Chapter 27
Sloane
Two Months Later
The courthouse looms above me, a powerful symbol of justice. Coming here feels almost like coming home, if home was a cold, uninviting, and somewhat fearsome place designed not to be welcoming but to be revered.
I step through the heavy glass doors of the County Courthouse, my heels clicking sharply against the marble floor, the sound echoing up into the high ceilings.
The building is all harsh light and authority, tall columns, flags standing rigid in the corners, people moving with purpose or trying to look like they have it.
My palms are dry, which surprises me. I expected them to be sweating. I thought my body would betray the tightly coiled, nervous energy that hums through me, but it’s hidden under my practiced air of control.
I adjust the lapel of my blazer, smoothing it down and grounding myself in the familiarity of the fabric, its structure. It’s my armor, it always has been.
“You good?”
I glance to my left at David Thompson, one of the junior attorneys assisting on the case. He’s younger than me by a few years, sharp but still a little too eager, his tie slightly crooked like he’s been tugging at it too much.
“I’m good,” I say with a brisk nod. I am, mostly.
“I’ve reviewed the opening again,” he says quickly. “Everything’s tight.”
“I know.”
He nods slowly, but he still looks nervous.
That makes me smile faintly. I remember what it felt like on my first big case, the nerves mixed with adrenaline, the tendency to second-guess and wonder ‘what if I missed something?’
“Relax,” I tell David. “We’ve got this.” There’s no uncertainty in my voice. I built this case piece by piece, thread by thread, until there was nowhere left for it to unravel.
Still, Briggs didn’t hire amateurs. Across the lobby, I catch sight of his legal team, all men.
They’re wearing sharp suits and sharper expressions, the kind of men who bill more in an hour than most people make in a month.
At the center of them stands Victor Hale, a name that carries weight in every courtroom.
He’s good. Very good. Which means today won’t be easy.
“Five minutes,” David says, checking his watch.
I nod. “Bathroom,” I murmur, already turning.
David doesn’t question it, he’s too absorbed in the contents of his briefcase.
The restroom is cool and quiet. The sounds of the hubbub outside are distant and distorted. The harsh fluorescent lights hum overhead, reflecting too brightly off the mirrors and pale tile walls.
I grip the edge of the sink, staring at my reflection.
You’ve done this before. You know how to do this. You’re ready.
I inhale slowly—a pre-trial ritual. A wave of nausea rolls through me so violently that it steals the breath from my lungs, hitting me suddenly and unexpectedly.
“Oh—” I barely make it to the stall, the door crashing as I hurl myself into the nearest one.
The world tilts, my stomach lurching as I drop to my knees, one hand braced against the cool tile, the other gripping the edge of the toilet as everything comes up, quick and brutal, leaving my throat burning, eyes watering.
I stay there for a second after, breathing hard, waiting for the room to stop spinning.
“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath.
Nerves. It has to be nerves. It’s been a long time since I’ve stood in a courtroom like this. After the last time, everything that followed the Escar trial, it’s no wonder I feel nervous. Of course, my body is reacting.
When I’m certain that the sickness has passed, I push myself up slowly, standing on shaking legs.
I move back to the sink, rinsing my mouth, splashing cold water across my face.
The chill bites into my skin, grounding me, dragging me back into focus.
I straighten, fixing my hair, smoothing my jacket again, rebuilding the armor piece by piece.
I spritz some perfume and pop some gum, chewing for a moment until the fuzz is removed from my teeth, then wrap it in tissue and throw it in the bin.
“You’re fine,” I tell my reflection. “You’ve got this.” Then I turn and head back out.
The courtroom is already filling when I step inside. Rows of wooden benches, polished and worn, the faint creak of movement as people shift and settle. The air is heavier here, thick with anticipation, tension curling just beneath the surface like a live wire.
At the front, behind the defense table, stands Harlan Briggs. Smiling. A sharp, smug smile. He wears the expression of a man confident that he’ll get away with it. He still thinks he’s going to walk out of this untouched.
His lawyers surround him, murmuring quietly in his ear. Briggs’s smirk falls, he paints a new expression on, transforming into the wrongly accused, law-abiding citizen who can’t quite believe he’s here.
My confidence wavers. Just for a second. A flicker. A crack.
But then I look up, and I see them, my men, my rocks, Rook, Boone, and Cruz, they’re all here, sitting in the gallery, taking up more space than anyone else in the room without even trying.
Even in their smart suits, they stand out.
That dangerous yet enticing aura they have attracts more than a few glances, some appreciative, some not so much.
They don’t say a word, but their presence is enough.
Rook catches my eye first, and he nods once, slow and certain.
Boone gives me a small, reassuring smile, his eyes filled with unspoken support, calm and grounded as ever.
Cruz flashes a quick thumbs up, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth like he’s already decided how this ends.
Just like that, my doubt disappears.
I straighten my shoulders, lift my chin, and stride forward. I won’t be intimidated, I won’t let them make me doubt my abilities. I’m here to end him. To end this, once and for all.
