None of them talk about it.
They simply repay what they owe.
Deacon understands this better than anyone.
“All right,” he says. “Let’s break the board.”
I push away from the desk and begin pacing slowly.
“Hale” I say. “She’s a senior partner. Start there.”
I can hear Rhys already typing. “Got it.”
Deacon doesn’t wait either. “I’ll hit the court records and disciplinary logs. Judges, clerks, anyone who’s ever complained about her quietly. Anyone who filed something that never made it past review.” He pauses. “What about Harris? People like Harris don’t stay clean forever,” he adds. “They just stay protected.”
“Agreed. Look into him.”
“And Camden?” Deacon asks.
I stop pacing. “Especially him.”
There’s a short laugh on his end. “Oh, that one will be easy.”
Of course, it will.
Men like Camden don’t just make mistakes, they accumulate them, and they rely on the assumption that no one is motivated enough to line them all up at once.
Rhys speaks again, quieter now. “I’ll open the ledger.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Rowan
I’m already in the ballroom when the partners arrive.
Harris steps in first, shoulders loose and expression easy, moving as if the room adjusts around him on instinct.
Masden keeps pace beside him, speaking under his breath.
Neither of them looks rushed or concerned.
My jaw tightens as Harris spots me near the podium, his gaze locking on mine before shifting directions.
“King,” Harris says as he approaches, his tone almost conversational.
I don’t move to meet him. I let him close the distance because control is often about who moves first.
“Your email last night was unexpected I was surprised that you withdrew from the internship.” His tone stays light, curious in a way that might pass for casual if someone didn’t know better, but his eyes don’t match it.
Masden comes to his side. “We assumed you wanted to smooth over the misunderstanding from lunch.”
My gaze settles on him. “I’m sure you did.”
Men like this don’t expect consequences—they anticipate compliance. Too bad for them, I offer neither.
Harris studies my face, his head tilting. “You look better,” he says after a beat. “Migraine resolved?”
So that’s the angle.
