Chapter 14 #2
There was a time we used to argue about it—really argue.
We never do now. But back when she first started pointing things out—when she told me Matthew was a mistake—those were the little cracks.
The things I kept brushing off because it was easier than admitting they were there.
She saw it early. Saw him clearly. For the red flag he was.
Not the fun, fictional kind people romanticize online. Not the kind you can laugh about later. The real kind. The kind that slowly takes pieces of you until there’s not much left. And I didn’t want to hear the truth.
I used to push back. Defend him. Defend us.
She stopped arguing after that.
Not because she changed her mind, but because I didn’t.
Now she just tells me, quietly and consistently, to leave him.
Like she’s already accepted that I won’t.
Like she’s decided I’m too soft to fight for myself, and I know she would fight for me—that’s why I keep things from her.
I don’t tell her everything that Matthew does.
I don’t share the things he says, the amount of porn he watches while I sit next to him, feeling like an old pair of sneakers he no longer wears.
Don’t mention the hours he spends gaming instead of being with me.
I don’t talk about the nights he goes out and disappears.
I don’t, because I know what I should do.
I should leave him. I fucking know. I just…
can’t. I fight all day for others but never for myself.
The minute I’d tell her how bad it really is, she would pack my things and get me out.
So… I don’t tell her.
“He wasn’t thrilled,” I admit, picking at my wrap. “But he’ll get over it.”
“Will he?”
I shrug. “It’s my job, Isla. He knows that.”
“Really… as if that guy knows anything…”
I smile. Yeah, not really.
“You know,” Isla ads. “His ass should be really jealous with that shit coming out of his mouth.”
“Isla,” I say but can’t hold back laughter. How does she always come up with those phrases?
“Anyway, the press is eating you both up. That’s a good sign,” Isla says, changing the topic.
Thank goodness, because discussing Matthew feels like poking at a festering wound I should really get checked out.
She lifts her phone again, her thumb scrolling through a fresh batch of Instagram comments. “The rebellious hockey star and his fierce lawyer? It’s practically catnip for the tabloids.”
“That’s exactly what I don’t need. This case is complicated enough without people spinning some romantic fantasy about me and Colton.”
“But girl, it makes for a good story. The bully and his victim, reunited years later when he needs her help to save his daughter.”
I wince. “Don’t call it that.”
“What? A good story?”
“Me being his victim. I wasn’t... that makes it sound so pathetic.”
Isla reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “You were sixteen, Jen. And he was mean to you.”
“And now I’m almost thirty, and I’m his attorney.” I pull my hand away. “The past doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t it? Because you went from avoiding even hearing his name to spending weekends with him awfully fast.”
She’s right, and we both know it. Two months ago, I would have laughed if someone suggested I’d willingly spend time with Colton King. Now I’m defending him to my best friend.
“You’re right…” I finally give in; she won’t stop otherwise. “I kinda… I think I don’t hate him anymore.” There. It’s out and it feels good to be honest for once.
Isla takes another bite of her wrap. “Just be careful, okay? I know how you get with these cases. All in, no boundaries.”
“I have boundaries,” I protest.
“Usually yeah, but I just want you to watch out for yourself once.”
“That day in the park was different.”
“It’s never different, Jen. You pour everything into these cases until there’s nothing left for you.” She taps the phone screen, where the fun park photo still glows. “But this one feels... personal. I want you to enjoy it, really, but I love you and I hate it when you get hurt.”
The busy street noise fades for a moment as I stare at the image.
“Maybe it is personal,” I admit. “His ex-wife is neglecting that little girl, Isla. Not in the ‘forgot to sign the permission slip’ way. In the ‘left her alone with no food for twelve hours’ way. And the court still favors her because she has a stable address and Colton travels for games.”
Isla studies me for a long moment, then sighs. “Just remember that when this case ends—and it will end—you’re the one who has to live with whatever lines you’ve crossed.”
Her words settle heavy in my stomach, mixing unpleasantly with the tuna wrap.
I know she’s right. I know I’m getting too invested.
But then I remember Livy’s small hand slipping into mine, trustingly, as we walked through the fun park.
The way she whispered, “Are you my dad’s friend now? ” with such hope in her voice.
Some lines are worth crossing.
“I know what I’m doing,” I tell Isla, with more confidence than I feel.
“Sure you do.” She signals the waiter for the check. “You always do. Until you don’t.”
She hands her credit card over to the waiter, brushing off my attempt to split the bill with that familiar, immovable stubbornness—and I’m just reaching for my tea when my phone buzzes on the table.
I glance down.
And freeze.
No. No. No. It’s Colton.
Not the office line. Not an e-mail. Nothing even remotely professional.
It’s my private phone number. Of course, I had considered the possibility of this happening—I even suggested giving him my number—but now that his message has popped up on WhatsApp, it feels.
.. wrong. Right. Wrong. And yet, somehow, right.
I glance down at my phone, where a text from Colton waits. It’s just a text, I remind myself, but the way my heart races makes it feel like so much more. The casualness of the text feels like a breach of some unspoken boundary—a line I hadn’t intended to cross. Or maybe I did.
I didn’t give him my number for this.
My pulse does something inconvenient.
I unlock the screen anyway.
Colton
Livy wants to know when she can see “Miss Jenna” again. Apparently, you’re her favorite now…
Something warm spreads through my chest.
I don’t reply. I don’t even type.
I just sit there, staring at the message a second too long before locking my phone and slipping it back into my bag like it might get me in trouble.
Which—it probably will.
Fucking professional boundaries.