Chapter 24
Laurette Devereux
This isn’t longing. It’s withdrawal.
It’s been days since his hands were on me, since his breath slid over my neck, since his voice wrapped around me. And I’m still wrecked from the inside out.
I sit at my desk, elbows braced on the wood, fingers pressed hard to my temples as I stare at the Evan Lemaire file. The pages blur, my notes half-scrawled. My mind should be here—on this, on the case, on the girl who deserves every ounce of fury and precision I can summon.
But underneath it, winding through every sharp edge of me, is him.
Bastien.
The ache for him lingers in the softest, cruelest places. My throat, where his hand pressed. My hips, where his fingers left those faint, possessive bruises. Between my legs, where I can still feel the stretch, and fullness, and ruin.
I shift in my chair, crossing and uncrossing my legs, as though I could ease the memory of him with something as small and useless as that.
My burner phone’s right there, screen dark, mocking me with its silence. It’s never out of my reach. Not for a second. Pathetic, maybe, but it’s a compulsion I can’t shake no matter how hard I try. The want doesn’t stop.
What do you do when the man who lit you up from the inside leaves you in the dark?
You wait, stare at your phone, breathe, bury yourself in work, and pretend it doesn’t hurt. Because reaching out means you’re desperate. And you can’t let him know his silence makes your chest ache.
I twirl a strand of hair between my fingers, exhaling slowly, pretending it’s stress. Pretending it’s not him.
Pull it together, Laurette. You’re not that girl. You don’t chase.
The office hums around me. Phones ring. Footsteps click against polished floors. Voices thread through half-cracked doors.
Case files pile higher by the hour in New Orleans. Toxicology reports. Victim statements. Witness prep that runs late and leaves me hollow-eyed, shoulders stiff, and adrenaline still humming even when the clock slips past quitting time.
This is where I thrive—through structure, strategy, and control. I’m sharp here. And efficient. There’s no room for softness or mistakes.
No room for him. But still, he lingers—under the surface, between the cracks, in the silence between emails and the breath between questions. Every time my mind drifts, it finds him—the memory of his mouth and the way he said my name.
And his hands marking me like he meant it. Like I asked for it.
Because I did.
He devoured me in that closet. Left me shaking, thighs slick with him. And then he walked away.
I drag in a deep, cleansing breath, and reach for the next file. Not the Lemaire case, but the one beside it. A witness statement. I stare down at the words, but they blur behind the ghost of his touch.
“Ms. Devereux?”
I glance up, blinking back from the haze of paperwork and thoughts I shouldn’t be thinking. My assistant, Sarah, stands in the doorway, tablet clutched tight to her chest.
“There’s someone here to see you.”
I sigh, already half-dreading whoever’s about to pull me out of focus. “Who is it?”
She hesitates. There’s a shift in her stance and a tightening around her mouth.
“Mr. Lemaire. Evan’s father.”
The air stills and a slow, cold prickle winds down the back of my neck, sinking deep under my ribs. Something in me recoils on instinct.
Of all the people who could’ve walked into my office today, he was the last one I expected.
“Did he say what he wants?”
She glances over her shoulder, making sure he hasn’t followed her down the hall. If her sixth sense is whispering, she should listen. Most women can sense when a man is about to become a problem.
“No, just that he wants a word.”
Of course he does. They always want a word—to have their say, to unload the weight, to shift the blame, to twist the knife politely with a smile that says I’m right, and you’re going to agree whether or not you want to.
I straighten, and my jaw tightens. My pulse ticks a little sharper beneath my skin.
“Tell him to wait. Don’t send him back yet. I need a minute.”
Sarah nods once. “Of course,” she says, and then she’s gone.
I plant my hands on the desk, and exhale hard. Not fear. Not dread. A familiar, grinding annoyance of yet another man who thinks he holds the strings, and I’ll dance on command.
Fine. Let him come.
I already know what kind of man I’m about to face. Rage polished into civility. An ego cloaked in concern. An entitled bastard who thinks his status earns him access, deference, and control.
But I don’t yield to a man like that.
So, let him try. Let him twist the knife. Let him look me in the eye and expect me to flinch.
Not today.
Not him.
I rise, spine straightening, composure snapping into place. No nerves or hesitation. Only the cold precision of a woman preparing for war.
Time to remind Mr. Lemaire this isn’t his boardroom, and I’m not a woman he gets to charm or intimidate.
Sarah opens the door and ushers him in.
Julian Lemaire. Polished. Controlled. Every inch a power player. Custom suit. Gleaming cufflinks. Silver hair slicked back with care. His smile is easy and practiced. I’m certain it’s bought silence, favors, and outcomes many times.
But it won’t work here.
“Laurette.
He says my name warmly, as though we’re familiar. Like we share drinks instead of a looming court date and a son facing a violent felony.
It’s a power move—pretending closeness and ignoring professionalism.
The smile he’s waiting for doesn’t come. “It’s Ms. Devereux.”
I plant myself near the doorway, calm and unmoved, hands folded in front of me.
“Before we speak, I want to be very clear. There are rules.”
His brows lift, amused, like I’m a child giving him a scolding he can afford to ignore.
“No legal advice. No informal discussion of the case, no backroom deals. And if you’re represented by counsel, we should not be speaking at all.”
