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A good person wouldn’t have such a selfish emotion in someone else’s victory, but I guess it was only human to have envy creep into such a pivotal moment. During the nineteen years my father had already served, he’d lost monumental parts of his life he could never get back. The joy of raising his only daughter, the intoxicating taste of freedom, and tragically, the ember of hope that life would ever get better.
Hope that he’d ever reclaim a life where he could experience the blades of grass beneath his toes. Or smell the enchanting fragrance of wildflowers on a countryside walk, hear the symphony of crickets serenading the night—a chorus that once accompanied him holding hands with his daughter under a starlit sky.
Now, the vibrant memories of being truly alive had faded, much like whispers lost to a dying breeze, their essence dissipating as time stretched on, until all that remained were haunting reminders of what had been lost.
All because a different courtroom, ruled by the blind eyes of justice, had gotten it catastrophically wrong.
“Thank you.” Dominic wrapped his arms around me—his neck slightly damp from perspiration—just as he’d done right after my father went to prison.
The warmth of his embrace transported me back, the weight of that first hug after my father’s imprisonment heavy in my chest.
“I’m so sad.” Tears stung my eyes, and a choked sob slipped out.
I traced the cold, untouched sheets on my bed where Dad usually sat, reading tales of heroes and far-off lands, his voice lulling me to dreams.
Dominic pulled me into a tight embrace, letting my tears soak into his shirt, which carried the comforting smell of butter cookies—a scent that reminded me of simpler times.
Now, nothing would ever be simple again. I wanted to throw things and scream at how unfair this was, but this heartbreak was so excruciating, all my energy had been sucked from me.
Softly, with a trembling voice, I admitted, “I wish I could close my eyes and never wake up.”
“I’m so happy for you.” I forced a smile through the searing pain in my ribs.
After the judge dismissed the jury and finished the court’s proceeding, Dominic’s cousin, Franco, walked up and squeezed Dominic’s shoulder.
Which was odd. I’d have expected a bigger reaction than that.
Hunter Lockwood, on the other hand, pinched the bridge of his nose in apparent disbelief that he’d suffered a rare loss.
The guy had a seriously intimidating win rate. I knew that if I had any hope of beating him, I needed to do some recon, so for his last two trials, I’d sat in the back of the courtroom, taking notes of which objections he raised, and which ones he didn’t. The types of questions he asked witnesses and the types he didn’t. The goal was to study his moves and create kick-ass countermoves, like a stealth ninja he’d never see coming.
My hormones didn’t seem to get the memo that I was there for a purely professional reason, though. They started to fixate on non-recon things. Like the sound of his voice—which was seductively deep and seemed to echo off the walls before sliding over my skin like a caress. And how the guy was Greek god–level gorgeous. His black hair was always perfectly cut like a model, and whenever he’d take his suit jacket off, I had to pry my stupid eyes from the muscles pressing against his shirt, or else I risked becoming hypnotized into a sexual haze.
And then there was his distractingly gorgeous face. Dark facial stubble framed his perfectly sculpted jaw and pouty lips, and his cerulean eyes were so captivating that they could make you forget the next point in your argument.
But whatever.
I assured myself I was not attracted to Hunter Lockwood. Refused to be. I mean, the guy was trying to put Dominic in prison, for crying out loud. I could control…whatever this was. Attraction, I think. An F5 version of it, but still. I could do this.
All I had to do was avoid him.
When this trial started, he made it easy. Aside from the judge, jury, and occasional witness on the stand, Hunter Lockwood never looked at anyone. People speculated it was a tactic he used to maintain a competitive advantage—to dehumanize the defendant—but whatever his reasons, he’d walk into court each day staring at his phone, and once seated, he’d look down at his papers, making notes in perfect penmanship.
Never looking at anyone else. Certainly not me.
Until now.
Hunter’s eyes shot through the distance between us like an arrow flying through the air, landing on its target: my face.
His stare definitely activated some kind of launch sequence in my lower belly.
Traitorous hormones.
I’d expected him to look hostile, angry, even, since he’d lost, but as his gaze swept over me, his eyebrows relaxed into what appeared to be curiosity.
“Luna Payne,” Elizabeth Wood said. This terribly inconvenient heat in me wanted to plead with her to come back another time, but I kept it together. It wasn’t easy to drag my attention away from Hunter to smile at her, though. Not easy at all. “Tell me you’ve reconsidered my boss’s offer.”
Elizabeth had made a name for herself in Chicago over the past decade at the private firm she worked for.
