Chapter Fourteen
Saturday morning arrived wrapped in a thick, silver fog that blanketed the city, turning everything muted and indistinct. It mirrored Isabela’s mood perfectly. The world outside was quiet, subdued. Inside her chest, a storm had raged all night.
After a restless sleep, she had risen early, showered, and driven across town to Harborview Hospital. She needed to see Marcus. More than that, she needed absolution.
She had walked through the trauma center’s sterile glass doors fully intending to confess what had happened with Chris. Her hands had been clammy on the steering wheel the whole drive there, her mind rehearsing a dozen ways to say I crossed a line with a client.
However, the moment she saw Marcus alive, alert, and joking with his daughters as if he hadn’t just undergone major surgery, something inside her buckled.
His smile had been broad, though tired. “Izzy, come in. You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
The guilt slammed into her harder than the driver who’d hit him. He had played his usual role to perfection, comforting Jasmine, making his girls laugh, even teasing the nurse. When his family went home to shower and change, Isabela had her chance.
Marcus had cleared his throat, “How are you doing Izzy? Jas mentioned you also received threats. Are you still handling the Macklin case okay?”
Isabela looked the man who had mentored her, who believed in justice and truth, and lied.
An hour later, she left his room with a heart full of secrets and shame. Not a word about the kiss was spoken. Not one syllable. She told herself it wasn’t the right time. That he needed to rest. That there were bigger things to worry about. That was all true but none of it made her feel better.
The rest of the morning passed in a haze of phone calls and text messages.
She had stopped into the office after the hospital, which turned out to be a mistake.
When whispers spread that Marcus’s accident might have been deliberate, the rumor mill exploded.
The firm snapped into full crisis mode . .. on a Saturday afternoon.
On her way to her office, she glanced through the glass walls of a conference room, where the senior partners sat in debate, faces drawn and voices clipped.
She made a pathetic attempt to get work done, but concerned colleagues constantly interrupted her for updates about Marcus. The firm’s group text questioning the building’s security got so intense she had to mute the chain.
By mid-afternoon, a security detail was assigned to Marcus’s hospital room. The partners approved an upgrade to the office's security system, and someone had even suggested hiring personal protection for Isabela.
She declined the offer for private security. She was staying with her parents, after all. Last night, over a home cooked meal and worried glances, she’d sat them down and confessed to the threats. Or at least, a watered-down version of them.
A vague letter, some weird timing, nothing to worry about, she’d said.
It hadn’t mattered. Her mother had gone pale, as her father gripped his fork like it was a weapon.
Then, they both started talking over each other about calling the police, the mayor, maybe even moving.
She’d spent the rest of dinner trying to reel them back in.
When she arrived at her parents’, Nic was already there. He walked the perimeter of the family home twice, installed motion lights with practiced efficiency, and checked every lock like they were prepping for a siege. As if she needed the reminder that he was retired military.
Even with all that, Nic had still looked at her with worry etched into his features. “Stay sharp, Iz. Text me if you leave the house.”
She nodded like the good soldier she wasn’t feeling like, and tried to remember what being sharp even felt like.
****
Evening came as Isabela sat cross-legged on her twin bed, laptop heating up her thighs. Her back was sore from hunching over to type, but she didn’t move.
The lavender walls hadn’t changed since high school. A dozen outdated photos and dusty trophies still lined the shelf above her desk. The soft smell of simmering beans wafted up the stairs, providing a nostalgic comfort.
The fist around her heart had started to loosen a bit after getting home, but the pressure in her head refused to let go. She struggled to focus on her work.
They needed to be press-ready when the DA made their decision, rumored to be coming just ahead of the long weekend.
That gave them four business days. Four days to ensure the world knew that Christopher Macklin wasn’t a rogue cop with a trigger-happy finger, but a man who had been forced to make an impossible call.
Oh, Chris. The man took up residence in her head like a bad roommate, loud and uninvited. The draft of her legal brief already sketched a compelling narrative: a flawed hero grappling with the fallout of a fatal encounter, one made in a split-second during chaos.
There were still gaping holes. She needed more on the case from years ago, the one resulting in a child’s death. He’d passed the psychological evaluations afterward, only to be ordered into counseling months later. Something didn’t add up. Only Chris could fill in those blanks.
Which meant she needed to interview him again. The thought coiled low in her gut, dragging her breath down with it. Not because of the report, but because of last night. Because she threw herself at him like some frantic, emotional wreck. A professional meltdown in stilettos.
It was an unacceptable breach of legal ethics. It also breached the loneliness that sometimes felt overwhelming. The memory stirred up a storm of lust in her belly.
Chris hadn’t pulled away. He hadn’t looked at her with pity or distaste. He’d kissed her back just as hard. He’d held her like he meant it, like he needed her, too.
The memory was interrupted by the sharp knock on her door.
“Isabela, dinner,” her father called.
She glanced at the clock, surprised by the time. It was after six. She stretched, joints popping, and looked down at her notes. Half of them were useful. The rest were lines she'd typed and erased a dozen times, circling the truth that was just out of reach.
As she padded barefoot downstairs, the smell of her mother’s tortillas hit her like a hug. Her father stood at the stove stirring a pot of beans, humming a low tune, while her mom set down a pitcher of lemonade.
“There she is,” her mother said. “We were about to send a search party.”
“Sorry. Got caught up working.” Isabela helped herself to a glass.
Her father raised an eyebrow. “Still worried about that case, Mija?”
She nodded, lips pressed tight as she poured a tall glass of lemonade.
He pointed the spoon at her. “You can’t pour from an empty cup. Eat first. Worry about work later.”
She sat, letting the food anchor her to the present. Her mother gave her a knowing look, and for a second Izzy thought she might see straight into her soul, but she just patted her daughter’s hand.
“Tomorrow’s a new day, mi corazón. Rest tonight, then you can be strong tomorrow.”
Yes. Tomorrow morning, she would put on her game face, meet with Chris, and finish the damn job.
She’d be a professional, controlled and composed.
Because even if her hands still trembled, even if her heart still stuttered when she thought of his lips on hers, there was work to be done.
If they were lucky, they'd still have time to win.