Chapter 2
TWO
THE GHOST OF WHAT WE WERE
ARIA
The judge’s gavel falls, and the sound hits like a gunshot.
“Case dismissed,” he says, and just like that, I win. Again.
The opposing counsel deflates beside me, mumbling something about appeals and procedures, but I don’t hear him. My client squeezes my arm, relief flooding her face, and I force a smile.
The courtroom exhales, half the crowd grateful, the other half furious. My client grabs my hand, tears streaking her mascara. “You’re incredible, Aria.”
I nod, smile, and slip away before the praise can stick.
Outside the courthouse, the February wind slices clean through my coat. Across the street, a biker leans against a Harley, head bent, smoke curling from his hand. The patch catches the light.
SAINTS OUTLAWS MC.
For a heartbeat, my chest seizes. The world blurs into the flash of chrome and thunder, Steel’s voice rough in my ear. “Keep your head up, counselor.”
I blink, and he’s gone. Just a stranger, just a memory. But my pulse still doesn’t get the message.
I pull my coat tighter and start walking, heels clicking sharply against the concrete steps. The city moves around me, impatient, faceless, loud. Cars honk, a bus hisses at the curb, someone’s arguing into a phone nearby. It’s all motion without meaning, a rhythm that never syncs with mine.
A snowflake melts against my cheek, and for a split second, I smell exhaust mixed with motor oil, like the ghost of a ride I can’t take anymore.
I left him standing in the rain the night we buried the General.
He wouldn’t let anyone close, not even me.
I told myself that leaving him that night was mercy.
He buried his father, buried his faith, and there was no room left for me in that storm.
That my leaving would keep us both from breaking.
But driving away when he had no clue, that’s the part that still wakes me up some nights. He needed someone to stay, and I ran.
By the time I reach the law firm’s building, the world feels smaller. The glass facade reflects everything I’m not, polished, untouchable, cold. Inside, the elevator hums softly, carrying me upward into the version of myself that fits behind a desk.
My office sits on the tenth floor, all glass and edges. The city sprawls beyond my window, pretty, polished, and completely disconnected. From up here, it’s easy to pretend I’ve made it. Easier still to ignore how empty that feels.
Everything inside looks exactly the way a partner’s office should. Minimalist furniture, framed degrees, a wall of law journals lined up with military precision. Even the plants on the windowsill look perfect. Probably because they’re fake.
It smells like coffee gone cold and whatever lemon disinfectant the night crew uses after hours. No warmth. No life. Just order.
The desk is sleek steel gray, stacked with contracts and filings I can recite in my sleep.
There’s one photograph I keep hidden in the bottom drawer.
It’s of Steel and me on his Harley, both of us grinning like the world was ours.
I keep it face down beneath a pile of depositions like it’s evidence of a crime.
The walls are white enough to echo when I close the door. My name glints on the glass in gold lettering:
Aria Brennan, Esq.
It shines like a win, but it feels more like a warning. I win cases here, but every verdict costs me another piece of something I used to recognize. Another piece of me.
I walk to the window, press my fingertips against the cold glass, and stare at the skyline until it blurs. Cars move below like tiny silver veins, pulsing through the heart of a city that doesn’t care who it eats alive.
This is supposed to be a success, but it just feels like survival with better lighting.
The hum of the building fills the silence. The printer down the hall chirps awake, someone’s heels clicking across marble, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights that never sleep.
I blink, and for half a heartbeat, I see him reflected in the glass. Broad shoulders, leather, shadow. I exhale, and he’s gone.
The Saints were my family once. Now my name is something they whisper like a threat.
The phone on my desk blinks red. One new voicemail.
I don’t know it yet, but the moment I press play, everything I’ve been running from starts finding its way back.
The red light on the phone blinks like it’s judging me. One message. I press play before I can think twice.
Draft’s voice fills the room, low and familiar, the kind of tone that used to drift through late-night poker games and planning sessions back at the clubhouse.
“Hey, counselor. We’ve got some paperwork piling up for Saint Motors. Deed transfers, zoning, the usual bureaucratic bullshit. Steel’s been dragging his feet. Could use your magic touch.”
Magic touch. God, they never learn how to pick their words.
For a second, I just sit there, hand frozen over the phone, listening to the quiet ring out after his message. The city noise fades behind the glass, replaced by the pounding in my chest.
