18. Laurette Devereux #2
I have a very interesting prospect at the moment, but I doubt she wants to hear about the man I kneel for and call My Wolf.
“No prospects at the moment.”
My mother is one of those women cursed with the belief that happiness comes in a man-shaped box. Preferably with a respectable career, a crisp collar, and a house in the Garden District. She’s never understood that I’m not wired that way. I don’t need a man to make me whole.
And that Garden District house? I bought it myself. No man necessary.
The banter fizzles, and everyone drifts toward the living room. My father touches my arm and nods toward the study. “A moment, Laurette.”
His study smells of polished wood, old leather, and the faint, lingering sweetness of Prince Albert tobacco. His pipe always rests nearby, even if he hasn’t lit it in hours. He closes the door behind us, and I take a seat facing the desk he’s ruled from for years.
“There’s a case coming your way, and I need a favor.”
He doesn’t ease into it.
I fold my arms and lean back, watching him. “What kind of favor?”
He exhales through his nose, a tell that he’s trying to make this sound simpler than it is. “A friend of mine, an old friend… his son’s in trouble.”
Of course he is.
I bite back the sigh clawing its way up my throat. “What kind of trouble?”
He doesn’t flinch or blink. “Sexual assault. It happened at the boy’s fraternity house during a party. The girl got drunk, got what she came to get, and now she’s claiming rape.”
Just like that, flat and clinical, as if the girl is a smear on the boy’s record. As if the boy is already halfway forgiven because of who his parents are.
“What’s his name?” I ask, even though I already know. There’s only one file on my desk this messy, only one case that would drag me into this room.
“Evan Lemaire.”
“The file’s already on my desk. I skimmed it a couple of days ago. Pretty cut and dry, from what I saw.”
He nods, but there’s something tight in his jaw. “You remember Julian and Helene. It’s their son. A well-established family. Pillars of the community.”
As if parentage changes the evidence. As if a clean bloodline and a country club membership rewrite the girl’s statement, the bruises, and toxicology report. As if his father’s standing should soften the blow of the truth.
My father’s reminding me who the Lemaires are. But more than that, he’s reminding me who he is and what I’m expected to do next.
“Dad, the girl was underage and unconscious. There’s video of the sexual assault shot by his fraternity brothers, from multiple angles. She needed stitches to repair the injuries.”
He waves a hand as if it’s nothing. “Girls these days—short skirts, too many shots—then they cry rape. That’s the actual crime.”
I take a breath, sharp and shallow. “So if I showed up drunk, in a short skirt, and blacked out—you’d say I deserved whatever happened? Because skirt length matters more than consent?”
He doesn’t look at me. “You’d never do that.”
I bite down hard enough to taste copper. “Actually, I did. I went to LSU and drank too much and wore short skirts. I blacked out, Dad. More… than… once.”
A pause.
“There’s a reason nothing bad happened to me. Everyone knew who my father was. Your name protected me.”
And this girl doesn’t have the Devereux name.
His jaw ticks. Just once. A crack in the marble.
“I believe in letting the system do its job.”
He scoffs. “You are the system. Richard listens to you. You have the DA’s ear. You could make this case disappear with one well-placed conversation.”
My pulse spikes. “You want me to bury a sexual assault case as a favor to your friends?”
He grimaces. “Don’t say it that way.”
“How else should I say it?” I shoot back. “Dress it up? Soften it until it sounds like mercy instead of corruption?”
The silence that follows is not empty. It is thick with expectation, sharp with disappointment. A thousand arguments hover in the air, unsaid but screaming. Pride, power, and blood—all of it coils tightly between us.
“I raised you to be smart, Laurette. You’re aware of how these things work.”
I meet his gaze, steady and unflinching. “Then you can predict how this ends. I’m going to follow the law. The evidence is overwhelming. I don't get to look away from that and pretend I didn’t see what is in that file. I have to prosecute.”
I leave his study with fire in my blood. The hallway stretches before me, long and silent, each footstep a drumbeat of fury echoing off the walls.
In the living room, the tone has shifted. Voices have softened, and laughter is muted. My mother lifts her gaze from the couch and sees the storm I am dragging in.
“Everything all right, sweetheart?”
“Yeah, I’m just tired.”
She doesn’t push, but her eyes—sharp and silent—trail me. She’s learned not to pry, at least not out loud. Instead, she collects moments like evidence. My clipped tone, the too-fast excuse, the edge in my jaw. She files it all away, building her own quiet case.
“I should go,” I say, reaching for my bag. “I’ve got a brief due in the morning.”
It’s a lie, but a clean one. She won’t challenge it.
Ella’s on her feet in an instant, pulling me into a hug that’s fierce for someone so small. Her cheek presses to my shoulder.
“Don’t let them stress you out,” she whispers. “You’re doing great. Seriously.”
I nod, squeezing her back. I need this—a hug from someone who sees me coming apart at the seams.
The goodbye is warm—cheek kisses, soft murmurs to call soon. Promises spoken with a smile, broken without a thought.
But when I step outside, my spine is straight and my jaw locked. Because I know what I have to do.
I’m not bending for anyone. Not even my father.
I replay the conversation in my father’s study.
Every word, every pause, every veiled command dressed as concern.
It shouldn’t surprise me. This is who he is—a judge who believes in justice until it conflicts with loyalty.
A man who sees his daughter’s integrity as a chess piece to be moved.
A man who taught me how to argue, how to win, and now expects me to pretend the rules don’t apply.
The victim’s face flashes in my mind. Pale and bruised. Eyes rimmed red in the intake photo. I remember the images, the statements, the video footage I can’t unsee. I remember the fury that crawled up my throat when I read the toxicology report. She never stood a chance.
And my father wants her rapist protected as a fucking favor to his friends.
The Lemaire family is filled with atrocious people.
No, I won't be that kind of woman or that kind of attorney.
And I won't be my father’s pawn.
I refuse to bury this case and pretend this girl doesn’t matter. And I won’t let the legacy of my name make me complicit in something vile.