Chapter 2
JENNIFER
It starts the way most victories do: with too many cameras and not enough oxygen.
They shove mics in my face like I’m about to announce the cure for cancer, and I blink into the pop of flashes, already regretting my choice to wear heels.
The marble steps outside the courthouse glint beneath me, rain still drying in scattered streaks across the seal-etched stone, while my face is projected on a half-dozen monitors mounted to the security towers above.
The big headline in slick gold font reads:
CALLAHAN CRUSHES D.C. DEFENSE CONTRACTOR IN RECORD-brEAKING WIN.
Not exactly subtle. But that’s politics.
I take the steps slowly, not because I want to look dramatic but because I’ve learned there’s power in unhurried movement. People talk when you move too fast. They underestimate you when you stand still. I’ve built a reputation on knowing the difference.
A man in a red tie—press, judging by the frantic glint in his eyes—lunges forward, voice high and desperate.
“Ms. Callahan, what’s your response to critics saying this ruling sends a dangerous message to the defense sector?”
I don’t break stride. I shift the weight of my briefcase, push my sunglasses higher on my nose, and speak just loud enough for the nearby recorders to catch it.
“They’re right. It does. I suggest they read it carefully.”
The crowd parts in a soft rustle of fabric and murmurs. My team’s waiting near the black town car idling at the curb. Marcy holds the door open with one hand and a coffee in the other, her expression split between admiration and mild panic.
“You’ve got twenty-three interview requests, and I think The Post is trying to run a profile on you this weekend,” she says, climbing in after me. “Also, there’s a guy from CNN who keeps saying he’s got a ‘personal connection’ to your father. I told him to go to hell.”
“He wouldn’t be wrong,” I mutter, setting the briefcase down and kicking off the heels. “They all do.”
The car pulls into traffic, the city sliding past in a blur of sirens and scaffolding. Washington always smells like ambition: metallic, electric, and faintly sour, like too many people grinding their teeth behind smiles.
I take the coffee, sip it, grimace.
“Did they burn this on purpose?”
“You’re the one who told me not to bring it from anywhere we don’t own,” Marcy replies. “That narrows the field to like three cafes, and one of them’s closed for tax fraud.”
I let the smile tug at the edge of my mouth without showing teeth. She knows me too well. Knows the exact line between respect and irreverence that I tolerate, and maybe even need.
We take the long way back to the DOJ satellite office I’ve claimed as my own. I have a bigger one in the main building, but I hate the way the hallways echo in that place. Here, I can kick my shoes off and lock the door without a senator wandering in to ask for a favor.
Inside, I toss the briefcase on the worn leather couch, slip out of the blazer, and sink into the chair behind my desk.
“Give me the file,” I say.
Marcy doesn’t ask which one. She opens her satchel and slides a thin manila folder across the desk. I flip it open and scan the first page, then the second. My eyes slow on the third.
Thorne Strategic.
Malek Thorne.
The name tastes like smoke.
He’s a ghost in most records, a shadow in every oversight committee. His company is a hydra. Cut off one head and three more grow back in offshore branches and shell firms. I’ve been circling his name for two years, waiting for the right crack in the armor.
Now I’ve got one.
“Is this real?” I ask, eyes narrowing on a black-and-white photocopy of a transportation log routed through Luxembourg.
“Anonymous drop,” Marcy says. “Encrypted email. The IP was scrubbed six ways to hell, but the documents are solid. It’s linked to a shipment of surplus weapons rerouted through Thorne’s logistics branch to a known conflict zone. Zero official approval.”
“God,” I breathe, setting the page down carefully. “He’s not even pretending anymore.”
“He never had to,” she replies, crossing her arms. “He’s untouchable.”
“Not anymore.”
She tilts her head. “Are you sure about this? Going after Thorne means pushing every alarm in the building. He’s not just another warmonger. People disappear around him.”
“I’m not them,” I say.
She doesn’t argue. Just slides another document across the desk.
“Then you’ll want to read this.”
It’s a formal invitation. Gilded, handwritten, delivered on actual cardstock.
The kind that still smells faintly of pressed wax and money.
It’s for the Vanguard Initiative’s annual charity gala.
A who’s who of international movers, all dressed to the nines and pretending they don’t profit off blood.
At the bottom of the guest list, printed in smaller but still unmistakable lettering: Malek Thorne, Chairman and CEO, Thorne Strategic.
I stare at it for a long moment, fingers resting lightly on the edge.
“Is this confirmed?”
“He never misses it,” Marcy says. “It’s the only event he attends publicly all year. No cameras inside. Total security lockdown. You won’t get anything recorded, but you’ll get close.
Being in close proximity is advantageous. It surpasses the need for subpoenas and deciphering email trails, fostering direct, face-to-face interaction.
“Get me a dress,” I say. “And something that doesn’t look like I’m about to cross-examine a corpse.”
Marcy grins, the first real smile she’s cracked all day.
“I already pulled three options. One of them’s black velvet and might require scaffolding to get into.”
“Perfect.”
She leaves, taking her phone out already, muttering something about last-minute hair appointments and body armor disguised as shapewear.
I lean back in the chair, let the hum of the old floor lamp fill the room. Outside, the sun dips lower, bleeding gold across the windows.
Malek Thorne.
I’ve read the stories. Listened to the rumors. The man who built a global empire in silence, who never gives interviews, who’s never once raised his voice in public but still walks into rooms and leaves entire governments trembling.
A warlord in a three-piece suit.
And now, he’s going to see me.
Not in a courtroom or behind a desk. But eye to eye, while the rest of the world twirls and drinks champagne around us like nothing is wrong.
Good.
I want him comfortable. Arrogant.
Because when men like him think they can’t be touched, that’s when they’re most likely to bleed.
I gather the files, organize them into a secure folder, and lock them in the desk. The evidence isn’t solid enough to prosecute.
But if I play this right, I won’t need evidence. I’ll get something better: intent.
I grab my phone, scan my messages, and fire off a text to Leah, my stylist-slash-sorceress who’s been waiting for me to finally stop dressing like a funeral procession.
Need your help. I have to make a man choke on his own tongue. And maybe fall in love. Dress for both.
She replies with a skull emoji, then another one with fire.
I smile, then push up from the desk and walk down the narrow hall to the back exit. The street is quieter now, less traffic, more shadows stretching long across the pavement. I slide my sunglasses back on and keep walking, blending into the city like I was born for it.
And in a way, I was.
Raised in this machine, taught to use its gears as weapons, trained to see how power moves not just in policy, but in glances, in favors, in what people wear and where they sit and who doesn’t get invited to the table.
Malek Thorne built his own table.
Now I’m going to walk right up to it.
And flip it.
I hail a cab instead of calling the car, because I need ten minutes of silence to breathe. The city peels away behind us, all clean angles and old money, as we head toward my apartment in Dupont.
Inside, the space is sharp and minimal, steel and stone and white marble, barely lived-in but curated to precision. I toss my blazer onto the kitchen island, toe off my shoes again, and walk to the full-length mirror near the bedroom.
I don’t look tired. That’s a win.
But I look… hard. Edges sharpened by years of courtroom battles, long nights, names I had to prove wrong before they could whisper them behind my back. That’s fine. I don’t want softness tonight.
I want steel in silk.
I pour some wine; not expensive, not cheap. Just enough to take the edge off the buzz in my bones.
Because tomorrow, I will go to war.
And tonight, I start getting ready.