His mouth curves. “I’m aware, Ms. Devereux.” He steps forward. Not enough to breach propriety, but enough to make his presence felt.
“I’m here as a family friend to chat.”
We aren’t friends.
He gives a soft laugh, hands slipping into his pockets. “It’s been a while. You’ve made quite a name for yourself since the last time I saw you. Sharpest reputation in the DA’s office, they say.”
I meet his gaze, cool and unblinking. “I’m sure they say all kinds of things.”
But none of it matters here.
Julian Lemaire’s smile sharpens.
“Your father and I played golf this morning. He sends his regards.”
A cold ripple slides down my spine, tightening low in my gut before it coils up into my throat.
My father.
Of course.
Of. Fucking. Course.
“I’m aware of your friendship.”
His eyes glint for a second. Pleased. He believes I’ve played into his hand by acknowledging it.
He shifts his weight, easy and unbothered.
“You know, Evan’s always admired the Devereux family.
Bright boy, that one. National Honor Society.
Captain of the swim team. Full scholarship.
Not that he needs it. Hardworking and promising.
He aspires to be a judge, like your father.
Henri has been guiding him through what a judicial career demands. ”
Judge Lemaire. That’s the last thing New Orleans needs.
His smile fades enough to look sincere. “It’s tragic, really. To see a young man’s future threatened over a misunderstanding.”
My molars grind.
No, the tragedy happened to Emily Westbrook.
He goes on, voice velvety smooth and practiced. “I’m sure you know how girls can be at these college parties. Drinking. Flirting. Following the wrong crowd. It’s so easy for something innocent to get twisted.”
My heart slams, but I hold my ground. No flicker, no crack, no outward sign he’s landed anything close to a blow.
“My position prohibits me from discussing the case with you, Mr. Lemaire.”
His voice softens, dipping into something smoother. “Of course, Ms. Devereux. I’d never ask you to.”
He flicks his hand in a casual, dismissive wave. “Surely, there’s a way to make this go away quietly.”
This girl is nothing more than an inconvenience to him. A bump in the road. He believes he can erase this case with a whispered deal behind closed doors.
I wonder how many times this has worked before. How many girls like Emily Westbrook have been brushed aside to protect boys like Evan? How many times silence was bought and justice folded under a father’s name.
I meet his gaze. “That’s not a conversation I’m able to entertain.”
He sighs. “It’s just that these things can ruin lives, Ms. Devereux. Good families. Good names. And we both understand the importance of protecting who matters.”
“I think it’s time for you to go, Mr. Lemaire.”
“Of course. I wouldn’t dream of overstepping.”
Julian Lemaire’s smile fades, the warmth draining from his expression.
“It’s funny how fast a reputation can shift. A whisper here, a headline there. Suddenly the public sees something that was never there at all.”
The chill starts low, crawling beneath my skin.
“It’s a dangerous world out there, Ms. Devereux. People get careless, and accidents happen. A slip on the stairs. A break-in gone wrong. Wrong place, wrong time.”
The threat doesn’t raise its voice. It doesn’t have to. It settles between us with the weight of something sharpened and unsheathed.
His smirk curves, showing enough teeth to remind me what’s beneath the charm. “It’d be a shame if someone as smart and lovely as you got caught in the crossfire of something you never saw coming.”
The cold sinks deeply, settling into my marrow.
He meets my eyes, his gaze gleaming with something cruel. “Of course, that’s not a threat. Just a hypothetical.”
My blood runs cold in my veins.
I don’t blink or flinch. I won’t give him the satisfaction of even a breath.
Julian Lemaire just threatened me, and he wants me to smile and pretend he didn’t.
“Pressure does funny things to people, Ms. Devereux. It changes their sense of priority. Their sense of risk.”
For a beat, I let the silence stretch, my heart thudding under my ribs.
I lift my chin to show my defiance. “We’re done here, Mr. Lemaire.”
His eyes narrow and his mouth curves.
I square my shoulders, spine taut. “You can show yourself out.”
For a moment, he watches me.
It’s not anger I see. Not even irritation. Something colder and calculating. He’s reassessing the piece he thought he already controlled.
Then, slowly, he grins.
A small incline of his head. A mockery of politeness. To perform respect.
“Ms. Devereux.”
He turns and walks out, calm as ever. His footsteps are silent, his scent lingering. Expensive cologne layered over rot, dressed in a luxury suit.
I don’t move. I can’t.
My breath stutters, and my chest tightens, heart pounding.
The door clicks shut. Too loud and final.
I lean back against it, eyes slipping closed as I try to pull in a breath that won’t come. My pulse won’t slow, and my ribs feel too tight. The aftershock crashes through me once he’s gone.
Julian Lemaire—all charm and generational power. But also a quiet menace with suggestive hypotheticals.
Not an actual threat. At least not one you could charge.
Nothing you could record, document, or drag into the light.
But I heard the menace behind his words.
Slips on the stairs. Break-ins gone wrong. Wrong place, wrong time.
The game has escalated, and I know what’s at stake. Not just the girl who lost everything in that fraternity house. Not just the trial that could gut a powerful family.
Me.
My blood runs cold, but it sharpens me, slicing through the fear and leaving only resolve.
He doesn’t get to scare me.
Threaten me, Julian Lemaire?
You should know better than to corner something with teeth.