DAWN
“Bullshit.”
“Order in the court.” The judge’s voice booms across the room, echoing off the pale walls like we’re all trapped inside a hollow box.
This is so not how I imagined my summer. Other girls are at the beach, shopping with friends, getting wasted, or at least binge-watching Netflix in bed.
Me? I’ve been stuck in a goddamn courthouse with no windows, no daylight, and absolutely no escape. All because my parents think it’s important for the press to see that their daughter is supportive.
Which, for the record, I’m not. Just because I’ve spent my entire summer sitting in this room does not mean I agree with them.
My parents are basically the real-life version of Blair’s parents from Gossip Girl. Money, status, perfectly ironed clothes, and very important business calls are all infinitely more important than their own daughter.
Not that I really mind them not being around, it’s better than having them constantly judging everything I do. But they could’ve at least given me a sibling. Or a dog. Or even a rat, for Christ’s sake. Just someone in that house I could actually have fun with.
Thankfully, I can escape most of the time to my best friend’s house. Amaya’s family is nothing like mine.
She’s the fourth kid in a family of seven.
Seven. Her mother is basically a fertility goddess.
And just like Amaya, they’re all ridiculously kind.
She has three older sisters who’ve already moved out, but the younger ones are still at home.
I love playing with them—brushing their hair, building huge car tracks across the living room floor, or dragging them to the park.
Their house is always loud, but it’s the good kind of loud. The kind that feels warm and welcoming.
So my plan was simple: spend the entire summer with Amaya and her family. But my parents decided it would be a great idea to drag me into their stupid business crap instead. Personally, I couldn’t give a damn about their lawsuit.
I shift in my chair, sweating my tits off in a way too tight skirt my mother forced me in, staring at the polished wooden benches that squeak every time someone moves.
“Your collar is folded, Dawn.”
My mother’s whisper makes me want to roll my eyes so far back they can roll out of this room. But instead I fix the collar of my blouse, trying to keep my eyes in front of me.
The judge clears his throat, puts on his thin glasses while shuffling a stack of papers in front of him. His voice is clipped, sharp, the kind that belongs to someone who’s been speaking in courtrooms his whole life.
“I am going to read the case summary once more for the record and for all present in this courtroom,” the judge begins. “This matter concerns the estate of William Landford, recently passed, and a dispute over ownership of a section of land that was held in his name.”
My chest tightens slightly at his name.
William. My grandfather. I didn’t see him often—holidays, the occasional stiff birthday lunch—but he was kind to me in a way my parents never quite managed. The kind of man who remembered your favourite candy and slipped it into your pocket when no one was watching.
The judge keeps talking, outlining the case in careful, measured terms, but to not bore you with what I have been listening to all summer, the short version is this: my grandfather William owned part of our town.
Not just some empty field. But a whole stretch of the older part of town, filled with small working-class houses.
My father, Charles Landford, believes it automatically belongs to him now that my grandfather is gone.
But Mark Dawson disagrees. He worked for my grandfather for years—decades, actually. According to him, my grandfather promised the land would go to him one day. And Mark actually lives in that part of town.
I probably shouldn’t say this out loud, but I actually hope my parents lose. Mark is a good man. He worked his ass off for my grandfather for decades. Work my father refuses to do, by the way. Because apparently he “has people for that.” The people being hardworking people like Mark.
The judge nods towards Mark. “Mr. Dawson, you may proceed.”
Mark rises, tall enough that he stands out immediately.
He looks to be in his forties, his hair mostly brown but beginning to soften at the edges with streaks of grey, the same warm shade reflected in his eyes.
His suit hangs a little loose on his broad shoulders, his hands rough and his wife Tereza sits close beside him.
“Your Honor,” Mark begins, voice calm but firm, “I worked for William Landford for over thirty years. During that time, he made it clear—more than once, and in writing—that he intended for me to have ownership of that land if he passed.”
He reaches down, briefly touching the folder in front of him.
“I have lived on that property since I was a little boy. Invested my time and my savings into keeping those homes standing for the families who depend on them.” His gaze lifts, sweeping the room before settling on my father.
“William believed that land should remain a place for working families. For people in this town who don’t start life with every advantage handed to them. ”
The silence that follows is thick. I almost want to clap my hands at his words.
“And with respect, Your Honor,” Mark adds quietly, “I do not believe Mr. Charles Landford’s current plans for the property reflect the intentions William shared with me over the years.”
I couldn't agree more, Mark.
“Thank you, Mr. Dawson. You may be seated.” The judge shifts his attention.
“Mr. Landford.” My father rises smoothly, buttoning his suit jacket like he’s preparing for a boardroom presentation instead of speaking about his dead father’s land.
His hair is perfectly in place, not a strand out of line, and there’s something about the sharpness of his features that makes him look less like a grieving son and more like a man closing a deal.
There’s no warmth in his eyes—only something calculated, distant—like you could almost see money numbers flickering behind them.
His company’s logo stamped there instead of anything human.
“Your Honor,” he says, voice polished and confident, “while Mr. Mark Dawson’s long employment with my father is not in dispute, there is no executed will, no deed transfer, and no legally binding conveyance of this property.”
