Chapter 11
My first thought upon waking is that it was a fever dream.
A dark, intoxicating hallucination brought on by stress and despair.
The soul-stripping confrontation, the furious, desperate sex in his penthouse, followed by his shocking appearance at my door and the slow, tender, all-consuming lovemaking that followed.
It couldn’t be real. The sheer emotional whiplash was too much for any single reality to contain. It had to be a dream.
I blink, my eyes adjusting to the soft morning light filtering through my cheap blinds. The sheets tangled around my legs are my own, thin and slightly pilled. The familiar crack in my ceiling is right where it should be. I am in my bed. I am in my apartment.
I am alone.
A wave of something that feels dangerously like relief washes over me. It was a dream. A terrifying, vivid, and deeply unsettling dream. I survived.
Then I smell it.
Coffee. Not my usual instant sludge. This is the rich, aromatic scent of freshly ground, expertly brewed coffee. And underneath it, the unmistakable, savory smell of bacon.
My blood runs cold. I haven’t had bacon in my apartment in over a year. And I wouldn’t leave my coffee maker on overnight.
I sit bolt upright, the sheet falling away from my bare chest. My body aches with a deep, languid soreness that is definitely not the product of a dream. He was here. He is here.
I swing my legs out of bed, every muscle protesting.
My oversized t-shirt and shorts from yesterday are on the floor where he dropped them.
I pull on just the shirt, which hangs to my mid-thigh, and creep toward my bedroom door, my heart a frantic, panicked bird against my ribs.
I peer around the frame, my eyes scanning my own living room.
And there he is.
Jasper Wolfe is standing in my kitchen. He’s wearing a pair of dark trousers and a crisp, white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing those strong, vein-tracked forearms. He’s standing at my stove, a spatula in one hand, calmly flipping something in my one good frying pan.
A carton of organic, free-range eggs and a package of thick-cut, artisanal bacon sit on my chipped laminate countertop.
My tiny, pathetic kitchen, which has only ever seen microwaved sad-meals and takeout containers, has been commandeered.
He looks utterly, infuriatingly at home.
The domesticity of the scene is so jarring, so profoundly wrong, that for a moment I can’t breathe. It’s a violation on a level I can’t even begin to process. He has now invaded my morning routine and my fucking breakfast.
A low growl builds in my chest. I stalk out of the bedroom, my bare feet silent on the worn hardwood floor. I stop at the small archway to the kitchen, crossing my arms over my chest.
He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t have to. He knows I’m there.
“What are you doing?” My voice is a low, dangerous growl.
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” he says, his tone calm and conversational, as if this is the most normal thing in the world. He slides two perfectly cooked, sunny-side-up eggs from the pan onto a plate next to several crispy strips of bacon. My plate. My chipped, blue plate. “I’m making breakfast.”
“I can see that,” I snap. “I mean what are you doing here? In my apartment? In my kitchen? And where the hell did you get eggs?”
He finally turns, leaning back against the counter, the spatula still in his hand. He looks at me, his gray eyes taking in my disheveled state, my bare legs, the defiant fury on my face. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touches his lips.
“I had some things delivered,” he says simply, as if summoning groceries to a third-floor walk-up at dawn is a minor errand. He gestures with the spatula. “We have court at ten. That gives us about an hour and a half. You need to eat, and then we need to get ready.”
The casual way he says “we” makes the anger coalesce into a cold, hard knot in my stomach.
“We don’t have court,” I say, the words clipped and precise.
“You have court. I, if you’ll recall from the little life-ruining stunt you pulled, cannot practice law right now.
My license is suspended. I am under investigation.
Or did that slip your mind while you were playing house? ”
He doesn’t even blink. He just watches me, his expression placid. “Check your email,” he says.
“What?”
A cold dread washes over me. Holding his gaze, I walk over to my laptop on the small desk by the window. I open it, my fingers feeling clumsy and slow. I log into my email account. There’s one new message. It arrived at 6:15 AM this morning.
The sender is the State Bar Disciplinary Board.
My breath catches in my throat. My hand trembles as I click it open. The language is dense, formal, and bureaucratic, but the message is brutally, unbelievably clear.
Dear Ms. Sutton,
This letter is to inform you that upon further review of the preliminary materials regarding the referral from Judge Martin Harrison in the matter of State v.
Wolfe, the Board has determined there is insufficient evidence to proceed with a formal investigation.
The complaint has been dismissed, and the matter is now considered closed.
Your license to practice law has been reinstated, effective immediately.
A formal order of dismissal will be sent via certified mail.
I read it once. Then a second time. And a third. The words won’t compute. Insufficient evidence. Complaint dismissed. Matter is now closed. Reinstated, effective immediately.
It’s impossible. These investigations take months, sometimes years. They don’t just disappear overnight because of an email. The system doesn’t work this way.
I look up from the screen, my eyes finding his across the room. He is still leaning against the counter, watching me, his expression knowing.
“How?” I whisper, the word barely audible.
“Money is the world’s most effective lubricant,” he says, his voice devoid of any triumph. “People, systems, investigations… they all move much more smoothly with the proper application.”
He didn’t just throw money at it. This was something else.
I should be relieved. I should be on my knees, weeping with gratitude. My life, my career, has just been handed back to me. But I feel nothing but a cold, heavy sense of dread. This wasn’t a rescue. This was a demonstration.
I stare at him, a thousand questions screaming in my mind. Who did you pay? Who did you threaten? What did you do?
But I don’t ask. I close the laptop. The questions don’t matter. I know, with a sudden, chilling certainty, that I don’t want to know the details. Knowing would make me an accomplice.
I turn without another word and walk back into my bedroom. I can feel his eyes on my back the entire way. The fight is over. He has won. He didn’t just conquer my body; he has conquered my reality.
