24. Abigail
ABIGAIL
Three days.
The number pulses in my skull like a migraine. Three days until I face Will in court. Three days to risk everything. My reputation. Donovan’s chance at justice. Maybe even my relationship.
The dreams are always the same.
The judge’s gavel cracks like a gunshot.
Awarded: $0.
Donovan’s face collapses with disbelief.
Will doesn’t even blink. He just snaps his briefcase shut and walks away, already thinking about his next win.
Neil isn’t helping. Every time I tell him I’ve got this, he gives me that familiar tight-lipped stare. He never says the words, but I hear them anyway. You’re not ready. You never were.
And somehow, the worst part is Donovan himself. After weeks of coaching, his confidence has bloomed. He’s standing straighter now, answering questions cleanly, believing in me completely. I hate how much I wish he didn’t.
I’m unraveling. I need proof—real proof—that I can do this. I need to see Will in action for myself.
He doesn’t know I’m coming.
My heels echo down the marble corridor as I slip into the back of Courtroom 4. No one notices me. Every eye is fixed on the man commanding the front of the room.
Will paces in front of the witness stand with measured ease, his tailored suit immaculate, every step purposeful.
This isn’t the man who makes me pancakes in his boxers.
This isn’t the man who pressed kisses into my back last night or tickled me until I almost cried when I told him I wasn’t ticklish. This is someone else.
“Let’s be clear,” Will says. “You submitted the budget memo for the Renshaw acquisition with Laura Meade’s signature on it, correct?”
The witness, a flustered, middle-aged man, shifts in his seat. “That was a misunderstanding.”
Will lifts a brow. “I’m sorry, what was that?”
The man clears his throat. “Yes. I did. But—”
Will holds up a finger. “Just yes or no for now.”
The silence stretches. The tension is almost unbearable.
Finally, the man breaks. “She kept taking credit for things I did. I was just trying to expose how she—.”
Will’s smile is subtle, almost sympathetic. “So you forged her signature.” It’s not a question.
There’s a soft rustle from the gallery, followed by a pause. Will doesn’t linger. He casts a brief glance at the judge, as if the outcome is already assured, and returns to his seat, calm and composed.
My nails bite into my palm.
The recordings never showed this. The way silence becomes his sharpest weapon, or how he commands the space without saying a word.
What else haven’t I seen?
When the gavel falls, the room stirs to life in a low murmur of heels, shuffling papers, and whispered commentary.
People rise from their benches, filing out in pairs or clusters, voices hushed with courtroom decorum.
At the front of the room, Will closes his folder and stands, his movements smooth and practiced.
He starts toward the exit with his client beside him, the picture of professional control. Then our eyes lock.
For just a moment, his expression shifts. A flicker of surprise. Then it softens, his features warming with something close to affection.
He says something quiet to his client before veering off course. He moves through the thinning crowd without hesitation, eyes locked on me like I’m the only one left in the room.
When he reaches me, he leans in and brushes a kiss against my cheek. The contact is light, practiced, almost instinctual.
“How’d you know I was here?” he asks.
“I saw your name on the docket,” I reply, carefully casual. “Had a short afternoon.”
His eyes search mine. Not suspicious, just attentive, like he’s trying to read between the lines of what I’ve said or what I haven’t. The way he looks at me makes my stomach flutter in a way I really don’t like right now. It’s too perceptive.
“I missed you,” I say. The words leave my mouth before I can think too hard about them. They feel like a shield.
His smile spreads wider. He reaches for my waist but I step back just before his fingers can graze me.
A beat passes.
Realization flashes in his eyes. He remembers. We’re still a secret.
He doesn’t push it. Instead, his tone shifts, casual again.
“I could cancel my afternoon,” he says. “We’ll grab a few things, I’ll make dinner.”
It should sound sweet. And part of me registers that it is. But I can’t shake what I saw ten minutes ago: the man at the front of the courtroom, sharp and merciless. His silence more threatening than his words. I can still feel the chill of it, at the base of my spine.
But I smile anyway.
“Sounds good.”
Later that night I lie beside Will in his bed while he reads.
The room is quiet except for the occasional shift of fabric or his thumb trailing the margin of the law book.
My phone rests on my chest, glowing with unread emails.
The screen lights, dims, then lights again.
I don’t check it. I just stare, eyes unfocused, trying to quiet the static in my head.
Dinner had been perfect on the surface. Candles flickered low between us, casting soft shadows over his face. The wine was velvety, the carbonara creamy with just enough pepper to bite. Everything made with care, exactly how I like it.
Still, I pushed my plate away halfway through.
He raised an eyebrow. I blamed a late lunch and smiled like nothing was wrong.
But the weight in my chest never left. If anything, it’s heavier now.
The one person I want to talk to is lying beside me.
But I can’t find the words. We haven’t spent a night apart in weeks.
Yet we’ve said nothing about what’s coming.
What happens when we’re in court? Can we tear each other apart by day and pretend nothing’s changed by night?
I need to ask. I need to know how he sees it.
But the words sit like lead in my mouth.
He closes his book with a soft thump and tosses it aside. Then his hand slides up my thigh, fingers rough against bare skin, lips brushing the curve of my neck.
I set the phone aside and try to relax. To sink into him, like I usually do. But my body stays taut, my thoughts too loud. I can’t switch it off.
“God, you’re sexy,” he says as he settles between my legs. His mouth finds the place that usually undoes me. But tonight, I flinch.
“Not tonight,” I whisper.
He pulls back, eyes searching mine. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
He exhales slowly, frustrated. “You’ve been saying that all night. Talk to me.”
My throat tightens. The truth rushes up, terrifying in its clarity.
“I’m scared.”
His whole body stills.
“Of what?” he asks.
“You.”
The word hangs in the air. For a beat, he just stares at me. Then he flinches as if I’ve struck him.
“Fuck.”
He jerks away, out of the bed, grabbing sweatpants off the floor. He pulls them on fast and then the bedroom door swings shut behind him with a slam.
I sit there frozen for a second, then press both hands to my face.
I shouldn’t have said it. I shouldn’t have dropped that on him. This isn’t his fault. I knew this would happen from the start, didn’t I?
I get dressed slowly, my hands fumbling with the zipper of my trousers. I grab my toothbrush, my charger, the earrings he gave me last week. My bag feels heavier than it should.
The kitchen lights are too bright when I step out. Will is standing at the counter, hands braced on either side of the sink, head bowed.
“I’ll go,” I say. My voice is so soft I’m not sure it even carries. “We’ll talk tomorrow—”
“No.”
He crosses the room in quick strides. My bag drops to the floor as he pulls me into him. My cheek presses against his chest. His heart is hammering.
“I shouldn’t have—” I begin.
“Shhh. You’re tired. You’re not driving anywhere. Back to bed.”
I want to ask if we can talk. I want to beg him to tell me how we’ll survive this. But what would either of us even say? There are no answers. Just the impossible truth sitting between us.
Will keeps a hand on me the whole way back to the bedroom, like he’s afraid I’ll leave if he lets go. But it doesn’t feel like comfort. It feels like containment.
We lie in the dark, silent, side by side. I stare at the ceiling, eyes wide open.
Neither of us sleeps.