Chapter Three
Chris looked up from the Scrabble app on his phone when the conference room door opened. Isabela Cruz strolled in like she had all the time in the world. She was two minutes late. Not that he was keeping track.
Her pace was unhurried, her expression unreadable. In one hand, she held a stainless-steel coffee tumbler, the kind that screamed eco-conscious hippie. The other hand was full. A phone, notebook, and pen, all balanced with ease like she’d done it a hundred times.
Chris had prepped himself to not react to her looks again. He failed. The light gray skirt suit hugged her body like it had been custom-made. The silky white blouse underneath was strained at the seams in a way that made his pulse pick up. Sky high heels punctuated the look.
Thick, dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail so tight it could probably withstand a hurricane. It annoyed him that he wanted to tug it loose. He forced his gaze to her face. Her eyes met his and she gave him a fake, tight smile.
“Good morning,” she said in a singsong voice, syrupy enough to stick.
“Morning,” he replied flatly.
This conference room was smaller than the one from yesterday. It was also more informal. There was a round table, no corners to hide in, with windows letting in too much natural light for his liking. It felt more like a therapy session than an interview.
She set her things down and, without a word, chose the chair farthest from him, the scrape of its legs loud in the quiet room.
The gesture was subtle but deliberate, a line drawn between them.
Chris tried not to flinch at it, but the implication sat heavy in his gut.
The idea that any woman felt the need to keep her distance from him turned his stomach, souring the breakfast he’d forced down earlier.
Maybe she wanted to make a point. Or maybe he really was losing his damn mind.
She silenced her phone, opened her notebook, and clicked her pen. The sip she took from her tumbler was long and slow. Probably just to needle him. Chris clenched his jaw. God, this was going to be a long morning.
“Before we get started,” she said cheerfully, “can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Water?”
He shook his head no.
She nodded and moved on without missing a beat. “I’ll be recording our sessions as well as taking notes. Do you have a problem with that?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Would it change anything if I did?”
“I’m happy to explain why I do both,” she said lightly. “In case I need to circle back—”
“It’s fine,” he cut in.
Her smile didn’t falter, but the edges of it sharpened. “Do you understand the purpose of our meeting today, and likely several more?”
She didn’t wait for a reply.
“In order to adequately represent you, I need to know as much about you as possible. Professionally, personally, pretty much everything.”
He gave a short nod.
“I’ll send some paperwork home with you, but it’s best to start with the basics. Where would you like to begin?”
Chris let out a bitter laugh. “You mean when did I start becoming the most hated cop in Seattle?”
She met his eyes without blinking. “You said it, not me.”
That hit harder than it should have. A hot, sour thread of anger climbed up his throat.
Isabela exhaled slowly, shifting tactics as she forced another smile.
“You do realize we’re trying to help you, right?” she said. “The sooner you talk, the sooner we can both move on.”
“Then ask a question I can answer,” he ground out.
Her mouth thinned. The fake smile disappeared, thank God.
She regrouped quickly. “Can we start with your time in the Marines? I see you served eight years and were honorably discharged before enrolling in the academy.”
“Was there a question in there?”
She didn’t react. “Why did you enlist?”
“Because my dad did,” Chris replied, not having to work to sound bored.
“Okay. Good. We’re making progress. What did you do in the Marines?” she asked.
“Served my country,” Chris responded.
Isabela looked up. “Did you see active combat?”
“Yes.”
“Can you elaborate?”
Chris shifted lower in his chair. “No.”
“You can’t, or you won’t?” her eyes narrowed.
He pushed against the flashbacks competing for airtime in his warped brain. “Both.”
She closed her notebook slightly, her pen frozen midair. “Mr. Macklin, please. Give me something.”
For the first time since she walked in, her face showed something real. Frustration, sure, but also a flicker of emotion. Not cold detachment or polite professionalism. It struck him how pretty she was when she let the mask slip. Her full lips pouting, her cheeks flushed from irritation.
