Chapter 18 Gianna
Gianna
Time passed slowly when you were trying not to count the days.
I took the bar exam six weeks after walking out of Archer’s office, and studying for it became my salvation.
Eighteen hours a day buried in Constitutional Law and Civil Procedure, memorizing case precedents and statutory interpretations until my brain couldn’t hold anything else.
Especially not memories of gray eyes, morning conversations, and the feeling of waking up in someone’s arms.
The exam itself was brutal. Three days of testing that left me exhausted and numb, which was exactly what I needed. When I walked out of the testing center, I couldn’t remember half of what I’d written. Didn’t care. At least I’d made it through.
Sam met me outside with coffee and the kind of hug that said he knew exactly how close I was to falling apart.
“How’d it go?” he asked.
“Either I passed or I failed spectacularly. No in-between.”
“That’s the spirit.” He handed me the coffee. “Tyler’s making dinner. You’re coming.”
“I should probably—”
“You should probably come to dinner and let people take care of you for one night.” His voice was gentle but firm. “Stop arguing and get in the car.”
I got in the car.
Tyler had made lasagna, and we ate in their apartment surrounded by the chaos of Benson the puppy destroying everything he could reach. It felt normal in a way nothing had felt normal in weeks. Just friends and food and a dog who kept trying to steal garlic bread off my plate.
“He likes you,” Tyler said. “He usually hates everyone.”
“I’m honored.”
Sam watched me across the table with a concern he was trying to hide. I’d gotten good at reading that look over the past six weeks. The one that said he was worried about me but didn’t know what to say.
I didn’t know what to say either, so we just ate lasagna and pretended everything was fine.
The results came back two months later, on a Tuesday morning. I was at work when the email arrived, and I stared at my phone for a full minute before I could make myself open it.
I’d passed.
The words didn’t feel real. I read them three times, then showed my phone to Professor Diane who’d hired me as a legal assistant while I waited for results.
She looked at the screen and smiled. “Congratulations, counselor.”
Counselor. The word settled strangely in my chest, pride mixed with something that felt like grief because I’d imagined this moment differently. Imagined celebrating with someone who wasn’t here anymore, who’d never be here again.
I shoved the thought away and focused on the pride instead. I’d done it. Despite everything, I’d actually done it.
Sam threw me a party that weekend. Small, just close friends, but Sarah and Hector came with Lily who’d made me a drawing of a woman in a lawyer’s robe with a superhero cape.
“That’s you,” Lily announced proudly. “Because lawyers are superheroes who help people.”
I cried. Right there in Sam’s living room with everyone watching, I cried over a child’s drawing that was somehow the most meaningful gift I’d ever received.
Sarah hugged me while I tried to pull myself together. “Your father would be so proud,” she whispered. “You know that, right?”
I nodded because speaking was impossible. My father should have been here for this. Should have seen me in that robe, should have kept my acceptance letter in his wallet like he had the first time.
But he wasn’t here because Archer had signed the papers that killed him.
The thought appeared automatically, familiar as breathing now. But the sharp edge of rage had dulled over the past few months into something more manageable. Grief maybe, for what I’d lost.
The legal aid clinic hired me full-time two weeks after I passed the bar. The work was brutal—overloaded caseload, impossible hours, clients who’d already been failed by every system designed to protect them. But it was exactly what I needed.
I spent my days fighting displacement cases, helping families navigate the same nightmare mine had faced. Won some, lost more than I wanted to, learned that justice and the law weren’t always the same thing.
But every family I helped stay in their home felt like a small redemption. Like maybe my father’s death hadn’t been completely meaningless if it had pushed me toward this work.
I thought about Archer less. Not never—that would have been impossible—but less. The constant ache in my chest had faded to something I could work around, like learning to function with a broken bone that never quite healed right.
Some nights, I still woke up reaching for him before I remembered. Still caught myself starting to text him when something funny happened. Still heard his voice in my head saying I was beautiful, I was perfect, I was everything he’d ever wanted.
Those nights were the hardest.
My mother asked about him once.
We were having Sunday dinner at her apartment, just the two of us like we’d done hundreds of times.
I’d told her everything after that day in his office—who Archer really was, what he’d done, how completely he’d destroyed me.