When it’s my time to address the jury, I rise slowly, taking my time, giving the impression of total control and confidence.
There’s no space for uncertainty. Being a lawyer can sometimes feel like a performance.
The jury isn’t just listening to what we say, they’re watching our every move, seeing what our bodies confess that our words try to hide.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury—” My voice carries through the mostly silent room, clear and steady, stronger than I feel. The only sound is the occasional cough and the rustling of papers.
“This case is not about a misunderstanding. It is not about coincidence, or unfortunate circumstance.” I pace slowly, deliberately, letting my words settle.
“This is about control. About power. About a man who built an empire on exploitation and believed himself untouchable.”
I don’t look at Briggs, not yet. He tries to throw me off, clicking his pen open and closed. But cheap tricks won’t work on me.
“This trial will show you the structure of that empire. The money that flowed through it. The properties that supported it. The people it destroyed.” Now I look at him.
“And the man who thought he would never be held accountable. The man who hid his crimes behind a veneer of respectability. The man who thought he could fool the good people of this county.”
Silence settles, you could hear a pin drop. I can practically hear the jury’s heads turning to look at him, seeing through the respectable facade to the man underneath. His fancy lawyers and expensive watch only alienate him from the small-town jury. They’re thinking, ‘he’s not one of us.’
I hold still for a moment, allowing the weight of my words to really sink in before I sit back down, a small smile on my face as I meet the guys’ eyes above me. They’re grinning like the Cheshire cat, because they know as well as I do that I nailed it.
***
By the time we get home hours later, I’m running on fumes. The first day went well, but Briggs’ team put up a solid fight, and they fought dirty. Today is just the first of a series of long, tough days to come.
The adrenaline I felt earlier is gone, replaced by a deep, bone-level exhaustion that settles into every muscle, every thought. The clubhouse feels warmer tonight, softer, welcoming me home.
The smell of food still lingers in the air. Rook made us dinner, rich, savory, and comforting. Rook is still in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, moving with quiet efficiency as he clears plates and wipes down the counter.
Cruz scoops Jessy up from the couch, where he read her a nighttime story after bathtime. She’s as exhausted as we are, ready for sleep; she doesn’t protest, resting her head against Cruz’s shoulder, her arms looped loosely around his neck. “Got her,” he says to me.
I nod. “Thanks.”
“Say night-night, kiddo,” Cruz tells Jessy.
“Night, Mommy, night Daddies,” she says with a yawn, waving a limp hand as Cruz ambles down the corridor to her bedroom.
“Night, sweetheart,” I reply, watching them walk away, feeling utterly content.
Boone guides me gently toward the couch. “Sit.”
I don’t argue as I sink into the cushions, letting my head fall back for a second. “God, I’m tired,” I mutter to no one in particular.
A moment later, Boone is kneeling in front of me, his hands warm as they wrap around my foot, thumbs pressing into the arch in slow, steady movements.
I exhale. “You don’t—” my protests are silenced by how good it feels on my aching feet, sore from being in heels all day and standing for hours.
“I know, but I want to,” he says quietly.
I close my eyes briefly. “I was sick this morning,” I admit absentmindedly.
His hands pause slightly. “Yeah?”
“In the courthouse,” I say. “Right before we went in. I had to run to the bathroom.”
Rook falls silent in the kitchen. Cruz’s returning footsteps pause.
“First time?” Boone asks.
I shake my head slightly. “No. It’s been happening for a couple of weeks, feeling nauseous, though this is the first time I was actually sick. I just think it was nerves.”
I open my eyes to catch the subtle look that passes between them.
Cruz slowly enters the room. “You’ve been feeling sick for a couple of weeks?” he repeats.
I frown slightly. “Yeah. Why?”
He glances at Rook, then Boone, then back at me. “Maybe it’s not nerves.”
The implication of what he’s suggesting is clear. I’m rendered speechless for a moment, wondering how it hadn’t occurred to me before—especially considering we’re trying for a child. I shake my head. “But surely it’s too soon…”
Rook steps closer, his gaze steady. “Only one way to find out.”
***
The test feels heavier than it should; it’s just a plastic stick.
My hands are shaking slightly as I hold it, following the instructions carefully.
It feels like a lifetime ago that I did this last. But this time, I’m not alone.
This time I’m sharing the moment with my partners.
The guys hover outside the door while I take it, and when I’m done, we wait together.
The wait feels like the longest few minutes of my life.
No one speaks. No one moves. It’s like we’re collectively holding our breath.
Part of me wonders if they’re having second thoughts, if they’ll feel relief if my sickness turns out to be just nerves.
But one look at their faces tells me that isn’t true.
The beeping alarm cuts through the silence like a knife, making me jump. Rook silences it and looks at me. “It’s time.”
“Moment of truth,” Cruz says with a smile.
Boone squeezes my free hand as I pick up the test. I take a deep breath as I tell myself that whatever the outcome, we’ll be fine. I look down.
There are two clear lines. Unmistakable.
My breath catches. “I’m—” I look up at my men, eyes shining with tears as the shock and joy hit me at once. “I’m pregnant.”