He tried to hold onto that pretty face instead of the wretched images her questions had triggered. Did he see active combat? Yes, entirely too much of it. He looked away and for a moment, he wasn’t in the conference room anymore. He was on his last mission.
The air had been thick with heat and rot. Chris could still taste it, heavy and humid, tinged with the metallic scent of blood. Even worse, the silence. The kind that meant they were too late.
They’d reached the checkpoint just after dawn. Several hours after they were supposed to have reached it due to weather. It had been Chris’s call. He had decided to hold his men back.
A squat hut by a narrow riverbend stood before them. Intel said someone there had information. Someone who knew where their target was headed.
Instead, there was a family. Or what was left of one.
Chris had been first to step into the doorway, his weapon slack at his side, his mind screaming behind his eyes.
The heat had already started its work, bloating skin, drawing flies and other insects.
A small child sized arm dangled over the broken edge of a cot, the fingers too still.
The massacre had long stopped. Now there was just stillness and stench.
They were supposed to be helping. Supposed to be doing something right. Instead, they were standing helpless in the jungle, staring at the kind of evil that left no fingerprints. The kind of evil that once you stopped it, only sprouted elsewhere. An entire family erased, and no one would pay.
Then his radio crackled. Just like that, it was time to go. Time to disappear into the green jungle like ghosts. They’d turned to move out when the first shot rang out. The man in front of Chris crumpled before he could scream.
Chris blinked, the image of the jungle fading behind his eyes. He rubbed his temple like he could scrape the memory out. That day he made a promise to do everything in his power to ensure no other innocents would suffer because he was too late. It was a promise he hadn’t kept.
“Mr. Macklin...” Isabela’s voice cleared away the rest of the fog.
“I was special forces,” he said hoarsely. “I can’t talk about most of it. What I can talk about, I’d rather forget.”
Isabela paused, caught off-guard. “Oh. Um ... thank you for your service.”
She recovered quickly, flipping the page in her notebook.
“Were there any complaints or charges brought against you during your military service?”
Chris shook his head, not trusting his voice to fully comply.
“Why did you ask to be discharged?” She tilted her head, allowing her long ponytail to fall across her shoulder.
He hesitated. Because I couldn’t sleep. Because I couldn’t look at children, including my own niece, without smelling jungle rot. Because I knew if I stayed, I’d lose whatever humanity I had left.
“It was just time,” he said finally.
She nodded, her voice quieter. “Okay. But no incidents I’m going to uncover later, right?”
“No, ma’am.”
Her brows lifted at the formality. “Isabela is fine.”
Chris looked at her and saw a sharp, intelligent woman. A woman who clearly hated having to represent him. Who probably thought he was every headline she’d read. And yet she hadn’t walked out. He forced his gaze to the window. Let her think what she wants. Just get through the damn meeting.
****
The next hour dragged.
Marcus was depending on her to break through this client’s walls, but they were no ordinary walls.
Christopher Macklin was a fortress, complete with stone walls, sharp edges, and no welcome mat in sight.
Every answer felt like prying a nail from concrete.
Isabela had to constantly pivot, redirect, and probe gently.
It was exhausting. By the time she closed her notebook, she was mentally spent.
"Okay," she said, standing and stretching, feeling the tension pull through her shoulders. Her blouse shifted slightly, and she instinctively glanced down, only to catch Chris’s eyes ... not on her face. Heat bloomed in her stomach.
He met her gaze unapologetically, continuing to watch her. It was the oddest sensation but for half a second, she couldn’t decide if she liked it. Of course, you don’t, she scolded herself. He’s impossible. He’s your client. A client that clearly was set on intimidating her.
Forcing herself to break the tension, she said briskly, “I’ll go over my notes and see what we should cover next time. Let’s set up the next meeting time now. It’ll save you from going back and forth with Kelly over email.”
“Okay,” he said, thankfully breaking eye contact.
