Chapter 4
FOUR
Jenna
BEFORE
Iglance at the clock. Ten-oh-one. Perfect.
So, that’s it then. I don’t take on clients who are late. No discussion. No exceptions. My red-painted fingernails clamp briefly on Colton’s file—I’m about to toss it in the bin under my desk.
Then the door SLAMS open.
No polite knock, no gentle entrance. No, it bursts open like a hurricane ripping through my office.
Colton stands there, balancing a cardboard holder with four paper coffee cups.
His face is blazing red, as if he’d just played an hour of hockey.
Beads of sweat roll down his forehead, his short hair sticks to his scalp, and the cardboard holder already looks like it’s sacrificed way too much coffee.
I squint. Above all, I wanted matcha. Matcha is green. Not brown.
“You’re late,” I say, trying to keep my voice as cold and controlled as possible. I know I can only pull this once before my patience snaps.
His steel-blue eyes dart irritably to the big clock behind me. “One minute.”
“I only respect punctual people.”
“I just waited thirty minutes for your matcha latte because you apparently refuse to drink normal coffee,” he snaps, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow that almost throws me off balance.
“And you waited thirty minutes and came back without one single matcha?”
He says, mimicking my voice, “Matcha pumpkin, matcha chili, matcha shoot-me-now—I got you every damn matcha they had!”
My lip twitches into something like a smile.
How can one guy be so… annoying and charming at the same time?
He steps in, slams the door, and plops the cardboard box on my desk. A splash of green liquid nearly lands on my notebook. I bite back, “You got a regular matcha latte at least?” and simply nod toward the chair.
“The one to your left, princess.”
“All right, one exception. Your time starts now. You’ve got…” I glance at my smartwatch. “…Twenty-seven minutes left.”
I snag one of the cups and take a sip. I don’t know which matcha it is, but it’s not bad.
At least there’s that. I have no clue what to do with the other three, but it’s sweet he brought extras to get my taste right.
When it comes to coffee or matcha, I drink anything.
He doesn’t need to know I’m not that picky.
He growls, a deep, primal sound as if evolution just spat him out of a cave. I suppress a grin. It’s ridiculously easy to get under his skin.
“Thanks for your time. So…” He rummages in a backpack, crudely pulls out crumpled papers. Typical man—can’t even organize documents in a folder.
I force myself to review sick notes from his daughter’s kindergarten and school, missed doctors’ appointments, homework, skipped parent-teacher conferences.
The pages smell of printer ink and coffee—likely from frantic mornings.
Then come photos and videos: a cluttered apartment, dirty dishes, clothes on the floor.
Signs of neglect… or could be just chaos.
Hard to tell. My inner judge snarls at my heart: it could be a misunderstanding.
As a lawyer, I must anticipate the other side’s arguments. Always stay skeptical, stay prepared.
“I don’t know—got more?”
He shoots me a glare that says, “Still not enough?”
I remain unmoved, stare him down. “No. You’d need more to win.”
“We.”
“You. I’m not taking you on.” I check the clock. Fifteen minutes left. “You haven’t convinced me.”
“I still have time.”
“Well?”
“Here—a video of me finding her alone in bed.” He holds out his phone. I wave it away.
“Colton, that could be staged. To prove neglect in court, you need concrete, documented, repeated evidence. Single incidents won’t cut it. The child’s welfare and any lasting danger are what matters.”
“But it is danger,” he says, voice rising, cracking.
The latch squeaks. My eyes flick to the door.
I’m expecting my assistant but it’s a little girl.
Barely as tall as the doorknob, her head at knob level, tiny fingers grasp the frame.
Instantly, I see her father in her: his sharp features softened into her gentle ones.
The same steel-blue eyes, huge and fringed with black lashes, brimming with curiosity and untouched innocence.
Her blonde hair’s a tangled mess. She’s like Boo from Monsters, Inc.
—but older. Warmth floods me, panic tangles with protectiveness.
I’ve always wanted kids—with Matthew, though?
