Page 75 of The Silent Hour

“My mother.” Lila reached out for the wine. Before her fingertips brushed the rim, I snatched it away and set it on the sleek mahogany desk, well out of reach.

“You’re done,” I said softly.

Her eyelids fluttered as if I’d slit her throat. “Give me my wine.”

“No.”

She inhaled, trembling with restrained fury. “It’s my office.”

“My building,” I corrected.

“Technically, the firm leases it,” she countered, voice sharp despite the wine. Even in this state she sounded like a litigator. Fantastic.

I watched her wrestle with the facts. “How much do you know about what happened at Coleman?”

She blinked, as if pulling her memory from a dark corner. “Enough to know he told you I’m his daughter.” Her throat bobbed on the last word, grief surfacing beneath her anger. “And enough to know he wants me tangled up in something I’ve spent my entire adult life running from.”

My gut twisted. Genuine or not, I couldn’t afford doubt. “Did you know he was approaching us?”

“No.”

“Did you know he wanted you on his defense team?”

Her head snapped up, pupils dilated. “No.”

“Ever done him legal favors?”

She hardened. “No.”

“Helped anyone connected to him?”

A tremor crept through her. “No.”

She swayed and reached out to steady herself on the desk edge. I raised a hand to catch her—instinct, and then doubt, made me hesitate. She noticed.

“I didn’t ask to be born into his shit,” she said, voice low and tense, each word clipped like a blade. “I didn’t use his name. I didn’t use his money. I put myself through school. I earned my place here.”

I closed the distance between us, the carpet muffling my steps. “I didn’t say otherwise.”

“You didn’t have to.” Her eyes flashed, dark as thunderclouds.

“Lila.”

“No.” She shook her head, a single, furious motion. “Do you know what it’s like to spend your entire life making sure nobody can look at what you’ve accomplished and say a man handed it to you, only for that man to walk into one fucking room and make everything about him?”

Her fury caught in my chest. Because that anger, at least, I understood. My own last name had opened doors before I was old enough to realize they existed. I’d spent years shutting down whispers that my father’s reputation was the only reason I ever walked through them.

“You’re drunk,” I said quietly, the words barely more than a breath.

“I’m aware.” She took a trembling step closer, the scent of cheap red wine clinging to her.

“And you’re upset.”

“Also aware.” She folded her arms, wrapping herself in her tailoring as if it could protect her from the truth.

“So I’m not having this conversation with you tonight.”

She laughed, but it was bitter and hollow. “Convenient.”