“What works for you?”
“Tomorrow? Might as well get this over with,” he grumbled.
She shook her head. “As much as I’d appreciate that, I was thinking next week. I’ll be out of town this weekend and taking a half day tomorrow. How about Tuesday morning?”
His eyebrow rose in question. “What happened to Mondays?”
“I won’t be back in the office until Tuesday.”
Chris let out a bark of laughter. “Wow. Nice hours you folks work.”
Her mouth worked faster than her brain. “If you mean the folks who went to college for seven years and haven’t taken personal time off in, I don’t know, ever, then yes.”
The burn in her cheeks wasn’t just from frustration. She was embarrassed. She never snapped like that. Why did he get under her skin?
“Tuesday works,” he said nonchalantly, as if she weren’t standing there ready to combust.
Then he stood, the sheer size of him crowding her space. He was easily a few inches over six feet, which meant that even in her stilettos, she had to tilt her chin to meet his gaze.
Slowly, methodically, he shrugged into his jacket, never taking his eyes off hers. He was doing it on purpose. He was using intimidation tactics, but her pulse fluttered anyway.
When he leaned toward her, she tensed. Instinct kicked in, her foot shifting back before she even realized she was moving. Instead of reaching for her, his hand slid past her arm, fingers closing around his phone on the table.
“Enjoy your first time off ever,” he said, so close she could see the faint freckles on his nose and feel his warm, peppermint-scented breath brushing her cheek.
Then he turned and walked out, closing the door behind him. It took every ounce of restraint not to hurl her notebook at it.
“Ugh!”
Izzy let herself have that one outburst, her voice echoing in the now empty conference room. Equal parts furious and shaken, she could still smell him in the air, all clean, sharp, and maddening.
Christopher Macklin was dragging her back into territory she’d fought hard to bury.
The part of herself that burned too hot, that bristled too fast. The part she’d muted through law school, determined to be taken seriously.
Not as a stereotype, not as the hysterical Hispanic, not as the girl with a mouth too quick for her own good.
At her top-tier Midwestern law school, she’d tucked her attitude away like contraband. Now, Mr. Macklin was bringing it roaring back.
Taking a deep, centering breath, she gathered her notes and returned to her office. Shoulders still stiff, she sat down hard in her chair. Trying to gather her thoughts, she stared at the calendar in her phone.
She’d been honest earlier. She really didn’t take time off. Usually reserving her personal days for when they lined up with holidays or events she couldn’t avoid.
This year, her annual girls’ weekend couldn’t wait for Memorial Day. Her friends had lives, kids, careers, conflicting schedules. So, she’d carved out half of a Friday and a Monday for them. Now, thanks to Chris, she felt guilty for it.
She groaned aloud. “I am not doing this.”
Scrolling through her phone, she went to open the voice recorder to review the interview, then paused. A new message lit up her screen. It was from her brother.
Nic: At Mom and Dad’s. Can you swing by for dinner tonight?
Isabela hesitated. She usually said no to weeknight dinners. She was too busy and too drained. Except for Sunday nights. She never missed those. Her abuela would have her head. She almost typed out a polite excuse, but something stopped her.
Maybe it was Macklin’s voice still echoing in her head, those clipped, bitter responses. Maybe it was the way her hands were still trembling slightly from anger or adrenaline. Or both. Whatever it was, her fingers moved fast as she replied.
Isabela: Yep. See you at six.
She tossed the phone on her desk and leaned back in her chair. Screw this. Screw staying late, listening to footage of a man who wouldn’t give her more than a half a truth at a time. Screw sitting in this office until sunset just to prove she could.
Tonight, she was going home to comfort food and family. To something that reminded her of life before she left Seattle chasing a dream. To who she was before making partner became her end game.
Christopher Macklin had stepped into her life little more than twenty-four hours ago and had already unsettled her completely. She couldn’t imagine what would happen by the time this man was through with her.