She’d held me while I cried and hadn’t offered platitudes about forgiveness or moving on.
Now she set down her fork and looked at me carefully. “Have you heard from him?”
“No.” I pushed rice around my plate. “He stopped trying to contact me months ago.”
“And that’s what you want?”
“That’s what I said I wanted.” The distinction felt important. “I told him never to contact me again and he listened.”
“But?”
“There’s no but, Mamá.”
She gave me that look, the one that said she could see straight through me. “You still think about him.”
It wasn’t a question. I considered lying, decided against it. “Sometimes. Late at night when I can’t sleep. I wonder if he’s okay, if he thinks about me, if he regrets what he did or just regrets getting caught.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think it doesn’t matter.” I set down my fork. “What he did doesn’t get undone because he’s sorry. Dad’s still dead. You still spent years unable to leave the house. I still lost seven years. His regret doesn’t change any of that.”
“No,” she agreed. “It doesn’t. But closure might help you heal.”
“I don’t need closure from him. I need to move on.”
She didn’t push, just squeezed my hand and changed the subject. But her question stayed with me for days afterward, echoing in the quiet moments when I couldn’t distract myself with work.
Three months after the bar exam, Sam and I were having dinner at our usual spot when he dropped the news casually over appetizers.
“Did you hear about Archer?”
I tensed immediately. We hadn’t talked about him in months, an unspoken agreement that the topic was off-limits unless I brought it up first.
“What about him?”
“Apparently he resigned from Devlin Holdings. Or got forced out, depending on which article you read.” Sam was looking at his menu, not at me, which meant this was deliberate. “It’s all over the business news.”
My stomach dropped. “What?”
“Here’s the interesting part.” He finally looked up. “People are saying he’s the one who leaked those internal documents—the ones from your case. He sabotaged his own company’s legal strategy, tanked their property values, destroyed everything from the inside.”
The room felt suddenly airless. “What?”
“Yeah. Some analysts think Devlin Holdings won’t survive the year. The board is scrambling, investors are fleeing. It’s a complete disaster.” Sam set down his menu. “Thought you should know.”
I stared at my water glass, my mind racing.
Archer had leaked the documents himself.
The evidence that had appeared so conveniently in our case file—he’d sent it. Deliberately. Had uploaded it knowing exactly what would happen when I found it.
“Gianna?” Sam’s voice pulled me back. “You okay?”
“He did it on purpose.” The words came out quietly. “He sent those documents knowing I’d discover who he was.”
“Looks like it.”
I tried to process that. Tried to tell myself it didn’t mean anything—that he’d probably just been covering himself legally or trying to get ahead of some investigation. That it was strategic, not personal.
But I knew that was a lie.
Archer had destroyed his own company. Had sabotaged everything he’d built, thrown away his entire career and reputation to make sure I won that case. To make sure those families got justice.
To give me the truth, even if it meant losing me.
“That doesn’t change what he did,” I said, more to convince myself than Sam.
“No, it doesn’t. But it means something that he’s willing to face the consequences instead of hiding from them.” Sam watched me carefully. “You’re still in love with him.”
“I’m not—”
“Gianna.” His voice was gentle but firm. “I’m your best friend. I see how you look when someone mentions real estate development. I see how you check your phone like you’re waiting for a message you know won’t come. You don’t have to pretend with me.”
The words felt like a hit. “Even if I am, it doesn’t matter. What he did doesn’t get erased because he’s sorry.”
“I know. But you’re allowed to still care about him while also hating what he did. Those things can exist at the same time.”
I looked away, blinking against tears I refused to let fall. “What am I supposed to do, Sam? He killed my father. He lied to me about everything. I can’t forgive that just because I miss him.”
“I’m not saying you should. I’m saying you’re allowed to feel complicated things about complicated situations.” He reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “And maybe, just maybe, people can actually change. Even people who’ve done terrible things.”
That night, alone in my apartment, I broke my own rule and looked him up online.
The articles painted a picture of spectacular self-destruction.
CEO Archer Devlin steps down amid company crisis. Devlin Holdings faces uncertain future after leadership shakeup. Sources say internal sabotage led to Brooklyn case collapse.