When It All Comes Undone

Part 2 of the Unraveled Series

C.W. Elliot

Copyright © 2025 C.W. Elliot

All rights reserved.

DEDICATION

For everyone who read Book One—look at you, all invested.  Welcome back to the chaos, the longing, and the emotionally constipated lesbians. 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To my wife, the real MVP.
Thank you for wrangling our tiny tornado of a toddler so I could write about emotionally repressed lesbians in peace.
This book exists because of you.

1

Unlawful Entry

Lenora sat stiffly at the conference table, her fingers tapping an erratic rhythm against her thigh as the lead security agent wrapped up his report.

"The good news? We didn't find anything in the war room," he reassured them. "But we did find multiple listening devices in surrounding offices. Whoever planted them wanted to be close. They were smart—nothing overt and nothing obvious. But they planted them close enough to catch anything that might slip."

Lenora's jaw clenched as a slow, simmering fury built inside her.

The audacity.

The absolute nerve of someone to be so brazen—to actually infiltrate her firm. She exhaled sharply, forcing herself to stay composed. There was no room for emotion right now. 

"How much do you think they know?" she asked.

The agent hesitated.

That alone made her stomach tighten.

"Hard to say,” he answered.  “But if they’ve been listening long enough, they might have enough to put the pieces together. We’re doing a sweep of past communications now."

Lenora nodded, rolling her shoulders back, as if she were physically trying to push the tension from her body.  And then the conversation took a turn—

"Now, about the protection details.”

Lenora’s eyes snapped to Sol, seated across from her between Vivienne and Mei. Sol didn’t visibly react.  Her expression was a careful professional mask like always, but her eyes flickered to Lenora, as if they had both instinctively checked on each other at the same time.

The lead agent didn’t miss a beat.

“The threats—the note, the photos, and Ms. Graves' statement about the car parked outside Ms. Ruiz’s building, combined with the sophistication of the bugs, make one thing very clear.”

He exhaled, flipping to a new page in his report.

“You are dealing with a very credible threat.”

Lenora’s fingers curled into fists beneath the table.

“Based on what we’ve seen,” he continued.  “The individuals behind this aren’t just monitoring you—they’re leveraging your personal relationship with Ms. Ruiz.”

He placed another folder on the table and slid it toward her.

“While the photo of your son, Ben, was included in the package, it is clear the primary target is Ms. Ruiz.”

The air in the room shifted.

Lenora didn’t look at the folder. She didn’t need to.

Target.

That word alone made Lenora’s stomach churn.

And just like that, the fury evaporated.

Lenora could feel her chest tighten as anxiety surged through her like a toddler hopped up on sugar, wild, uncontrollable, and destructive. It tore through her with reckless abandon, wreaking havoc inside her like it had no intention of stopping until it wore itself out.

She couldn’t speak.

Thankfully, Imani spoke up next to her, filling the silence Lenora couldn’t break.

“What steps can we take to protect Sol as the case proceeds?”

The lead agent nodded, flipping through his notes before answering.

“Ms. Ruiz will receive a dedicated protection detail. Given the nature of the threat and the level of surveillance already in place, we also strongly recommend placing details on both Ms. Graves and her son as a contingency.”

He continued, his tone calm but firm.

“It’s also clear that Ms. Ruiz’s home has been compromised. We recommend relocating her to a safe house for the duration of the case. We will handle all transportation to and from work, as well as any additional travel Ms. Ruiz deems necessary. However, our strong recommendation is that, unless absolutely critical, she should remain in the safe house until the threat is neutralized.”

Lenora didn’t miss how Sol stiffened at that. She was still getting to know Sol—understanding what made her tick—and while she didn’t have a full picture of all of Sol’s quirks, Sol gave off the vibe of someone who didn’t like being locked down. 

“And how long are we talking?” Sol asked her voice soft, but Lenora caught the slight edge beneath it.

The agent exhaled.

“It’s clear that the threat is tied directly to the case. Once the case is resolved, the threat should disappear.”

Lenora’s eyes snapped up at that one word.

"Should,” she repeated.

She hated guessing, hated uncertainty, and hated anything that didn’t come with hard, concrete facts.

