Chapter 3 #2
I jump, spinning around to face ADA Jessica Brown. She’s packing her briefcase, her expression a mixture of professional respect and weariness. “You too, Brown. You almost had me sweating with that computer access clause.”
She gives me a wry, humorless smile. “Harrison was never going to deny him bail. Not for a non-violent offense.” She snaps her briefcase shut. “Be careful with this one. He feels… different.”
“Different how?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intend. Defensive.
Brown’s eyes hold mine for a long beat. “Like a wolf who enjoys pretending to be a sheep. See you in forty-five days.” She gives me a curt nod and walks away, her heels clicking a sharp, cautionary rhythm on the floor.
I gather my own files, my hands not quite steady. The adrenaline is beginning to fade, leaving behind a shaky exhaustion and the lingering, phantom sensation of Jasper Wolfe’s touch.
The Public Defender’s office is a world away from the stately tension of the courthouse. A brown water stain blooms on the ceiling tiles directly above my desk, a permanent reminder of the building’s—and the system’s—decay.
My desk is a war zone. Piles of files—assaults, DUIs, petty thefts— teeter precariously, each one representing a life in free fall. This is my reality. A grim, thankless grind of defending the broken and the forgotten.
I drop my briefcase beside the leaning tower of files and sink into my squeaky, decade-old chair.
The win in court feels like a distant memory, a flicker of light from a star that’s already dead.
Here, there are no real wins. Just mitigated losses.
Plea deals that trade five years for ten. Reduced charges that still ruin a life.
Student loans. A mountain of them.
Rent, three days late.
The credit card bill I can’t even bear to open.
The numbers scroll through my head, a litany of my failures.
I took this job to make a difference, to stand for the little guy, to be the shield for the defenseless.
My idealism feels stupid now, a flimsy coat against a blizzard of debt and disillusionment.
My ex-fiancé, Marcus, had called it my “savior complex.” He’d said it from the comfort of his corner office at a corporate firm where billable hours were the only form of morality. He wasn’t wrong, really.
I run a hand over my face, the exhaustion a physical weight. I should start prepping for the Miller hearing tomorrow. Or draft the motion for the Rodriguez case. I should do my job.
Instead, I find myself pulling out the file for Jasper Wolfe.
I’d spent last night buried in the discovery files, what little there was.
The state’s case was built on metadata, security logs, and a single anonymous whistleblower at Meridian Technologies.
It was damning, technically. But it was all circumstantial.
Clean. Too clean. It felt curated, as if someone had laid out a neat path of breadcrumbs for the police to follow.
A path leading straight to Jasper Wolfe.
And his story, the one he spun in that holding cell, still echoes in my mind.
The vigilante hacker exposing corporate rot from the inside.
It’s a compelling narrative. The kind of story I desperately want to be true.
It would make this feeling in my gut, this magnetic pull toward him, something righteous. Not something dangerous.
“Don’t tell me you’re still working on the Wolfe case.”
I look up. My colleague Sarah leans against my desk.
“Just reviewing the discovery,” I say, closing the file. Sarah pushes off the desk and picks up a cold cup of coffee, sniffs it, and grimaces. “I saw the news alert. ‘Tech Guru Jasper Wolfe Released on Bail.’ You pulled it off.”
“It wasn’t hard. The state’s case for remand was weak.”
“It’s not the case I’m worried about. It’s him.” She taps a manicured-but-chipped nail on his file.
“I can handle him,” I say.
“I hope so,” she says, her voice softening. She squeezes my shoulder. “Just… don’t lose yourself in the process. He’s not a cause. He’s a job.” She heads for the door. “Now, come on. I’ll buy you a beer. You look like you’re about three seconds from setting this whole pile of shit on fire.”
I’m about to agree. A beer with Sarah sounds like the most sane, grounding thing I could do. A moment of normalcy in a day that has felt anything but.
But then my phone buzzes.
Not my office line. My personal cell.
I glance at the screen. Unknown Number.
My heart gives a painful lurch. I know, with a certainty that makes the hair on my arms stand up, who it is.
“You coming?” Sarah asks from the doorway.
“Just give me a minute,” I manage to say, my throat suddenly dry. “I have to take this.”
She gives me a long, searching look, then nods and disappears down the hall.
My hand is trembling as I swipe to answer. I press the cold glass to my ear. “Hello?” My voice is a whisper.
Silence for a beat. Just the faint sound of ambient space, like they’re somewhere quiet. Somewhere expensive. Then… his voice.
“Olivia.”
A cold dread snakes down my spine, coiling low in my gut. It’s mingled with a thrill so sharp it’s almost painful. This is wrong. He shouldn’t have my personal number. He shouldn’t be calling me. A client communicates through official channels, during business hours.
“How did you get this number?” I ask, my voice tight.
A low chuckle on the other end. It’s the sound of smoke and dark whiskey. “Does it matter? I have it now.”
I’m standing, pacing the small space between my desk and the wall, the cracked linoleum cool beneath my worn-out heels. “Mr. Wolfe, if you need to discuss the case, you should call my office line tomorrow morning.”
“I’m not calling to discuss the case,” he says, his voice dropping even lower, drawing me in. “The case is a formality. You handled it beautifully, by the way. You have a fire in you when you’re in your element. It’s compelling.”
My cheeks flush hot. The compliment lands like a brand, a possessive mark. He’s not just my client; he’s an observer. A predator who has been studying his prey.
“What can I help you with?” I finally ask, the words ripped from me.
“I want you to meet me.”
Not a question. A command. The same quiet authority he used in the holding cell, now amplified by the intimacy of his voice in my ear.
“I don’t think that’s appropriate,” I say, the words sounding flimsy, pathetic. A paper shield against a battering ram.
“Appropriate is a cage for people who don’t know what they want, Olivia. You and I are not those people.” He pauses, and in the silence, I can practically feel him smiling. “The Rhapsody Lounge. Nine o’clock. Don’t be late.”
The Rhapsody. I know it by reputation only. An exclusive, members-only establishment tucked away in a historic downtown building.
“Why?” I ask, hating the breathless quality of my own voice. “What could we possibly need to discuss in a place like that?”
There’s another pause, longer this time. When he speaks again, his voice is stripped of all warmth, leaving behind something cold, hard, and absolute. The voice of the man Sarah warned me about. The wolf beneath the wool.
“We need to discuss things.”
The line goes dead.
I’m left standing in the shitty, buzzing silence of my office, the dead phone still pressed to my ear.
I should be angry. I should be marching to a senior partner and reporting this, because I can only see this getting out of hand, demanding he be reassigned. That’s what sane, respectable Olivia Sutton, Esq., would do. That’s what a good lawyer would do.
But I’m not angry.
I’m terrified.
And I’m going.
My body makes the decision before my mind can catch up. I grab my purse, my keys. The mountains of files, the bleakness of my office, the life I was just drowning in—it all recedes, fading into the background.
Sarah’s warning rings in my ears. He’s not a cause. He’s a job.