Chapter 23 Angelina
twenty-three
Angelina
The tags are in the bathroom trash.
I stare at them through the mirror, three little rectangles of black cardstock buried under tissues. La Perla. Four hundred dollars I'll never admit to spending.
Adrian's custody petition sits on the nightstand in the other room, bristling with Post-its.
Yellow for procedural flaws, pink for precedent cases that gut his argument, blue for the three motions I'll file Monday morning.
I spent yesterday turning his power play into a case study in bad strategy.
By the time I finished annotating, his filing looked like a first-year's moot court brief—full of ambition, empty of standing.
That was yesterday. Today I need to be something else.
Tonight, I'm standing in my bathroom in black lace.
Exhibit A in the case of Castellano v. Her Own Dignity.
The bra is architectural with underwire and silk and strategic gaps that frame more than they cover. The matching thong is barely there, a scrap of fabric that cost more per square inch than my house. Against my skin, the black lace looks expensive and intentional.
The prosecution rests. Guilty on all counts.
My fingers find the St. Christopher medal at my throat. The one constant. The one thing I never take off, not even for this. Dad gave it to me before his mind started slipping away, back when he still remembered my name.
Who is this for?
The mirror doesn't answer, but I already know.
The scar cutting across my belly has faded to silver, the one Cole knelt before and called the place where I won. My hips are wider now, still carrying the soft proof of pregnancy. My thighs touch where they used to have a gap.
Adrian's voice slithers in, unwanted. You'd be beautiful if you tried harder.
My hands curl around the counter's edge.
He's not Adrian.
My hands relax.
But the knowledge I've been carrying since I noticed the burr missing from my pill pack sits heavier tonight.
Yesterday he walked me out of that courthouse when my legs wouldn't work.
Put himself between me and Adrian without hesitating.
Held me in the car while I shook apart. And then he brought me home and didn't push.
Didn't leverage it. Didn't ask for anything.
He's been honest about what he is. Obsessive, dangerous, willing to kill for me. But I haven't been honest about what I know.
After yesterday, that imbalance is unbearable to me.
He's in the monitoring room. Working. Watching feeds that don't show this bathroom, this mirror, this transformation. If I'm going to do this, show him what I bought and tell him what I know, I have to walk out there and find him.
I take one last look at the woman in the mirror.
She has her mother's cheekbones and her father's stubborn chin.
She has stretch marks and a C-section scar and the permanent shadows under her eyes that concealer stopped fixing two years ago.
She's wearing four hundred dollars of black lace and she's about to do something she can't take back.
Chesca's been asleep for an hour. I checked twice.
I turn off the bathroom light.
My bedroom is quiet and lamp-lit. The white sheets on the bed are still rumpled from this morning, and something about that feels right. Evidence that this space isn't sterile anymore. That someone else has been sleeping here.
My robe is draped over the chaise by the window. It's navy silk and worn soft from years of use. The safe choice. The covered choice.
I'm reaching for it when the door opens.
Cole.
He stops in the doorway. Then his gaze lands on me and whatever he was about to say dies.
What if he doesn't—
"Don't cover up."
Three words. That's all it takes to kill Adrian's voice completely.
I stop. My hand hovers six inches from the robe. "Cole—"
"Whatever you were about to put on." He steps into the room and closes the door behind him. The click of the latch sounds very loud. "Don't."
He's still in his clothes from dinner—sleeves pushed up at the forearms, dark jeans, bare feet.
I let my hand drop. "I was going to come find you."
"Saved you the trip." He crosses toward me. Not fast—unhurried. Giving me time to retreat if I want to. His gaze drags down, back up. His jaw tightens. "What is that?"
"La Perla."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. "Liar."
He's near enough now that I can smell his cologne. Near enough that the height difference makes me tip my chin up to hold his gaze.
"You bought this," he says. Not a question.
"Arrived yesterday."
"Therefore premeditated." The word sounds dark in his voice, like a verdict.
"First degree."
His hand comes up slow and purposeful, and his fingers brush the strap at my shoulder. A whisper of contact. A question.
"Why?"
"Because I wanted to."
"Try again."
I catch his wrist before he can withdraw and hold his hand against my shoulder, his fingers warm through the lace.
