Epilogue One
SKYE
STERLING LAW GROUP. Fancy.
The receptionist leads us down a hallway lined with polished wood and brass nameplates, like every door is guarding a secret club.
The air feels heavy with formality, the kind that makes people sit straighter in their chairs and whisper instead of talk.
My combat boots thump against the carpet, my jean skirt brushing against my thighs, leather jacket creaking as I fold my arms.
Do I look out of place here? Hell yes. Do I care? Not even a little.
Beside me, Tori is all steel. Her shoulders are squared, chin high, lips pressed together like she’s holding the world between her teeth.
I know that look—it’s the one she wears when she’s fighting her nerves with sheer willpower.
She’s been through hell and back, and this… this is her line in the sand.
I feel a rush of pride so strong it almost steals my breath. She’s walking into this office to take her life back, and if anyone tries to push her down again, I’ll fuck them up.
We stop at a door. The receptionist knocks lightly and opens it.
“Ms. Foster, Ms. Kennedy—Mr. Sterling will see you now.” What was I saying about a secret club? Because the way she just said that definitely sounded like we were being escorted into a private VIP room at a sex club.
Inside, the man himself stands with his back to us, phone pressed to his ear, gaze fixed on a bookshelf stuffed with leather-bound volumes.
His posture is as rigid as his tone, voice clipped and precise.
Even without seeing his face, I can tell he’s the kind of man who never leaves a paper out of place.
Yes, sir.
The call ends. Which reminds me—shit. I forgot to turn my phone on silent before walking in here.
I hear him walk across the room and introduce himself to Tori. “Ms. Foster?”
Tori shakes his hand, steady, calm. “Yes. Thank you for meeting with me.”
In my periphery I see her gesture toward me, her voice softer now. “This is my best friend, Skye Kennedy.”
I’m too busy digging in my bag, setting my phone to Do Not Disturb so I don’t get ambushed by memes or notifications, to notice him right away. My fingers fumble, I drop the damn thing into the abyss of receipts and gum wrappers, and when I finally look up, there’s a hand waiting for me.
“Sorry,” I reach out automatically, polite reflex. “Hi, I’m—”
Oh. My. Fucking. God.
“—Skye.”
It’s him. It’s fucking Asshole Suit Guy.
And yes, before you say anything further, THAT Asshole Suit Guy.
The same Asshole Suit Guy who’s ordered black coffee sometime between 7:23 and 7:25 every morning since the day I started working at my beloved little coffee shop without once cracking a smile.
The same Asshole Suit Guy who has ignored every joke, every question, every compliment I lobbed his way.
The same Asshole Suit Guy who, the one time he dared to break his own routine, showed up at 7:35, and then burned himself with his own damn coffee, then decided to unleash the fires of hell all over me like I—yes, me, the very demure, very mindful, very cutesy Skye Kennedy—was the root of his problems.
Like what the actual fuck have I ever done to him?! NOTHING. That’s what!
My stomach drops, my pulse spikes, and I nearly yank my hand back—but too late, the handshake is already locked.
Fucking. Asshole. Suit Guy.
And now? He’s standing here, smooth as ever, introducing himself as Jacob Sterling, attorney at law. Tori’s attorney, if this meeting goes well and he’s the right fit for what she needs.
I swear, if God, the universe, whatever has a sense of humor, it’s a twisted one.
His eyes catch mine, and I know he recognizes me, too. There’s a flicker—jaw tight, eyes sharp—but then he smooths it all away, his expression the picture of professionalism.
“Ms. Kennedy,” he says evenly. Like we’re strangers. Like he didn’t once accuse me of having Kool-Aid colored hair and no life plan.
I paste on a smile sharp enough to cut glass. “It’s a pleasure.”
Inside, I am screaming.
But outside? I straighten my spine, plant my feet, and remember why I’m here.
Not for him. Not for this overpriced, leather-soaked office.
For Tori. For my best friend who just walked through that door braver than I’ve ever seen her.
I’ll sit here in front of Asshole Suit Guy and swallow down every sarcastic comment clawing its way up my throat if it means she walks out of this office stronger than she came in.
Because if Tori can face down the end of her marriage, I can face a stuck up asshole with a vendetta against morning pleasantries.
But, just for good measure, I did my fingernail into his palm before letting go of his handshake.
That’s for making fun of my hair, prick.