He must have caught her tone because he grimaced slightly.

“Well...we also have to consider the possibility of retaliation,” he admitted. “If the case proceeds, and your firm wins, there’s a chance the opposition—or those with vested interests in the outcome—will seek retribution.  Ms. Ruiz will likely be the target.”

The panic curled up inside Lenora again, tightening its grip around her lungs like a vice.

This all felt like too much.

Way too fucking much.

When she agreed to continue with the case, she had thought—naively, apparently—that by winning, the threats would stop. That once she crushed the opposition in court, once she exposed whatever corruption was at play, the danger would disappear.

She hadn’t even considered that winning might only piss them off more.  That victory wouldn’t be the end—it would be fuel.  No matter what she did, Sol was in danger.  And the only surefire way to keep her safe was to drop the case.

The realization hit her like a sucker punch. Her nails dug into her palms, sharp enough to sting, but she forced herself to breathe through the pain. She was unraveling. She could feel it in the slow but precise way her composure began to fray, strand by strand, thread by thread.

She was about to come undone.

“I need a minute,” she said abruptly.

She didn’t wait for a response.

She didn’t look back.

She just stood and walked out the door.

For a brief second, she paused in the hallway, as she considered where the hell she was even supposed to go because every goddamn office in this place had glass walls. And she couldn’t stand the thought of all of them watching her break apart.

Then she spotted the supply closet.

Without another thought, she made a beeline for it, slipping inside and shutting the door behind her. The dim light flickered overhead, and the air smelled like paper and printer toner, but it was silent.

Blessedly, mercifully silent.

Lenora pressed her back against a shelf, tilting her head up as she sucked in a sharp breath, her pulse still hammering in her ears as tears of frustration clouded her vision.

She had no idea how long she stood there, breathing in the scent of goddamn office supplies while trying to keep the panic from swallowing her whole.

Then the soft click of the door opening pulled Lenora’s attention, and she braced herself, half-expecting Imani or even Vivienne.

She hadn’t expected Sol.

And she sure as hell hadn’t expected the relief that coursed through her at the sight of her standing there.

Sol didn’t say anything at first. She just stepped inside, shutting the door behind her, but she didn’t attempt to move any closer. Like she knew Lenora needed the space.

They stood there, staring at each other, the hum of the flickering fluorescent light the only sound between them. Then—

"You can’t drop the case."

Sol’s voice was soft, but in the small space, it might as well have been shouted.

"This is my firm and my case.  You don't get to tell me what I can or can't do," Lenora snapped, like a cornered dog lashing out at the hand reaching out to help.

Sol exhaled slowly, but she didn’t run.  Instead, she held her ground and looked Lenora in the eye. 

“I know,” she murmured. “But you’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

Damn it.

That had Lenora looking away.

And that was answer enough.

Lenora could hear Sol take a step closer—not enough to crowd her, but enough that Lenora felt her presence.

“This case—it’s bigger than us,” Sol tried, her voice steady and way too sure. “You know that. I know that. And I also know that you’re not the kind of person who walks away just because it’s hard.”

Lenora let out a sharp, humorless laugh as her eyes snapped back to Sol.

"Hard?" she repeated, voice edged with something dangerously close to breaking. “Sol, this isn’t about hard. You heard them.”

She gestured violently toward the conference room, toward the very serious, very professional security team laying out plans like they were preparing for war.

"This is real."

Her voice became rougher.

"The threat. The danger. This isn’t about some legal battle or another goddamn game of corporate chess. This is your life, Sol. Your actual fucking life. And if I keep pushing, if I don’t walk away, they could—”

She stopped short.

The words caught in her throat, strangling her.  Because if she said them, if she gave voice to the thing clawing at the edges of her mind, it might become real.

Sol’s face on the damn whiteboard, right next to Brooke Sinclair's.

It might happen.

Sol took another step forward.

“Lenora...we can’t stop,” Sol pressed. “If we give in, if we let them scare us into dropping this, then they win. Then they’ll keep doing this to other people—people who don’t have the kind of resources or influence that you do.”

Lenora squeezed her eyes shut for a second as if she didn’t see the words leave Sol’s mouth, then they wouldn’t be true.