As I step into the bedroom, I see it. Sitting on the lone wooden chair by my closet is a large, sleek shopping bag from a high-end department store I’ve only ever window-shopped at. It wasn’t here last night. It must have been part of the “delivery.”
I approach it cautiously. Inside, nestled in layers of tissue paper, is an outfit. A slate-gray sheath dress made of a heavy, luxurious wool-crepe. A sharply tailored black blazer. A pair of understated but clearly expensive black leather pumps.
“What is this?” I call out, my voice flat.
“It’s for you,” he calls back from the kitchen. “Try it on. We don’t have much time.”
I stare at the clothes. They are the uniform of a woman I am not. A woman who is powerful, wealthy, and controlled. A woman who belongs in his world, not mine. The thought of putting them on feels like putting on a costume, like shedding the last vestiges of myself.
But then, a weary, fatalistic thought surfaces. In for a penny, in for a pound.
I’ve already surrendered. I’ve already accepted his help, his body, his presence in my life. What’s one more concession? What’s a dress? I’ve already lost the war; there’s no point in fighting a skirmish over a uniform.
I strip off my t-shirt and pull the dress over my head. The fabric is cool and heavy against my skin. It slides down my body, and my breath catches.
It fits.
Not just well. It fits perfectly. Like it was tailored for me.
The way it nips in at my waist, skims over my hips, the precise length of the hemline—every detail is exact.
The blazer is the same, settling on my shoulders as if it were made for them.
He didn’t guess my size. He knew my exact measurements.
The thought is deeply, profoundly disturbing.
He has studied me on a level I can’t even comprehend.
I pull on the shoes. They, too, are a perfect fit.
I walk to the full-length mirror on the back of my closet door and stare at my reflection.
The woman looking back at me is a stranger.
She is sleek, powerful, and expensive. There is no trace of the frazzled, broke public defender.
This woman looks like she belongs at his side. The thought makes my stomach churn.
I do a quick search on my new phone for the brand name on the dress’s label. The price that pops up on the screen makes me feel faint. The dress alone costs more than my monthly rent.
I walk back out into the living room, my new leather heels making a soft, authoritative click on the hardwood floor.
Jasper is at my small dining table now, setting down two plates of food.
He looks up as I approach, and his eyes sweep over me, from head to toe.
A flicker of something hot and proprietary flashes in his gaze.
I stop in front of him, my hands on my hips. “This is too much,” I say, the words feeling inadequate.
He shrugs, completely unconcerned. He picks up a fork. “It fits, doesn’t it?” he says, then takes a bite of his eggs. He chews thoughtfully before continuing. “And we can’t take it back. I had the delivery guy throw away the receipt and cut the tags off before he brought it up.”
He’s blocked every escape route. He’s anticipated every argument. He is always ten steps ahead.
“Eat,” he says, gesturing to the plate he set for me. It’s not a suggestion. It’s a command.
I sit. I glance at him and notice for the first time that he, too, is wearing a new outfit.
A perfectly tailored charcoal suit, a crisp silver tie.
He didn’t wear this here last night. The delivery must have been for both of us.
The irritation is a low hum beneath my skin, a constant reminder of how thoroughly I am being managed.
But then I take a bite of the eggs. They are perfect. The yolks are runny, the whites are firm, and they’re seasoned with something I can’t quite place. The bacon is crispy without being burnt. It’s the most delicious breakfast I have eaten in years.
An hour later, we are standing in front of Judge Harrison.
The courtroom feels like a stage set for a play I’ve seen before, but this time, all the actors have been given new roles. I am no longer the disgraced pariah. I am a calm, impeccably dressed lawyer, standing beside her client.
ADA Brown is at the prosecutor's table, her face a thundercloud.
“Your Honor,” she begins, her voice tight with suppressed fury, “the state moves to dismiss all charges against the defendant, Mr. Jasper Wolfe.”
Judge Harrison looks down from his bench, his expression one of deep, undisguised annoyance. “On what grounds, Ms. Brown?”
“The state’s key witness, our whistleblower from within Meridian Technologies, has formally recanted his testimony, Your Honor,” Brown says through gritted teeth.
“He now claims his original statement was made under duress and is completely baseless. Without his testimony, the state’s case is… no longer viable.”
Of course. The whistleblower. Another loose end Jasper has neatly tied up and disposed of.
Judge Harrison sighs, the sound of a man who knows he is being played but is powerless to stop it. “Very well. Motion granted. All charges against Mr. Wolfe are dismissed with prejudice.” He bangs the gavel, a sharp, angry crack. “We are adjourned.”
As we turn to leave, ADA Brown stalks over to me. Her eyes are blazing.
“This is an absolute farce,” she hisses, her voice low so only I can hear.
“I don’t know how you did it, Sutton. I called the Bar this morning to confirm.
It’s like it never happened. One minute you’re under investigation, the next you’re untouchable and my entire case evaporates. What the hell did you do?”
I meet her gaze, my own expression a blank mask I did not know I was capable of wearing. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, ADA Brown,” I say, my voice cool and even.
I turn and walk away, Jasper a silent, powerful presence at my side. I can feel her staring after me, her fury and confusion radiating like heat.
We walk out of the courthouse and into the bright, cold light of day. For the first time in over a week, I am not scurrying. I am not hiding. I am walking with my head held high. It feels strange, like a beautiful, terrible lie.
A black town car is waiting for us at the curb, the engine humming. Jasper’s driver holds the door open.
“We’re not done,” Jasper says as I slide onto the plush leather seat. “We’re going to the office. There’s paperwork to sign.”
He gets in beside me, and the door closes, sealing us in a cocoon of tinted glass and wealthy silence. My old life is officially over.