18. Laurette Devereux
Laurette Devereux
Welcome home—where the napkins are folded and the questions are loaded.
The scent hits me the moment I step through the front door. Rosemary, garlic, and something buttery. Probably the mashed potatoes my mother insists taste better because they’re made with love, not shortcuts.
“Laurette!” she calls from the kitchen, apron dusted with flour. Her hair is pinned neatly, just as she always does when she cooks.
She pulls me into a hug that’s all softness and strength, then leans back with a narrowed gaze. “Who is this stranger in my house?”
Miss two family dinners and they act as if you’ve gone rogue.
“I’ve had a lot going on at work.”
She tsks. “You’ll always have a lot going on at work. It’s the nature of the beast, but you have to make time for family.”
“I know, Mama.”
She brushes my cheek with her thumb. “Your father’s asked me a dozen times when you’d get here. He’s eager to see you.”
“Why?” I ask, brow lifting.
She shrugs, turning back toward the stove. “Something case-related, I think. I’m not sure.”
I head toward the dining room, where the familiar chaos of Sunday lunch awaits.
The table is already set. Napkins folded, silver polished, sweet tea sweating in tall glasses.
My father is by the window, reading something on his phone, not taking part in the conversation.
Typical. His black button-down is crisp, sleeves rolled up, a judge even on his day off.
“Sis!” my brother calls out, his voice carrying as he steps in from the patio. His Cartier shades are pushed into his dark curls and a smirk is already in place. He’s the picture of casual affluence, linen shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled with care, Rolex glinting on his wrist.
“About damn time. I had decided you weren’t going to show. Again.”
Dominic never misses a chance to point out the obvious, especially when it comes with a side of smug. It’s his way of reminding everyone I missed the last few family gatherings… while he didn’t. It’s sibling rivalry at its most passive-aggressive, wrapped in a grin and delivered as a joke.
“I stalled on purpose, hoping you’d be finished talking about yourself by the time I got here.”
Dominic smirks without missing a beat. “You wound me, baby sister.”
He still calls me baby sister, though I haven’t been the baby for nineteen years.
Beside him is his wife, Camille. Tall, poised, and elegant in a way only old money can breed. She kisses my cheek, light as silk, her designer perfume cutting through the scent of herbs and butter lingering in the air.
“You look beautiful, Laurette.”
“Thank you, Camille, and you’re stunning as always.”
And then there’s Ella, our actual baby sister. She’s wearing an LSU hoodie and Lululemon leggings, hair still damp from a late-morning shower. Her earbuds are in, ready to drown out the next family comment. She throws her arms around me, hugging tightly.
“I was about two seconds from faking a migraine,” she whispers in my ear. “You’re the only normal one here. I swear, if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have come.”
I squeeze her in return. “Next time, we’ll fake migraines together. Deal?”
We laugh, and she pulls me into the dining room. This is Sunday for us. Loud voices layered over one another, the clink of serving spoons, my mother’s flair for dramatics dressed up as concern, my father’s silence carved into the background as always.
This house is its own kind of courtroom.
I slip into my usual seat beside Ella. My father claims the head, his expression unreadable behind his glasses. My mother is already halfway through a monologue about something none of us care about.
“Smells good,” I say, eyeing the platter of lemon thyme chicken next to bowls of wild rice and glazed carrots. Comfort food, but polished enough to pass for elegance.
Across the table, Dominic’s holding court with a story about a case he picked up last week. Some hotshot business exec caught up in insider trading. Camille jumps in with a story about a judge who wears Crocs under his robe, and the room cracks open with laughter.
For a moment, it’s easy to pretend nothing’s changed. Easy to smile, eat, and lose myself in the rhythm.
But under the banter and clatter of silverware, the weight lingers—Jon David’s absence and the conversation I still haven’t had with my family.
And right on cue…
Dominic spoons roasted carrots onto his plate. “I take it Jon David’s skipping Sunday lunch today?”
The table pauses. Not quite silence, but a stillness that waits.
I set my fork down. “Jon David and I broke up.”
No buildup, no heads-up. The truth strikes, clear and unavoidable.
My mother’s hand lifts to her chest. Camille straightens in her seat, posture tightening. Ella freezes mid-sip, her eyes snapping to mine.
Dominic lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Well. It was overdue.”
“Dom,” my mother says, more caution than reprimand.