But that didn’t make any of this easier.

Lenora was still drowning in worst-case scenarios, in every dark possibility spiraling out in her mind like some cruel, endless reel she couldn’t escape from. 

Then, after a beat, Sol sighed—softer this time.

She stepped forward and reached out slowly, giving Lenora every opportunity to step back.

She didn’t, and Sol’s hands found her hips, fingertips brushing lightly at first, testing, before settling around her. Then the other hand came up, mirroring the touch, and then pulled Lenora in slowly, just enough so that they pressed together.

And then Sol spoke.

"I’m scared too.”

Lenora’s breath hitched.

"But the thing is..."

Sol’s grip tightened, just slightly.

"—I trust you, Lenora. I trust that you’ll do everything in your power to keep me safe."

The words hit harder than Lenora was prepared for.

On one hand, it cracked something open inside her—something warm and steady. Knowing that Sol trusted her, not just with her body, not just with her heart, but with something as precious as her life—it felt like an honor.

But at the same time, that trust that came with it was heavy.  Because what if she failed?

The thought alone was suffocating, like someone was pouring cement into all the cracks in her defenses and weighing her down.

Because this wasn’t just a case.

This wasn’t just some legal battle to be won or lost.

This was Sol’s life.

And she had never been more terrified of losing.

Lenora exhaled, like it could somehow shift the weight off of her.

It didn’t.

The weight stayed, pressing down on her chest, hardening tight around her ribs. It was too much—too many thoughts, too many what-ifs, too many worst-case scenarios clawing at the edges of her mind and threatening to pull her under.

So, without thinking, she let her head dip forward, coming to rest against Sol’s shoulder.

And then she breathed her in.

Cedar and floral.

Sol didn’t move, didn’t speak—she just let Lenora be. Let her press close, let her lean in, let her exist in this small, dimly lit space where, for once, she didn’t have to hold it all together. Where neither of them had to pretend to be anything other than two people caught in something too big, too dangerous, too real, and—

Too fucking fragile.

Lenora let herself linger there for a second longer—just long enough to let the steadiness of Sol’s presence settle her. Then, with a slow inhale, she pulled back, her gaze locking onto Sol’s.

And fuck.

Lenora thought she’d be used to this by now—Sol being right.

Sol had been right about everything.

Lenora couldn’t drop the case—not morally, not strategically. She was the only one with the power, reach, and sharp enough teeth to take Vanguard down. And Sol was right about one more thing, too.

Lenora would burn the world to keep her safe.

She took a steadying breath that didn’t quite steady her, then nodded.

Sol, thankfully, didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. Like someone with the annotated manual to Lenora’s entire psyche, she simply stepped back, giving her space to breathe, to shift, to become what this absolute clusterfuck demanded.

Lenora wished she had time to be grateful for Sol’s presence, her understanding, and the quiet way she never pushed but always somehow saw her. But there was no time for gratitude.

Not now.

Because if she couldn’t drop the case, that meant she had one priority: protect Sol. 

And in order to do that, Lenora needed to be prepared for battle. Straightening her spine and rolling back her shoulders, Lenora felt every fragmented piece of herself snap back into place. The mask slid on easily, like muscle memory.

The Wraith of Wall Street had returned.

Without hesitation, she moved forward and pushed open the door and marched back into the conference room, not needing to glance behind her to know Sol was following.

The conversation stilled as she entered. The agents, the other partners were still seated, and waiting. Lenora moved to her chair and sank into it before turning and looking directly at the lead agent.

Across from her, Sol moved to sit—but paused mid-motion as Lenora spoke.

“Would it be easier,” Lenora said, voice crisp and controlled, “if Sol, Ben, and I were all in the same place?”

The silence was immediate.

The lead agent hesitated for maybe half a second.

“Yes,” he said simply.

Lenora gave a single, decisive nod.

“Then Sol can stay at my place until you’re confident she’s safe.”

She didn’t look at Sol. Not directly. But in the corner of her vision, she caught the sight of her—still half-standing, eyes wide, frozen above the chair like someone had hit pause on her.

Lenora kept going, making sure to keep her tone almost bored.