He shrinks from the idea and maybe I should say thank you because who wants kids with Matthew…
She wears clothes that are too small—tight at the arms and legs—her hair is definitely matted, and there’s a bruise on one little hand.
A tug at my chest. She looks so vulnerable.
I want to leap up, scoop her into my lap, wrap her in my arms. She looks too pale, as if she’d for sat hours in an apartment. Not at a playground.
“Papa? Did you tell her I want to stay with you?” Her voice melts my heart. High pitched. Fragile.
“Honey, I told you to—”
“Okay, fine, I’ll take you on,” I blurt out without thinking first.
Colton freezes. His is arm half-raised to check the time, but then his gaze bounces between his daughter and me.
“Papa,” she whispers again. He remains stone-faced.
“Come in, sweetheart,” I say, voice suddenly soft and warm in a way it never was once with her father. “We’ll be done in a moment. Look, there are some toys back there.”
Colton spins around as if he’s just realized she’s here and I’ve agreed to take the case.
“Livy,” he says, then adds something in Russian.
She nods, closes the door, and obediently roams to the toys. As she turns, I notice more tangles. Yeah, she’s not well cared for. I make a mental note: take photos later.
“Why the sudden change?” he asks.
I catch my breath in his eyes—the same as his daughter’s. Unreachable. Beautiful.
“Stop asking stupid questions. You should be glad I am. I have conditions. I’ll only take you if I can tell you exactly what I think of you to your face. Always.”
He just narrows his eyes.
“No formality—no ‘sir,’ no small talk. Annoy me, and you’ll hear it. Understood?”
He grunts, crosses his arms like a caveman.
“And you’ll pay me well above my rate.”
He blinks. “What?”
I shrug. “I have no capacity for a new client right now. With your evidence, I have to practically pull this case out of thin air to win, and I always win. I’m not stupid. You have money. Ergo: if you want me, you pay.”
He grunts again and checks on his daughter again. She’s lost in tiny plastic horses and animals.
“How much?” His Russian accent sharpens. Maybe emotion does that.
I scrawl a jaw-dropping figure on paper, fold it into an envelope, and hand it to him with a triumphant grin.
He hesitates, reads it, opens his mouth, then shuts it.
I grin wider as his face clouds.
“So—deal?” I extend my hand.
He grunts one more time—but to my surprise, shakes it. He’s really willing to pay that much? Fine. It’ll be nerve-wracking couple of weeks, but maybe I’ll have some fun with him, too.
“Perfect.”
I glance at Livy one last time. Yes. The right decision.
My heart tightens, resolve flooding me. I will protect her. I will fight for her, no matter what. Even if her father’s an asshole and I’d rather not work with him, I know I can help her and I will.
My phone buzzes.
Home at 6. Make dinner, I’m starving.
I sigh, check the clock. Why can’t he just get food himself? I hate cooking for him, but if I don’t, he yells and…
“Is your boyfriend a child?”
“Huh?” I spin my phone away so he can’t read any more of my messages. The audacity.
“Well, why should you cook when you work all day?”
“I like cooking,” I say. It’s true, I actually loved cooking and trying new recipes when my Instagram feed used to be full of ideas. But now that joy vanished. There’s no joy in being forced into cooking when you’re tired.
I fold my arms, trying to rebuild a tough facade.
He leans back, arms behind his head, shirt riding up to reveal a pronounced V and damn, I quickly glance away again
“Sorry, but I know few people who do a demanding job all day then love cooking for their partners. He has hands, right? He could feed himself.”
“I don’t see why that’s your problem.”
He shrugs. “As you wish.”
“Why is Livy even with you right now? I thought she lives full-time with her mother.”
“I picked her up from school. I’ll take her back later. I don’t see her otherwise—and I can’t bear that.”
“All right,” I say, hoping he’s playing by the rules; if he’s abducting her from her mother’s custody, it could get messy. But I’ll dive into prep now and build a rock-solid case.
“We’ll be in touch. Have a nice day.”