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Dante felt a profound heaviness sinking within his chest as he held her, her frame now unyielding in his arms. His mind raced with a thousand ways to explain, to justify, but he knew none would suffice to undo the sting of betrayal she must be feeling.
His grasp on her hand was firm, as if by holding it he could forge a connection that words had strained. “Rebecca,” he said, with a conviction that seemed to vibrate through the stillness of the room, “what I do is not who I am. I hope you can see the difference.”
Rebecca’s gaze held his, her body rigid with tension. Though she was seated on his lap, the stiffness in her posture spoke volumes. It was as if a gulf had opened between them, vast and silent.
He watched her, a tableau of conflict painted across her features. The air around them was punctuated by the sharp intake of her breath, the almost imperceptible shake of her head, and the way her hands lay inert in his grasp, betrayed the inner turmoil that kept her frozen.
Dante moved marginally, shifting to face her more directly. “This job... I do it to uphold what I believe in—justice, fairness, a chance for redemption.” His voice was a tether, reaching out to her across the widening crevasse of doubt and disbelief.
Her voice, when it came, held but a shadow of its usual warmth. “And in defending them, the ones like Evan, do you believe in their redemption too?” It was more than a question; it was a search for an anchor, for something to hold on to in a sea of disarray.
He could feel the subtle withdrawal in her, a slow retreat that was pulling her away from him, from the future they had imagined together. His hands, once a source of comfort, now seemed incapable of bridging the emotional expanse that had unfurled so quickly.
Dante’s mind raced. He needed to address the rift, to find the words or actions that would heal the sudden fracture. But the solution evaded him, obscured by the complex layers of her pain and his own fear of losing her.
In a gesture of vulnerability, he leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers, a silent plea for her to understand the battles he fought within and outside the courtroom. “I need you to know, the core of me, the heart of me, is not defined by the clients I defend.”
The moment hung between them, a delicate balance of hope and hurt, as they each searched for solid ground in the tremulous reality that now defined their relationship.
As if she was dealing with a wild and dangerous animal, she withdrew from him. Her eyes were wide, and her face was deathly pale.
His eyes searched her face, hoping to find a flicker of understanding, a trace of the love that had bound their souls together. But all he saw was the reflection of his own failure and the uncertainty ahead.
He wanted to hold her tight, but she scrambled from his lap and took two steps away from him.
“I… I need time to think. Space… I…” She didn’t finish her sentence but fled from the room.
Well. Fuck.
CHAPTER 22
Dante stood motionless for a few heartbeats. The echo of the door slamming shut behind Rebecca reverberated in his chest like a drumbeat. Her footsteps were already fading down the hall, each step a staccato in the quiet aftermath of their confrontation. She asked for time and space. Her words lingered in the air, a stark reminder of the abyss between them.
Half of him wanted to respect her wishes, to give her the solitude she sought. The other half—a visceral, raw pulse of desperation—urged him to chase after her, to close the distance with words, with reassurances, with apologies for the pain he hadn’t meant to cause.
He’d never felt so shredded, so at odds with himself. The battle within him raged, waging a war between restraint and fear of what distance might do to their bond. The seconds ticked by, each a weighty coin in his decision.
Finally, the side of him that always sought to do the sensible thing, the part of him that was a lawyer, trained to weigh every action, won out. With a weary sigh, he turned away from the path that led to her, the pull to follow still tugging at the fibers of his being. Instead, he moved towards Derek’s office. The need for counsel, a steady voice, drove his steps.
He rapped on the office door with a controlled knock, the sound a hollow contrast to the turmoil he felt. As he waited for permission to enter, he tried to smooth the edges of his disheveled appearance and demeanor. He hoped to find some semblance of the composure he was known for.
Derek, with his years of experience and knowing eyes, would have advice, Dante hoped. Perhaps in his mentor’s wisdom, he could find a way to mend the fractures, to bridge the emotional expanse. He wanted Rebecca back not just in proximity but in the closeness they once shared.
Dante pushed open the door to Derek’s office. The other man’s gaze immediately lifted from the papers strewn across his desk to settle on Dante with piercing accuracy. Without a word, Derek pushed back his chair and stood, the scrape of wood on wood cutting through Dante’s tension.
“Sit,” Derek commanded, a single word that carried the weight of a long conversation. As Dante lowered himself into the chair opposite the desk, Derek moved to a small cabinet behind his desk and opened a door to reveal bottles and glasses that hinted at the end of many long days.
The clink of glass against the wooden surface punctuated the silence as Derek poured two measures of whiskey with practiced ease. He handed one glass to Dante, the liquid’s rich hue promising a momentary escape. Dante accepted it with a nod, his fingers wrapping around the glass. The cool exterior contrasted starkly with his warm, agitated palms.
Derek sank into his chair with his own glass, the leather creaking under his weight. He took a sip, eyes never leaving Dante’s face, before setting the glass down with a soft thud. “What happened?” he asked. His voice blended concern with the unyielding tone of someone used to straight answers.
Dante took a deep breath, the whiskey untouched in his hand. “Rebecca found out about... the full extent of my work. The clients I defend.” His voice held a raw edge. The words came out more strained than he intended.
“And?” Derek prompted, leaning forward, his fingers interlacing as he rested his chin on them, the picture of focused attention.
“She’s struggling with it. With me. She asked for time and space,” Dante confessed, his gaze dropping to the whiskey as if it held some answer.
Derek nodded, understanding the unsaid as much as the spoken. “And you? What did you want to do?”
