Objection Overruled (IOU Kings #1)

Chapter 1 – Tessa

Chapter One

Tessa

Iam absolutely not breaking into the animal shelter right now.

Except, I am.

Because clearly, when I applied to Havemeyer Law School, what I meant was: Hi, I’d like to dismantle my entire future, one ethically gray decision at a time—starting with breaking into my place of employment.

“You’re just checking the perimeter,” I whisper to myself, stepping over a rusted chain near the alley gate like I’m not scheduled for a shift tomorrow. “You’re not doing anything illegal. You’re observing like a responsible adult who trespasses recreationally.”

That sounds dumb even to me.

The flashlight tucked into my hoodie pocket clinks against my hip with every step. I forgot to mute my phone, my fingers are shaking, and my hair is falling out of this stupid bun, no matter how many times I redo it.

Welcome to my villain origin story.

I shouldn’t be doing this.

Not when Dean Mills’s words are still ringing in my ears from the other day: “You are a transfer student. Technically. But make no mistake, your acceptance here was not a vote of confidence. It was a risk. A calculated one. And not by me.”

He made it clear that I’m here on borrowed time and in someone else’s favor—someone who “cashed in a favor large enough to override my vote.” He told me that if I “cheat, lie, plagiarize, or breathe wrong” in any of his programs, he’ll personally see to it that the Bar takes one look at my name and laughs.

I already have one ethics violation trailing me. The confidential mediation notes I leaked to help a classmate. The mistake that got me suspended, nearly expelled, and somehow—mysteriously—forgiven by someone with enough pull to get me into Havemeyer Law.

I should be invisible. I should be making myself so small and perfect that nobody remembers I exist until I graduate and disappear into some corporate law firm where I can spend the rest of my life paying off student loans and pretending I belong.

Instead, I’m about to commit a felony for a partially blind dog named Waffles.

Because when I look at him, I see me.

The real me. The one who used to curl up in the back of my mom’s beat-up Honda when her latest boyfriend was screaming about money or beer or whatever excuse men use when they want to break things they didn’t pay for.

My hand drifts to my wrist. I press my thumb to the skin there, checking for a pulse. Like I need proof I’m still here. Still real.

Waffles has the same look in his eye, like he’s bracing for the next hit. He’s learned not to hope too hard because disappointment hurts worse than hunger.

I know that look.

I wore it for most of my childhood, and a good stretch of last year, too, if I'm being honest.

The shelter notes said he was surrendered for “aggression.” But I’ve been working at Midtown Animal Care long enough to read between the lines.

“Aggression” usually means he defended himself when someone tried to hurt him.

It means he bit back when he was cornered. It means he refused to just take it.

Smart dog.

I did that once, too. When I was fifteen and my mom’s boyfriend, Jerry, tried to “teach me respect” with the back of his hand. I grabbed the nearest lamp and cracked it across his skull. He left that night. Never came back.

My mom cried. Not because Jerry was gone, but because she thought she’d failed me. She thought my anger was proof she hadn’t protected me well enough.

She was wrong. My anger saved us both.

And now it’s going to save Waffles.

Because tomorrow morning, at seven a.m., they’re going to kill him. They’re going to put him down for having the same survival instincts that got me through high school, into college, and all the way to law school.

No.

Not on my watch.

I’ve spent my entire life watching people in power make decisions about who gets to survive and who doesn’t. Landlords who evict families two days before Christmas. Judges who send kids back to homes that failed them. Deans who decide you’re a “risk” worth taking or a mistake worth discarding.

This is one decision I get to make.

One life I get to save.

Even if it costs me everything.

I found Waffles three weeks ago. Scruffy. One eye glazed over. Half his tail gone, and a case of trust issues that rival mine. But he wagged when I crouched down in front of his kennel. Honest-to-goodness wagged. The dog hadn’t given up hope yet.

He reminded me of Buster, the dog we had when I was eight.

Buster was a mutt, too, all ears and attitude, who used to sleep on the floor against my bedroom door.

When my mom’s ex started getting loud and mean, Buster would growl low in his throat—not threatening, just..

. present. Warning anyone who’d listen: You’ll have to go through me first.

