Chapter 1 #2
“Oh, please no, no one marries anymore anyway. Marriage means trouble. You should be aware that a significant portion of our revenue comes from divorce cases, Ben.” I wave a hand, too fast, too dismissive.
If I move quickly enough, maybe the truth won’t catch up?
The truth that Matthew and I don’t work out?
The truth that I’ve wanted kids and family for… years?
“I just think he wanted to go out to eat. We do that sometimes.” A beat passes. “Rarely, actually. If I’m being honest.”
Perfect. Now I can feel Ben staring at me, but I don’t meet his eyes. Instead, I turn back to the documents he just gave me, opening the file with more force than necessary—anything to have somewhere else to focus, somewhere safer.
But the moment I read over the files, my breath catches.
A sharp, electric jolt runs through me.
Because what’s on those pages—
That’s not right.
Koltun Kirillov, I read. My heart is pounding up to my carotid artery now.
What? Why? No. Just fucking no.
“Everything okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Yeah, that’s honestly how it feels.” I haven’t seen or heard from him in over ten years. Not once. Not even accidentally, not even in passing. And that’s good. Perfect even.
We went to high school together, back when he wasn’t known under his very Americanized name Colton King and honestly, I have no idea why he wants to work with me. Back then, he was… God, the biggest asshole roaming those halls like it was his full-time job.
Granted, I looked completely different. Smaller.
Softer. Easier to overlook. I played in the band, not on a field, not under stadium lights, didn’t go to parties, and that alone seemed to make me fair game.
Add the fact that I looked like I was ten when we were all fifteen, and—well.
Let’s just say I wasn’t exactly unforgettable in the way people want to be remembered. The perfect victim for bullies.
My hands are shaking now as I hold his file, which feels ridiculous. It’s just paper. Just ink. Just a name I haven’t said out loud in a decade.
But the memories don’t care about logic.
They come anyway. The echo of a crowd, the scrape of sneakers on gym floors, the way his name and face are everywhere now. The face of my bully—larger than life, all confidence and certainty.
Of course, I noticed. Of course, I kept noticing.
Every time another headline popped up, every time Isla mentioned him, I felt that same tight, sour twist in my chest. And I told nobody. No one knows what happened to me in high school. What kind of a different person I was back then.
But in the end, it’s always the mean ones, isn’t it?
The ones who knew exactly where to hit so it would hurt the most—they’re the ones who end up winning in life.
I swallow, tightening my grip on the pages.
No. Absolutely not.
There is no version of reality—none—where I help someone like him climb any higher than he already has. And let’s be honest, he’s already way too high up there.
“Take a look, Jenna,” Ben says, far too cheerful for the existential crisis currently unfolding in my brain. “This case would be great for us. He’s famous famous.”
Of course, he is. But I hate him.
I don’t respond. I’m not sure I can. My fingers are still curled too tightly around the edge of the file, like if I loosen my grip, something inside me might spill out with it.
Ben lingers.
Not long enough to say anything else, but just long enough to notice. His gaze rests on me before he finally nods to himself and says: “Okay now I leave you to it. Just think about it. It would be a career turner for you.”
The glass door clicks softly shut behind him, sealing me in with the quiet hum of my clean office and a past I’ve done a very good job of avoiding.
And yet.
There it is.
Koltun fucking Kirillov.
My stomach twists again.
It’s almost funny, in a bleak, ironic kind of way. That he’d remember me at all. That out of all the people he could have chosen, his case somehow landed here. On my desk. In my hands.
I exhale slowly and start to read.
He asked for me right away. Jenna Davis. I can’t help but let out a stifled grunt. The fact that he even summoned back my name is crazy. My eyes dart to the case description. He’s seeking full custody of his six-year-old daughter.
The reason: his ex-wife is neglecting her.
I skim the page in seconds, my eyes snagging on the highlights like my brain refuses to fully commit.
Left daughter home alone.
Frequent parties.
Alcohol.
Married him for his money.
I press my lips together, a slow, unimpressed pout forming.
Oh no. Tragic. A cautionary tale. Man marries a woman exclusively for her looks and money becomes the only stable thing in the relationship. Someone alert the police. I snort. Idiot.
I can practically see him. Older now, probably broader, still carrying himself like the world is his personal locker room.
The kind of man who thinks consequences are more of a suggestion.
I glance back at the file, this time forcing myself to read like a professional and not a deeply petty former band kid.
The case is… thin. Messy even.
A lot of accusations, not a lot of proof.
And as much as I’d love to assume everything connected to Koltun Kirillov is automatically terrible, something about this really does feel off.
A mother leaving her child alone that often?
It’s not impossible but it’s suspicious in a way that doesn’t quite line up.
I grab my phone and look his ex-wife up.
I find her instantly, of course, like my Instagram algorithm itself is excited about the drama.
And wow.
Her entire feed looks like a masterclass in “rich and vaguely unattainable.” White, skintight dresses.
Legs posed at angles that defy both gravity and common sense.
Heels so high I get secondhand ankle pain just looking at them.
Long blonde hair, perfectly arranged. And the lips—pursed into a glossy, hyper-edited pout that’s been smoothed, blurred, and filtered into oblivion.
Luxury socialite, her bio says.
I huff.
Of course, this is your type, Koltun.
Or at least, exactly the type I would expect from someone who used to think shoving people into lockers counted as a personality trait.
I don’t see any pictures with her daughter anywhere, although it’s a good sign if they don’t market their kids all over Instagram or elsewhere but at first glance, it looks more like a party profile.
Champagne here. Yacht there.
But honestly, that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.
Without clear evidence, the father won’t get custody, especially not if the mother is at home, and he’s constantly traveling because of all these stupid away games.
I don’t know anything about hockey, but pro players are always busy.
As we all know, after the game is before the game.
So why should he be given full custody if he can’t look after his daughter?
She can. At least on paper, and that’s what matters to the judge. We need proof and we don’t have any.
So, all in all, that sounds like too much stress.
Whether he’s still a jerk or not—and let’s be honest, odds are strongly in favor—this case doesn’t exactly scream easy win. If anything, it looks like a slow, uphill battle with too many loose ends and not enough proof.
And the worst part?
I’d have to deal with him.
Regularly.
Face-to-face.
Yeah. No, thank you.
I’m not signing up to fight a losing case and tolerate this asshole. Some things are simply not worth the emotional collateral.
I smile contentedly as I close the file and press the speed dial button to call my assistant.
Maybe this is something like karma. Let him live a miserable life now.
Not my fault. I’m not his helper in times of need.
He should have thought twice back then about who he bumped into in the hallway or laughed at because she wasn’t wearing the coolest clothes.
Or had the prettiest face. The sexiest body. The richest family.
Not my business.
“How can I help you, Miss Davis?” asks my loyal assistant John, with his oversized horn-rimmed glasses that are always sliding down his long nose. He looks a bit like a lanky Clark Kent to me.
“Please give this file back to Ben and tell him that I consider the case too risky and that he should find someone else. I’m turning it down.”
“All right, Miss Davis,” says John, and immediately takes the file from me. Yeah, just get it out of here.
And just like that, a scene comes back to me.
I was chewing on my fountain pen because I was so nervous during a test, and clumsy as I am, my whole mouth turned blue and of course I didn’t notice all day long. From then on, the cool jocks called me Blueface.
I would have loved to write him a letter saying:
Rejected. All my love, Blueface.