"Because I'm done pretending this isn't happening."
His composure cracks. Just enough for me to see the hunger underneath.
"Angelina."
"I'm not finished." I guide his hand down, over the curve of my breast. "I bought this because I wanted you to see me in it. I wanted to walk out there and find you in that room full of monitors and make you look at me instead. I wanted—"
His mouth covers mine.
The kiss is nothing like those first ones, when he was still holding back. This one has teeth. His hand fists in my hair to angle my head where he wants it, and I let him.
I grab his shirt and drag him against me.
We stumble backward. My back hits the wall beside the bathroom door, solid and grounding, and he presses into me with his thigh sliding between mine. The pressure against my clit makes my hips roll forward.
"I need to tell you something," I manage between kisses.
"Tell me later."
"No." I push at his chest, not hard enough to move him, just enough to make him pause. "I need to say this now. Before we… before I lose my nerve."
He draws back far enough to look at me. His eyes are dark and his breathing is ragged. "What?"
Say it. Just say it.
"I know about the pills."
He goes completely still.
"There was a burr on the corner of the pack. My pack." I keep my voice steady, the way I hold it steady when I'm delivering a ruling I know will gut someone. "The manufacturing defect I've been meaning to file down for three years. It was gone. Smooth."
His hand is still in my hair. His thigh is still between mine. Neither of us is breathing.
"You noticed." His voice is flat and careful.
"I'm a federal judge, Cole. I notice everything." I swallow hard. "Same brand. Same pharmacy label. Same number of pills missing. But not my pack."
He goes rigid against me.
"I flushed them." The confession scrapes out of my throat. "Every single one."
His breath leaves him in a rush. "What?"
"I have backup pills. Hidden ones." I hold his gaze even though it costs me everything I have left. "Eight days. Eight pills down the toilet. And I kept taking my real ones the whole time."
Silence stretches between us. His expression shifts through something I can't quite read, surprise, then confusion, then something darker settling underneath.
"You let me believe it was working." His voice is rough.
"Yes."
"You watched me think I was—" He breaks off, a muscle twitching near his eye. "And you said nothing."
"Yes," I hear myself say it and there's no taking it back now.
" Because I wanted to know what you'd do.
Because some part of me, some fucked-up, illogical part that would never survive cross-examination, liked that you did this.
That you wanted me enough to try something that desperate. That insane."
Something shifts in his expression. The tension in his body changes from coiled defensiveness to something hungrier.
He kisses me again. Harder this time, his hand tightening in my hair until the sting borders on pain. I dig my fingers into the muscles of his back and hold on.
He pulls back to stare at me. "You let me think—"
"I let you think exactly what you needed to think." My nails dig into his back. "I wanted to see what you'd do. How far you'd go. Whether you'd tell me or just…let it happen."
"You played me," he says slowly.
"You tried to get me pregnant without my consent. I'd say we're even."
"You knew what I did." His voice is low, strained. "And you let me believe it was working. Eight days—"
"Yes."
"You're not angry?"
I laugh. It sounds slightly unhinged. "I'm furious. I'm also—" I gesture at the lingerie, at my bare feet, at the wall I'm still pressed against. "Does this look like anger to you?"
His forehead drops to mine. We breathe together for a moment.
"This is insane," he says.
"Probably."
His hand loosens in my hair and slides down to cup my face. His thumb traces my cheekbone. "Fourteen days until someone tries to kill you, and we're doing this."
"Fourteen days." The absurdity catches in my throat. "I don't want to spend them pretending I don't want you."
"Angelina—"
"I didn't pretend to swallow your fake pills for eight days just for you to freeze up on me now. I choose you."
His control breaks.
And underneath it, he wants me. Not the lingerie, not the performance. Not the mess. The history. He wants the woman who discovered his plan and swallowed those pills anyway—or made him believe she did.
"Say it again," he says.
"I chose you." My fingers curl around the back of his neck. "I'm choosing you right now. What are you going to do about it?"
He answers by lifting me.
My legs wrap around his waist. His hands cup the backs of my thighs, and he carries me toward the bed like I weigh nothing.
I land on the mattress and haul him down with me.
