CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
ETHAN
THE WALK BACK TO THE conference room felt considerably longer than the one that had brought me here.
Julia's voice followed me the entire way.
No closed doors.
Don't be alone with her.
Don't give anybody anything they can manipulate.
My wife hadn’t been asking me not to fuck another woman.
She’d never needed to say it outright. What she wanted was for me to use those same goddamn instincts that had kept me sharp in courtrooms and wary around dangerous men for years.
I’d ignored her warning. Now I was staring down exactly the kind of complication she’d tried to prevent.
When I pushed through the thick glass doors into the main conference area, the acrid aroma of Wawa coffee hit me like a wall—bitter, oily, chemically sweet.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a harsh glare on the sleek conference table.
Knox still lay slumped on the black leather sofa against the far wall, one arm dangling limply over the edge, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.
Eric was hunched over the table, unpacking Styrofoam containers from a grease-stained paper bag as if conducting a ritual.
Crinkling cellophane gave way to the muffled rip of Rafa tearing the plastic wrapper off a sandwich—ham and cheese leaking mustard at the corner.
When Eric looked up, his eyes were sharp enough to cut through my bullshit.
“Where the hell did you go?” he demanded, voice echoing off the glass walls.
Rafa leveled his soggy sandwich at me like a makeshift spear. “Yeah, Marcelli. We disappear for fifteen minutes and you vanish. I was about to assume you had a mistress hidden in the copy room.”
Normally, I’d have shot back with some quip. Tonight, I had nothing.
“She was here,” I said, voice dry.
Eric froze mid-peel of a napkin. Rafa’s jaw slackened, mustard dripping unnoticed.
“Who?” Rafa finally asked, lowering his sandwich as if letting down a shield.
“Lila.”
Instantly, Rafa’s eyes went hard, like someone had flipped a switch. “I was fucking joking,” he said, but it came out hollow.
“I know,” I replied.
“What was she doing here?” Eric’s brows knitted together, concern and irritation colliding in his stare.
“Drinking.” I shrugged, though it felt heavy.
“At two in the morning?” Eric echoed, incredulous.
“Apparently she found out about Cortez.” I watched their faces for reactions.
That got through. Rafa shoved his sandwich aside, splattering crumbs across the tabletop. “How?”
“Her mother, according to her.” I rubbed my temple, the familiar burn of a headache coming on.
“And?” Rafa prodded.
I ran a hand over my stubbled jaw. “She’s pissed. Says she didn’t know Cortez was sniffing around us, didn’t know he’d involve her, and claims she’s spent her entire adult life keeping as far away from him as possible.”
Eric leaned in, silent for a beat. “You believe her?”
I met his gaze honestly. “I don’t know.” It was the only answer I had. “Nothing we’ve dug up contradicts her story so far.”
Rafa leaned back against the table, arms crossed. “So she’s here, getting shitfaced because Father Dearest just dropped a federal case in her lap—right in the middle of the career she supposedly carved out herself. That about sums it up?”
“That’s her version,” I said.
“Could be true,” Eric offered tentatively.
“Could be bullshit,” Rafa countered.
“Both are possible,” I agreed.
I pulled a chair out of the cluster but didn’t sit. Neither of them loosened their stares. Eric’s eyes flicked to my hands, then back to my face—like he always did when something big was about to drop. Rafa tilted his head, waiting.
I swallowed hard. “She kissed me.”
Silence swallowed the room. Rafa’s expression froze, then crumpled into disbelief. “She fucking what?”
Knox didn’t even twitch on the sofa. The overhead lights reflected off his still form, making him look more mannequin than man. I could almost feel the tension vibrating through the glass walls.
“Lila kissed me,” I repeated.
Rafa pushed off the table so hard his chair screeched. “And where is she now?”
“Gone.”
“Are you sure?” Rafa’s voice rose, threatening to crack.
“Yeah,” I said evenly.
“ I’m about two seconds from tearing this place apart, office by office.”
“Sit down,” I said, gesturing to the chair I’d pulled out.
“I’m not sitting shit,” he snapped. “Did you throw her ass through a window?”
My jaw clenched. “No.”
The fluorescent lights above us flickered, and for a heartbeat the air in the conference room went stale.
Eric’s pale eyes narrowed to slits—those jagged shards of intelligence I both hated and envied.
Fuck him for being the smartest bastard in the room.
I felt Rafa catch the tension, his own brow arching as he watched me stiffen.
“Ethan.” His voice was low, a velvet blade slicing through my thoughts.
I forced my gaze to the window.
“Ethan,” he repeated, each syllable rumbling across the spread of case files on the table.
My shoulders sagged. “She caught me off guard,” I admitted, even as the memory of her startled blue eyes flickered behind my lids.