Camille’s eyes widen. “Oh wow. That’s… sudden. Everything okay?”
My smile is small and controlled. “It’s been a long time coming. We don’t want the same things.”
Except we actually do want the same thing.
Dick.
Ella bumps her knee against mine beneath the table. It’s her version of a hug.
There’s a beat of quiet before my father responds. “That’s too bad. You two could’ve been a powerhouse couple.”
The words land with a quiet weight he’s known for—less emotion and more strategy. He calculates the loss in potential more than love.
“Right. Because what every couple needs is two people who think they’re the smartest one in the room.”
My brother never misses an opportunity to take a jab.
“Dom, you’ve never met a silence you didn’t feel the need to fill.”
That earns a few laughs around the table.
Camille opens her mouth, but I cut in before the questions can begin.
“What about you, Ella? Did you end up running for Panhellenic rep?”
Ella lights up, diving into a story about campaign posters and sorority drama. Camille turns toward her, and I sip my tea, relieved as the conversation drifts somewhere safer.
My relationship with Jon David is off the table. Good riddance.
We settle into the post-lunch lull, plates empty but conversation far from done. The chatter takes a familiar spin, legal talk layered with opinions and war stories.
In this house, ethics don’t stand a chance. Not when everyone at the table speaks fluent courtroom. Boundaries bend behind closed doors. It’s all in the family.
Dad clears his throat. “I’m presiding over State versus Bennett.”
I stiffen at the mention. The case is notorious. Everyone in the parish knows it. The husband’s guilt isn’t even whispered. It’s shouted behind closed doors. His wife was an heiress—old money, trust funds, and property in three states. The defense claims self-defense, but no one is buying it.
Dominic lets out a low chuckle, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Ah yes, Bennett. That one’s going to be messy, especially with Carlisle on the defense. He’s never met a slimeball he wouldn’t represent, as long as the money’s right. He’s got a genuine gift for moral flexibility.”
Mom’s fork clatters against her plate. “Dominic, half the people you defend belong behind bars.”
He raises an eyebrow, unbothered. “I sell reasonable doubt, not moral purity.”
“There’s a difference between representation and enabling,” I say.
Dominic grins. “Ah yes. Laurette Devereux, moral compass of the courtroom with a weary gavel of truth hanging around your neck.”
I smile, but the weight of Dominic’s words isn’t lost on me.
“Better than a stack of blood money retainers,” I say.
I’m the one who followed in our father’s footsteps and chose prosecution—the badge of righteousness and illusion of justice. Dominic’s been needling me about it since law school.
He’s fixated on whether Dad respects me more.
But if I’m being honest, respect isn’t what our father’s known for.
He doesn’t use his position to right wrongs.
He uses it to bend the law and manipulate the system with precision and polish.
Not to protect the innocent, but to preserve the institution.
I’m not naive. I gave that up in law school, along with any belief that justice is blind. It sees what it wants to see—names, connections, dollar signs. The law doesn’t protect the vulnerable. It protects the people who play the game and win without getting their hands dirty.
I never believed the robe made the judge. And I sure as hell never believed the courtroom was sacred.
What matters isn’t the oath or the gavel. It’s who walks away unscathed.
Dominic envies me for chasing the robe. For having the discipline, the drive, and the damn nerve to reach for it.
But I’ve stopped pretending it’s some noble thing. Not when I’ve seen the man who wears it bend the law to his will and call it justice.
I’m not some doe-eyed daughter clinging to fairy tales. My father has made a name for himself. I’ve heard the whispers about the deals made behind chambers’ doors and the verdicts that swung a little too cleanly. They say he trades favors like chips at a poker table.
People talk. They always have.
And while no one ever says it loudly, they all know better than to cross a judge who plays the long game and always comes out clean.
I didn’t follow in his footsteps out of admiration. I followed them because someone has to clean up what men of his kind leave behind.
Mom uses the lull of the conversation to shift the topic… right back to me.
Dammit.
“So, Laurette, how’s the single life treating you?”
I’ve been single for all of five minutes. And in that time, I’ve somehow gotten tangled up with a man who watches me from the shadows and sends messages that make my skin heat and crawl at the same time.
If that counts as single, I’m doing great.
“I’m embracing it,” I say, lifting my glass.
“Any interesting prospects?” Her tone is casual, but her eyes miss nothing.