His shirt disappears. His hands find the places Adrian used to criticize, my hips, my stomach, the softness at my thighs, and touch them like evidence he's been waiting to examine. When his palm slides up my inner thigh, I spread for him without being asked.
"Christ." His voice is sandpaper. "You're—"
"I know." I reach for his waistband. "Off. Now."
He deals with his jeans while I deal with the fancy bra that seemed so important twenty minutes ago. Now it's just in the way.
When he settles between my thighs, the press of him against my entrance destroys every argument I've been making with myself for eight days. There's only this. Only him.
"Eight days of watching you pretend." His breath is hot against my neck. "Knowing you were playing me the whole time."
"Cole." I dig my heels into the backs of his thighs and urge him forward. "Shut up and fuck me."
He does.
The first thrust makes my back arch off the mattress. I stop thinking entirely.
"You knew," he says, and it's not a question anymore. Wonder, maybe. Or the particular madness of two people who've stopped pretending.
"I—" The words scatter as he finds an angle that makes my toes curl. "I wanted to see how far you'd go."
"This far." Another thrust, harder. "Mine."
The word settles into my bones like a verdict, not a question or a negotiation, just a claim I could fight if I wanted to. I don't want to.
"Yes." I tug him down for a kiss. "Yours."
He stops talking after that. Which is fine, because so do I.
After, we lie tangled in sheets that smell like him now.
His hand traces lazy patterns on my stomach, over the scar, around my navel, down to the hip bone that's still carrying some post-pregnancy weight. I let him. Don't flinch, don't suck in, don't calculate what he
"I'll admit, part of me was tempted to just... let it happen." The confession slips out before I can stop it.
He goes still next to me. "What?"
"Don't get smug about it." I pinch his side and he flinches. "I said tempted. Past tense. Momentary insanity."
"How momentary?"
"About three seconds." I pause. "Maybe four."
His chest shakes with silent laughter. "I'll take four seconds."
"You'll take what I give you."
"Always." He presses a kiss to my hair.
I turn my head to study him. The lamp throws warm light across his face, softening the hard angles. He looks younger without the constant tension pulling at his features.
I was serious, though. For way more than four seconds, if I'm being honest with myself, I'd considered just... letting the game play out. Not letting him think he'd won. Letting him actually win.
Dio, what does that say about me? That some part of me wanted to be caught? Wanted to catch him?
I'm not sure I want to examine that too closely.
"Whatever happens next, the trial, the countdown, all of it. This is real now. We're real."
His hand stills on my hip. "Were we not before?"
"Before, we could have walked away." I reach up and touch his face, feeling the muscle twitch under my fingertips. "Now we can't."
"Did you want to? Walk away?"
I consider the question. Consider the man who replaced my birth control with fakes, who's been watching me for seven years, who stopped the moment I froze and asked if I wanted to continue.
Think about the woman who almost wished she hadn't figured it out.
"No," I say. "I don't."
His arm tightens around me. I press my face into his chest and let myself have this, thirty seconds where I'm not a judge, not a target, not a mother running threat assessments in my sleep. Just a woman in a bed with a man who isn't going anywhere.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
I should ignore it. News alerts at this hour are never good news, and I already know what it's going to say. Another name. Another city. Another colleague I'll have to pretend I remember at a memorial I'll be too dead to attend.
I look anyway. The compulsion to know is the same one that makes me check Chesca twice, annotate every filing, document every threat. Evidence exists whether I look at it or not.
Federal Judge Carmen Delgado found dead in San Diego home. Cause of death pending.
Nine. The count is nine now.
I met her once, maybe. A conference in Sacramento three years ago? We talked about caseloads and bad courthouse coffee. She'd just gotten a corgi puppy, something with a ridiculous name. I can't remember her face, but I remember she laughed when she said it.
The warmth drains out of me so fast it's physical. One second I'm safe, and the next I'm a statistic waiting to happen. Cole feels me go rigid. He reads over my shoulder, and his arm around me shifts from comfort to something harder. Protective.
We just said we can't walk away.
Fourteen days. And the number on the other side keeps climbing.
I stare at the screen until it goes dark. The bedroom is quiet. His hand on my hip doesn't move. Neither do I.
Somewhere in San Diego, someone's phone is ringing and ringing and no one is picking up.