He rests his hands lightly on the table. “My father died without an official will. Under the law, the estate passes to his lawful heir.” His chin lifts slightly. “That would be me.”
The way he speaks as if Mark is nothing but dust on the windowsill almost makes my face frown.
My father’s eyes remain fixed on Mark. “Blood,” my father says evenly, “is not sentiment. It is a legal fact. And my wife and I fully intend to develop this property in a way that benefits everyone in this town—”
“Bullshit.”
The word cracks across the courtroom like glass shattering. Every head turns.
Rayden Dawson.
He’s slouched in his chair, arms crossed, his brown hair messy, legs stretched out like he doesn’t give a single fuck.
As much as I like Mark and Tereza, I will never understand how he is their son. He’s self-centred, rude, cocky, and apparently allergic to basic manners. The top buttons of his shirt hang open, his blazer wrinkled, like he didn’t even bother pretending to make an effort for his family today.
The judge’s gavel slams down, the sharp crack making me jump. “Order,” he snaps, his voice slicing through the whispers already spreading across the room. “Mr. Dawson, you will refrain from outbursts in this courtroom.”
Rayden doesn’t flinch. If anything, he leans back even farther in his chair, jaw tight, like he’s practically daring the judge to throw him out.
He makes me want to roll my eyes back even harder.
Across the aisle, Mark gives a small shake of his head, a quiet apology written all over it. While Tereza’s hand tightens around Rayden’s arm, like she’s physically holding him back from saying anything else.
The judge exhales. “That is enough for today. Court is adjourned until next Monday morning at ten o’clock. All parties are dismissed.”
Chairs scrape. Voices rise. The room dissolves into noise almost instantly.
The hallway feels heavier when we step outside, my mother’s heels click sharply against the marble while my father is already straightening his jacket, his attention shifting past us—straight to his lawyer.
My mother, however, is still very much focused on me. “You sat well enough,” she says, sending me a cool, assessing glance. “But try to keep your chin up next time, Dawn. Cameras notice everything.”
I bite back the urge to argue. And before I can answer, movement across the hall catches my eye. Mark and Tereza step out with their lawyer, speaking in low, urgent voices.
My father’s smile sharpens as he turns toward them.
“Mark,” he calls smoothly, his tone warm in that way that definitely isn’t friendly. “Strong showing today. My father always did appreciate your… dedication.”
There’s the slightest pause. Just enough to sting.
“Though I suppose some habits are hard to let go of.”
Mark’s jaw tightens. Tereza’s hand settles gently on his arm, and after a brief moment, he gives a single, controlled nod. “Good day, Charles.”
He turns, guiding Tereza with him as they walk away.
I give them a small hidden smile as they walk past me, but they look straight ahead.
Can’t blame them.
When I glance back at my parents, satisfaction is written all over my father’s face. My mother looks faintly amused as he takes her hand and steers her toward the front doors like the whole thing is already wrapped and filed away.
For a moment, I stay where I am, closing my eyes for a second as the noise of the hallway presses in around me. Already preparing to paste on the world's fakest smile.
“Well…”
I startle, turning to find Rayden leaning against the wall behind me, arms crossed like he’s been there longer than I’d like.
“Guess you feel really happy, eh?”, he says, his brown eyes steady on mine.
I stare up at him. “Excuse me?”
His gaze drifts briefly down the hallway where my parents disappeared, then back to me. “Your father’s already acting like he won,” he says. “Thought you might be celebrating.”
I turn my gaze away, straight in front of me. I softly laugh under my breath and shake my head. What the hell does he know?
“I’m not celebrating shit,” I mutter under my breath.
In the corner of my eye, I see him giving me a look and opening his mouth. “Are you allowed to swear, princess?”
“Don’t call me that.” I turn my gaze back to him, and notice his jaw, so sharp you can cut class with it, and his eyes darken slightly as I lock my eyes with his.
Yes, even though I will never in my life admit this to someone—he is not ugly.
Okay, fine, he is very good looking. He’s tall and athletic, the kind that makes you feel really small.
His brown hair is always slightly messy, his skin faintly tanned from his mother’s Spanish side.
And I could look at his coffee brown eyes all day if they weren't stuck to his face. But don’t let his looks deceive you—they do not match the ugliness of his personality.
His mouth twitches faintly as he looks me up and down, and for a second the attention makes my skin prickle. “Guess the princess has a temper.”
He really is insufferable. I don’t even bother responding. It’s not worth the effort.
He finally pushes off the wall. As he steps aside, he gives a slow, exaggerated dip of his head.
“Good day, my lady,” he says with a mocking tone, as if we live in fucking 1700.
And then he brushes past me, his shoulder knocking lightly against mine, just deliberate enough to make my teeth clench.
God, I hate him.
I hate the way he talks. The way he always calls me. The way he stands. I even hate the way he fucking breathes—ugh.
At least school starts in two days. And with it, the exchange program. Which means I get to live somewhere else in the world working as an intern. And even better news—it lasts three months.
Three. Whole. Months.
Honestly, it feels like a gift from God. Or Jesus. Or whatever heavenly department handles emergency escapes from terrible summers.
No parents around to judge me. No courtroom every morning. And most importantly—no Rayden Dawson and his stupid face.