I popped the door, feeling the wind knife through my suit, and walked to the waiting jet, phone jabbing my palm with everystep. Men in Bellini-black watched from the hangar, but none dared follow. Not right now.
Inside, the cabin was too warm, too silent. The steward poured me a drink before asking what I wanted. She wore her hair in a severe braid, and her Italian accent was familiar in a way I didn’t want it to be.
I watched the tarmac and sipped the whiskey until the burn replaced what was left of my hunger for anything else. I buried my face in my hands and made a decision that would change my life forever.
Chapter eighteen
Catherine
The Bellini jet hadn’t even made it halfway out of New Mexico before I rerouted. Family could wait. Regret could wait. This, whatever the fuck it was, couldn’t.
I paused at the door, counting my own breath. Through the crack in the blinds, I saw shadows moving, heard a glass set down hard on plywood. My old nerves were back, the ones I got from walking into a hostile courtroom, but they hit different now. This was the first time I’d ever done something truly reckless for my own sake.
I knocked. Once, then twice. Inside, silence.
A minute later, the door opened. Seneca filled the frame, shirtless, jeans half-buttoned, a line of dried blood trailing from his jaw down to his collarbone. He looked like he’d been awake all night, and like he’d kill anyone who threatened to change that.
“Judge,” he said.
I tried to smile. “You gonna let me in or stare until the mosquitoes drain me dry?”
He stepped aside, and I walked past him, careful not to brush against his bare skin. The trailer’s living room was worse than I could imagine. A sagging couch, a coffee table built out of milk crates, and a single lamp jury-rigged to an extension cord that snaked across the linoleum. It looked like nobody had touched the place since the last time it got raided. The only change was Jenna, standing by the window, arms wrapped tight around herself.
I looked at her, then at Seneca. “So this is what a truce looks like.”
Jenna’s mouth was a tight line. “You came,” she said, soft, like she didn’t quite believe it.
I shrugged off my coat, and for once, I didn’t care about the stains on my shirt or the rip in the knee of my jeans. I’d dressed for anonymity, not for a bench or a gala or a hit squad. My hair was still up, but barely; a few dark strands stuck to my neck with sweat. I tossed the coat on the couch, then sat beside it, legs splayed like I’d never worn a skirt in my life. For a second, nobody spoke. The only sound was the fridge, ticking and whirring, trying to keep up.
Seneca found a half-empty bottle of bourbon and poured three fingers into a cloudy glass. He held it out to me. As I reached, his fingers brushed mine, just enough to spark a chemical reaction under my skin. I saw him flinch, but neither of us said a word.
Jenna watched the whole thing, her eyes moving back and forth like she was mapping a crime scene. She’d always been good at that—seeing the angles nobody else saw. But tonight, the mask had slipped. Her hands trembled, and when she looked at me, I saw real hurt. Not the calculated, weaponized kind. The real thing.
“So?” Seneca said, standing in the slant of lamplight. “What’s the move?”
The drink burned, but I needed it. “I’m here to listen, though I think it’s an insane idea.”
“I thought you’d be on a jet to Jersey by now,” Seneca said.
“I was going to.” I ran my thumb over the rim of the glass, looking for chips. “But I refuse to let others run my life. I have the final say in my story.” I eyed them both. "Even with you two."
Jenna let out a long, slow breath. “Your father’s going to shit a brick.”
“My father doesn’t own me.” I forced a smile, though it felt like I was stretching rawhide over broken bone. “Neither do you.”
I looked at them, the man I’d almost died with and the woman I’d spent years trying not to want. “I’ve been thinking about both of you since I walked out,” I said, voice soft. “I tried to forget, but I couldn’t.”
Seneca’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t look at me. “You’re not the forgetting type.”
“No,” I said. “I’m not.” The bourbon did its work. My muscles loosened, and I leaned back, letting the old trailer creak beneath me. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was surgical. Everyone waited for someone else to make the first cut. "But I'm also not the type to share. Honestly, I want one or the other. Not both. I can't do it."
Jenna stepped closer, her high heels sinking into the cheap linoleum, and sat on the arm of the couch, one leg crossed over the other. She met my gaze, and for the first time in years, I saw the real woman behind the courtroom legend. “So, you came back for him,” she said.
I shook my head. “I came back for both of you.” I held up my hands. "Wait, that's not what I mean."
Jenna looked down at her lap, twisting the gold ring on her finger. “I hated you for leaving,” she said, voice raw. “But I hated myself more for wanting you to stay.” She looked up, and the firein her eyes was back, even if it was banked. “We’re all the same, Catherine. We don’t know how to let go of anything.”
Seneca laughed, low and hollow. “A judge, a lawyer, and a biker walk into a bar. We’re a fucking joke. Fuck this.” He started toward the door.