“That’s not what I asked.” Rafa’s tone scraped against the wood grain, rough and unyielding.
I finally met his gaze. The overhead light caught the fine lines around his eyes. “It lasted a few seconds.” My voice cracked.
Rafa stared at me, disbelief unraveling his features until his jaw dropped. “You kissed her back?” The question landed like a fist.
I ran a hand through my hair. “For a second.”
Rafa’s expletive tore through the stillness. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
“I pulled away.” My words floated across the cluttered tabletop—mug rings, scattered pens, and sheets covered in Cortez’s file notes.
Rafa threw both hands behind his head, fingers tangled in dark curls. He leaned back so hard his chair creaked. Eric, by contrast, held remarkably still, cradling his mug of coffee as if it were a fragile artifact. His silence grated on me more than if he’d launched into a lecture.
Finally Eric spoke, his tone deceptively calm: “Are you telling her?”
I shot him a glare. “Of course I’m fucking telling her.”
“When?”
I folded my arms. “As soon as I get home.”
Rafa whirled, chair scraping on the carpet. “You should’ve gone home five minutes ago.”
I glanced down at the chaotic spread of Cortez’s files and exhibits. “We have his entire case sprawled across this table.”
“Fuck Cortez,” Rafa muttered. His finger jabbed at my chest. “You have a wife at home—Julia—who you claimed specifically promised you wouldn’t get caught alone with this woman. And within forty-eight hours, you managed to do exactly that.”
“Thank you for the recap,” I said flatly.
He wasn’t done. “You’re about to be.”
Eric lifted his coffee cup, took a deliberate sip, then set it back down without a sound. “Let him finish. This is entertaining.”
“Fuck you too,” Rafa snarled.
“Noted,” Eric replied without missing a beat.
Rafa turned his glare back on me, but his voice softened under an undertone of brotherly exasperation. “You know I love you.”
“I can feel it,” I grumbled.
“I also love Julia like she’s my sister, so here’s some friendly advice. If you ever force me to pick sides—because your emotional intelligence has apparently turned to mashed potatoes—you won’t like which side I choose.”
I almost laughed, despite the pounding in my temples. Almost. “I know.”
Rafa’s anger thawed just a fraction. “You need to tell her exactly what happened.”
“I will.”
“Not lawyer-exactly. No qualifiers. No ‘technically she kissed me first,’ no ‘I was tired,’ no building a closing argument.”
“I know,” I said, voice quiet.
Eric finally leaned forward, fingers steepled. “Tell her the part you’re least comfortable saying.”
I met his gaze, and saw him shrug as if to say, That’s the important part. I slumped deeper into the chair. “Yeah.”
Silence cratered between us. Then from the far end of the room came a groggy shift of movement. Knox sat up on the couch, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he blinked his confusion at our circle of tension. “What the hell did I miss?”
Rafa pointed a long finger at me. “Ethan’s an idiot.”
Knox yawned, pressing one palm to his forehead. “That’s not new.”
Rafa shrugged. “Different category.”
I closed my eyes, the edges of my vision pulsing.
I didn’t go home after that. I’d planned to—just finish another hour, make sure everything on Cortez was locked down, then get back to Julia before the girls woke.
Instead, exhaustion tightened its grip. At some point I’d stumbled into my office and lowered myself into my chair.
After that, the only thing I remembered was the dark slide of unconsciousness closing in like a curtain.
A FEATHER-LIGHT brUSH against my cheek detonated through every nerve ending. My arm shot out before I was fully awake, fingers clamping around a slender wrist. I blinked once. Twice.
Hazel eyes. Strands of auburn-copper hair fanning out on tanned-olive skin. My wife. I released her so quickly it felt like ripping off a bandage.
“Fuck. Lia.”
One perfectly arched brow quirked upward. “Good morning to you too, Rambo.”
Relief hit me first, like a cool wave over scorched earth.
Then guilt followed in a violent backwash, churning my stomach until I almost retched.
Julia stood over me in dark-wash jeans that hugged her hips, a fitted black top that whispered of refinement, and simple flats.
Her hair was swept back in a low twist, each strand obedient.
On one arm hung a sleek garment bag; in her other hand, a cardboard carrier cradling two steaming cups.
On my desk sat a crumpled paper bag, half collapsed. I forced my gaze toward the windows, where pale morning sunlight spilled in, painting stripes on the hardwood floor.
Shit. “What time is it?” I croaked.
“Almost eight.” She set the drinks down. The aroma of rich coffee curled between us.
I pushed myself up, heart pounding in my throat. “Fuck.”
“Yes, you’ve said that.” Her voice was steady, not accusatory—making every syllable sharper.
“I was supposed to come home.”
“I noticed.”