We had to give Buster away when the landlord found out about him. “No pets” was non-negotiable, even when my mom begged and offered extra security deposit money we didn’t have.

I watched from the car window as the family drove away with him. He kept looking back at me through the rear windshield, confused. He couldn’t understand why his people were letting strangers take him.

My mom cried for three days straight after that.

My mom, who worked three jobs and never complained.

Who got up at four a.m. to flip pancakes for truckers and came home smelling like grease but still helped me with my homework.

My mom who never cried. Not when the lights got shut off.

Not when Jerry threw a beer bottle at the wall two inches from her head.

Not even when the eviction notice showed up.

But she cried for Buster.

Because we both knew we’d failed him. We were supposed to protect him, and instead, we handed him to strangers and drove away.

I never forgot that feeling. The shame of it. The helplessness. I swore I'd never feel it again.

The world wasn’t kind to girls growing up the way I did.

The rules were different. People expected us to fail—to slip up, give in, take what we could get, and stop aiming higher.

But I didn’t. I followed the rules. I made the honor roll, washed dishes, and never dated anyone seriously after that one spectacular disaster in undergrad that left me gutted and equipped with lessons I didn’t want to learn.

I earned my place here. Earned everything. And still, I can’t stop thinking about this dog.

He was going to die with no one to miss him.

I can’t live knowing I let it happen.

I inch closer to the shelter window. The alley behind it smells like rotting kibble and old water damage. Everything feels damp, even the air. My sneakers squeak on the concrete, and I flinch, even though there’s no one around. No one should be around. I picked the hour carefully.

But this city has eyes. And secrets. And the kind of streetlight that flickers just enough to make me feel like God is watching, too.

The window is old. Yellowed. Already cracked. I stare at it for a beat. Breaking it feels irreversible.

I pull the brick from my tote bag anyway.

And yes, I brought a brick in a vegan leather bag. I’m the world’s most emotionally frazzled superhero.

I lift it. Exhale.

“This is so dumb,” I mutter, glancing over my shoulder. “Truly Olympic-level dumbassery.”

I hurl it anyway.

It punches a neat, pathetic hole in the glass. One singular, sad thud.

I stare at it.

“Cool,” I mutter, my voice pitched high and hysterical. “Not even a satisfying smash. Love that.”

I stomp my foot and then scan the alley again, heart pounding. Nothing. Just shadows, trash bins, and a smell I will never get out of my sweatshirt.

Still, I move toward the dumpster, bracing my foot on the side to climb it.

“You are not doing this,” I whisper. “You are not—“

I jump and regret everything.

The dumpster smells like hot diarrhea.

Yeah, it’s that bad.

Yet I don't climb out right away. I sit there for a second—boots sinking into heaven knows what, lungs too full of ammonia and regret, a piece of rebar resting dangerously close to my leg.

All I can think is:

If I had a conscience with an off switch, this would be so much easier.

But I never did. Even as a kid.

While other girls were choreographing recess dance routines or memorizing the names of every boy band, I was the one trying to organize a protest because the lunch lady had to work through her chemo.

I was the kid who got in trouble for calling out the PE teacher’s weird comments.

The girl who stayed up all night researching eviction law because our neighbor with three kids got slapped with a notice on her door, and nobody else seemed to care.

That’s the thing about growing up broke with a single mom who didn’t take shit from anybody except the entire economy: You learn early that the people in charge rarely do the right thing unless someone makes it uncomfortable not to.

Unfortunately, I’ve always been really good at making people uncomfortable.

It’s not about being brave. I’m not. I'm terrified all the time — of failing, of ending up just another girl who burned out chasing something too big for her hands.

But when I see something wrong I can’t let it go.

I tried, once.

The confidential notes thing in my legal clinic.

A classmate was flailing. She needed help for a mock negotiation she was too ashamed to admit she didn’t understand.

I gave her confidential client information—just enough to help her fake confidence.

I never thought she’d use them. Never thought they’d get out.

Never thought they’d trace them back to me.

They did.

Which means I should be extra careful. Low-profile. No mistakes. No drama.

Definitely no breaking and entering.

And yet, here I am.

Because I saw him. Curled in the corner of his pen, shivering so hard he made the water dish vibrate.

No one’s claimed him, and in the morning, he’ll be gone.