We reach the restaurant steps. Waffles tugs at the leash, nose twitching toward the smell of grilled steak, and for a second, I envy the simplicity of that kind of instinct—want, take, done. But that’s not how I was raised. Not how this works.
I look down at her. “My father was a partner at Hale & Brooks. Years before he took the bench.”
Her brows lift, surprise flickering before she catches it. “I didn’t know that.”
“Not many do.” I adjust my cufflink—something to occupy my hands, something to focus on in order to keep my tone even. “He built half the litigation department. They called him the Kingmaker. Made sure I knew there wasn’t another firm worth my time before I even graduated.”
Her voice softens. “You wanted to follow him.”
“No.” The word leaves sharper than intended. “Hewanted me to. There’s a difference.”
She studies me for a moment, and I can feel the next question forming before she asks it. “He’s... not around anymore?”
I shake my head once. “Heart attack. Three years ago.” I don’t elaborate. I don’t say that he died at his desk, or that the first call I got after was from his firm—not the hospital—asking if I’d be attending the memorial in chambers or the office one.
Tessa doesn’t say anything right away. The silence that follows isn’t awkward this time—it’s careful. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, eyes trained on the dog as if she knows better than to press.
“So this is about legacy,” she says finally. “Finishing what he started.”
“It’s about ending what he expected,” I correct. “On my terms.”
Her mouth parts, but the host at the door opens it for us, and I’m grateful for the interruption. I step aside, letting her walk in first. Waffles trots in between us with his tail wagging.
I follow, hands back in my pockets, pulse steady again.
Because legacy isn’t about who came before you.
It’s about what’s left standing after you tear their version of you apart.
Chapter Twenty
Rowan
Idon’t like crowds I can’t control.
The maître d’ greets us the moment we step onto the patio. One nod from me, and we’re moving—past the buffet, past the low hum of conversation, past every pair of eyes already measuring who belongs here.
The space is open, bright, and staged for success. White linens, gold menus, silver trays balanced too perfectly on waiting hands. Everyone looks alert and well-rested, which means they’re pretending.
Tessa walks a step ahead of me. Waffles trots between us, sniffing everything, tail flicking against my leg. He’s more composed than half the associates in this place.
The maître d’ pulls out her chair first. She thanks him, polite but distant, and sits. I take the seat beside her, facing the main walkway out of habit. I don’t like people behind me.
“Coffee?” the waiter asks, after the maître d’ returns to the host stand.
“Black,” I say. Tessa orders orange juice and something that sounds too cheerful for this hour.
Across the patio, Camden’s voice carries over the low chatter. I don’t have to look to know where he is. He makes sure of it.He’s at the far end, coffee in hand, posture relaxed in the way of a man who’s never been told no. When I finally meet his gaze, he’s already smiling at Tessa.
His eyes drop once. Then again.
And this time, it stays there—then travels down, slow, deliberate, until it lands where it shouldn’t.
My hand tightens around the stem of my glass.
He stands and walks over, a smile already in place. “Good morning, Whitmore. That color is criminal on you.”
I’m up before I register the movement. “Careful, Camden. That almost sounded like you had taste.”