I should delete it. I should pass it off to another attorney. I should let Steel do this since these things were his specialty, but something stubborn, stupid, and loyal inside me refuses to let go of that world. Maybe this is penance, helping him clean up the mess I walked away from.
Before I can talk myself down, I hit redial.
“Draft,” I say when he answers, voice rougher than I meant it to be.
He chuckles, but there’s guilt in it. “Didn’t think you’d call back.”
“You left a message.”
“Yeah. Guess I was hoping someone else would pick it up first.” He clears his throat. “It’s not urgent, but we need help with the deed transfer. City’s hounding us about permits, and Steel…”
“Avoids paperwork now like it’s a federal offense?” I cut in.
He laughs softly. “You know it. Ever since he took the gavel, he hasn’t been practicing law.”
“Unfortunately,” I say, though my mouth betrays me with the ghost of a smile. “I can bring the documents by tomorrow.”
“That’s not… hell, Aria, we can have a courier handle it. You don’t need to drive up here in this weather.”
“I’ll bring them myself. It’s only fifteen minutes on the back roads,” I state, too quickly. No highway, no distance. Just a few miles of frozen space between the life I built and the one I left behind. The words hang there, louder than they should be.
Thick, heavy silence hums between us, full of things we both know better than to say.
Finally, Draft exhales. “He doesn’t know I called.”
“Then don’t tell him.”
Another pause. “Still business, huh?”
“Strictly.” I hang up before the word strictly can sound like a lie.
The hum of the office creeps back in. The printer, the heating vent, the muffled buzz of other lawyers chasing their next win. I stare at the phone for a long minute, half expecting it to ring again.
It doesn’t.
I stand, smooth my skirt, and catch my reflection in the glass. The bright, busy city glares back, indifferent.
Six months of distance, and one voicemail just tore it open again.
I text my best friend, Leah, telling her I need her asap, and she responds immediately. Putting my phone in my briefcase, I shut and lock my office door and head to our favorite coffee shop.
The elevator ride feels longer than it should. I watch the floor numbers light up and fade, each one a heartbeat counting down to the part where I have to explain myself.
By the time the doors slide open, I’ve built a dozen excuses, and none of them sound convincing.
The lobby smells like coffee and copy toner, everyday chaos humming under fluorescent light. Outside, the wind whips through the streets, tugging at my coat as I walk the two blocks to the café. The city is alive with a new day. Horns blare, boots on slush, someone cursing into a phone.
I pass the corner where Steel used to wait on his bike, engine purring, grin sharp enough to ruin good judgment. My chest tightens, and I keep walking.
The bell above the café door jingles as I step inside. Warmth hits instantly. Espresso, cinnamon, laughter, and the noise soften the edge I’ve been carrying all morning.
Leah beat me to the café, which is how I know she’s about to give me hell. She’s sitting at our usual table by the window, two coffees already waiting, one black, one the complicated caramel concoction she swears is “therapy in a cup.”
She eyes me over the rim of hers as I slide into the chair opposite. “You look like someone just resurrected your past.”
“Close enough.” I wrap my hands around the cup, letting the heat sink into my palms. “I got a call from Draft.”
Her brows rise. “Saints Draft?”
“There’s another one?”
“God, Aria.” She sighs, leaning back. “What did the good boys of Mt. Pleasant do this time? Need a restraining order against reality?”
“Paperwork,” I say, too fast. “Just business.”
Leah’s grin sharpens. “Business. Right. That’s what we’re calling it now?”
“It is business.”
She stirs her coffee with the kind of precision I use on cross-examinations. “You mean you’re personally delivering said paperwork to Steel King, President of the Saints Outlaws MC, a man who looks like sin in denim and can’t emotionally regulate to save his life?”
“Leah.”
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
I glare. “He’s not…”
“Oh, he absolutely is.” She leans forward, chin in hand. “That man’s a storm you walk into on purpose.”
I can’t help my laugh. “You make it sound like I’m still.”
“Still what? In love with him?” Leah interrupts.
I choke on my coffee. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” Her tone softens. “Aria, I know you. You win cases in heels that could kill a man, but when it comes to him…”
I stare down at the coffee swirling in my cup. “It’s been six months, Leah.”
“And you still talk about him like he’s a court ruling that ruined your life.”
She’s not wrong. I hate that she’s not wrong.
“He lost his father,” I say quietly. “He lost everything. I just…”
“You just can’t help wanting to fix him.”