I’m exhausted. Yes, I’m a woman and (almost) a lawyer. I like flashy clothes and keep makeup on hand for a quick touch-up. Sometimes, I make mistakes—just like anyone else. I think what that woman was trying to say was: a strong woman doesn’t do what you’ve done. She doesn’t act like you’ve acted. A strong woman wouldn’t find herself in this mess. What example are you setting for all the girls who willcome after you? A strong woman should be born knowing everything and never make mistakes. She must be aperfectwoman! It’s almost like… the rules of feminism! Right?
To hell with it. I’m not a role model. I never have been, and I never aspired to be. I’m a real person. I speak English rolling my r’s. I fuck things up sometimes. I piss off the men who piss me off.
No. I’m fine as I am, and I wouldn’t change the decisions I’ve made for anything, even if they weren’t the right ones. If that makes me a bad role model, fine, I’ll be a bad role model.
I can live with that.
André sighs and puts his arm around my shoulders.
“We’re leaving,” he announces. “Thanks, Alba.”
Alba. Go screw yourself, Alba.
We step out of the police station, and André’s car waits by the entrance.
“I’ll take you home,” he offers.
“Thanks,” I reply.
I swallow hard, hoping he reads between the lines. Thank you for spending so much time here with me. Thank you for being patient. And thank you for not firing me… yet.
“It was all my nephew’s doing,” he says, laughing, as if he understands what I’m thinking about. “Come on, I can’t wait to get home.”
Chapter 39
BASTIAN
I focus on the documents my uncle handed me, doing my best to keep my mind clear of distractions. I’d rather save my tears for when I’m alone, thank you very much. It’s a challenge, with Vera carrying on like everything is normal between us.
It’s as if we werejustcolleagues.
I get it, I really do. We’re coworkers, and this thingcould never work.
But that doesn’t stop it from burning, a pit opening in my chest every time I think about her, about Sunday, about how close I was to having everything I’ve ever wanted.
Oh, damn it. I’m losing track again.
“Bastian?” Vera’s voice breaks through my fog. She’s waving her hand in front of my face. “Are you listening to me?”
I rub my eyebrows with my fingertips and muster a serious expression.
“Yes, I’m sorry.”
She narrows her eyes, unimpressed.
“Oh yeah? What was I talking about?”
She’s got me.
I let my shoulders slump and stare down at the papers. Vera’s defence strategy for André is solid. If the case hadn’t evolved so much in the past week, it wouldn’t need any adjustments. The issue is, so much has changed in just seven days. At least Enzo Woods has decided to get his own lawyer. No amount of money could have convinced me to defend him, professionalism be damned.
Vera mirrors my posture—something she often does—and folds her arms over her chest, waiting for me to speak.
“I asked you a question,” she says.
I shrug, admitting defeat. I have no clue what she just asked me—my mind’s a bit scattered now. I raise an apologetic eyebrow, hoping Vera will repeat herself.
“Ivet,” she huffs, “I asked if you got the photo.”
