, analyzing every photo she's tagged in, checking her LinkedIn with a fake account like some kind of stalker. "She came to me for legal help. That's all this is."
"And you cleared your calendar for her. Didn't you have that meeting with Robertson Industries today? They're a two-million-dollar client, and you bumped them for her."
"She needs help."
"She needs a lawyer. And I know I'm the one who called you, but she's Layla's best friend and you're mine. If this is going to be a problem, there are hundreds of lawyers in Chicago."
"I'm aware. And apparently she called every one of them last night."
The thought still burns, sharp and acidic in my chest. I was her last resort.
The backup plan when everyone else said no or couldn't help.
Not her first choice. Never her first choice.
Just like I wasn't worth showing up for six months ago.
My father would have a fucking field day with that information if he found out. "Second place is first loser, son."
"Don't take it personally?—"
"I'm not." Lie. Everything about Serena Morgan is personal.
Has been since the moment she laughed at my terrible legal pun at that gala, since she let me hold her closer than technically appropriate while we danced, since she looked at me like I was something more than just another suit with a bank account bigger than most of the city.
Bennett lets out a long-suffering sigh. "Whatever you say. Just don't lose your head over her again."
"Who said I stopped?"
The admission hangs between us. Because I haven't stopped. Haven't stopped thinking about the way she smelled like champagne and my future. Haven't stopped remembering how perfectly she fit against me. Haven't stopped waking up hard and aching for a woman who walked away without a word.
Bennett chuckles. "Try not to fuck it up, then."
"I won't." The words are a vow. To him. To her. To myself. "I need you to do something. Ask Jenna to do her thing. Run a quiet background on her inner circle at Luminous. Find out who had motive. Who was jealous. Who she trusted."
"You want me to investigate your own client's friends?"
"I want to know who to destroy," I clarify, my voice flat and cold. Someone did this to her. Someone made her feel small and defeated when she came to my office.
There's a beat of silence.
"I'll get Jenna on it," Bennett says finally. "But, Caleb?"
"What?"
"She trusts you. Even after everything. She walked into your office knowing you had every right to turn her away, and she still asked for your help. That means something."
"It means she was desperate."
"It means she knew you'd protect her. Even after she hurt you."
The words sit heavy between us. Because he's right. She knew I'd help her. Knew I'd drop everything—and I did. Cleared my entire day the second Bennett texted her name.
"I have to go," I say. "I have work to do."
"OK. Good luck with everything."
"I don't need luck."
"No," Bennett agrees. "You need a cold shower and a reality check."
"Goodbye, Bennett."
After he hangs up, I stare at the folder she brought. Everything perfectly organized, desperately professional, like she's trying to prove she's worth helping. As if I wouldn't burn down the entire city for her. As if I haven't been slowly going insane without her.
I believe you.
You do?
The surprise in her voice nearly killed me. Like she couldn't fathom that I'd take her side. Like she doesn't know I've been on her side since the moment we met. That I've been hers since she smiled at me the first time we met at that bar and she called me a shark.
My phone buzzes. A text from her:
Serena:
About that last ground rule. If we're going to do this without the past affecting the case, I need to say I'm sorry.
I'm sorry about today, and the calling other lawyers thing.
I'm sorry I didn't call you the moment David said to.
I'm sorry it was Bennett who reached out instead of me.
And I'm really sorry about the ghosting thing.
I'm apparently sorry about a lot of things.
I stare at the text, caught between laughing and throwing my phone at the wall. She's sorry. Six months of silence, six months of me checking my phone like a lovesick idiot, six months of jerking off to the memory of how she felt pressed against me—and she's sorry. Now.
Me:
Stop apologizing and eat something that isn't cookies.
Serena:
I bake them. I don't eat them.
Of course she doesn't. I noticed the way her clothes fit differently today—still perfect, still driving me insane, but she's thinner. Stress, probably. The urge to feed her, to take care of her, is overwhelming.
I almost text back: You always were a masochist, Morgan. But the ache in my chest betrays how badly I want to keep her talking, how desperate I am for any scrap of connection, so instead I type:
Me:
Tomorrow, 9 sharp. Conference room three. Don't be late.
Serena:
OK. I'll bring coffee. The good stuff from Bloom & Brew.
The idea shouldn't make my chest tight, but it does.
Me:
I also like snickerdoodles.
Serena:
I'll bring them too, then.
I put my phone face down on the desk, but it vibrates two more times before I can even turn to the compliance brief on my screen.
Serena:
Thanks, Caleb.
Seriously.
I stare at those two messages longer than I should.
Six months of radio silence, and now she's thanking me.
For what? For doing my job? For not throwing her out of my office?
For not telling her that I've thought about her every goddamn day since she disappeared?
For not mentioning that I can still feel her phantom touch, still wake up wishing for her, still see her everywhere—in every woman with dark hair, in every laugh that's almost but not quite hers?
I lean back in my chair, staring at the Chicago skyline, knowing I'm in for a late night at the office while I review every piece of evidence she gave me, looking for the holes in their case. Because there will be holes. There always are.
But right now, for just a moment, I let myself remember the way she felt in my arms on that dance floor.
The way she laughed at my terrible jokes.
The way she confided in me as though I was the only person who ever understood her.
The way she whispered in my ear and giggles when I whispered a little too close to hers.
The way she looked at me like I was everything she wanted but couldn't let herself have.
Before she decided I wasn't worth the risk.