“My building has one entrance. One exit,” she said, now addressing the other partners, whose expressions ranged from mildly surprised to borderline shocked. “There’s a doorman. A staffed front desk. I live in the penthouse suite—top floor. It’s one of the most secure buildings in Manhattan. And it has four guest bedrooms.”

She leaned back slightly, folding her hands in front of her like she was summarizing a quarterly report.

There.

Logical.

Reasonable.

Completely above board and definitely nothing worth reading into.

Just a practical solution.

Because this wasn’t about feelings. Or proximity. Or the fact that the thought of Sol staying anywhere else made her stomach turn.

It was about safety.

And keeping Sol close—within reach, within walls Lenora could control—was the smartest move.

The best move.

Because if Vanguard was going to come for Sol, they would have to get through Lenora first.

2

Imminent Domain

Lenora jammed her key into the lock, the click echoing down the quiet hallway. She pushed the door open but didn’t step inside.  Instead, she stepped to the side as the security team swept past her in a tactical wave, moving with the kind of precision that made her wonder if they practiced dramatic entrances in their spare time.

She stayed put, leaning against the cool wall of the hallway, arms crossed, head tilted back until it met the drywall. Her eyes fluttered shut, and for just a moment, she let herself sag. Not quite collapsing, but dangerously close.

She was exhausted.

Muted sounds drifted from inside her home—footsteps, hushed orders, the occasional electronic beep as they scoured for bugs. She barely registered any of it, too lost in the swirling debris of her own thoughts.

And at the center of it all, like it had been for nearly a month

Sol.

But not just Sol.

Sol staying at her place.

Jesus.

What in the fresh hell was she thinking?

This was such a colossally bad idea, but before she could full spiral, the sound of boots approaching pulled her back. One of the agents appeared in the doorway, giving her a clipped nod.

“It’s clear. We’ll need about an hour to finish installing the cameras.”

She returned the nod, her voice flat.

“Everywhere but the bathrooms, bedrooms, and my office, as discussed.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her jaw ticked.

“Don’t call me ma’am.”

The agent blinked but recovered quickly.

“Yes, Ms. Graves.”

The agent disappeared back inside, leaving Lenora in the hallway again. She let out a slow breath, before gathering the will—or maybe the courage—to finally look to her left.

Sol stood a few feet away, leaning against the wall with the ease of someone who either didn’t have a care in the world or had perfected the art of pretending. An army-green duffle bag hung from her shoulder. As if sensing Lenora’s gaze, Sol turned her head, and her dark eyes met Lenora’s.

That same strange, unwelcome twist of emotion curled in Lenora’s chest, like a swarm of butterflies packing knives.

This was a terrible idea.

“You ready?” she asked, her voice aiming for confidence but missing the mark entirely.

Sol, naturally, caught it.

She always did.

Her eyes softened, her posture easing as she adjusted the duffle bag on her shoulder.

“I can go to a safehouse like we originally planned,” she said quietly, her voice carrying the weight of every unspoken concern they hadn’t addressed since the decision to temporarily live together was made.

“You don’t have to do this,” she added, so soft that it nearly got lost in the noise reverberating from her home. 

Lenora straightened at her words, as if sheer posture alone could smother the war waging inside her head.

“I do, actually.”

The words dropped between them like a lead weight. The anxiety, which had been simmering quietly all evening, tightened its grip around her chest, no longer content to lurk beneath the surface.

It wanted out.

Because this wasn’t just a passing storm anymore—it was the kind that rattled windows and sent patio furniture cartwheeling down the street. Not quite a full-blown tornado yet, but the kind that had you eyeing the basement door and wondering how much longer you had before everything went sideways.

She swallowed hard, shoving the storm back into its mental cage.

It fought her the whole way.

Taking a steadying breath, she ran a hand through her hair, pushed herself off the wall, and forced her voice into something level.

“You said you trusted me to keep you safe. This is how I keep you safe.”

The irony in that statement was almost comical—almost—if only she were in the mood to laugh at her own dysfunction. Because while Sol might be physically safe here, emotionally? That was another thing entirely.

Lenora didn’t share space well. She shared it with Ben because, well, he had literally grown inside her. He carved out his place in her world.  She had the faded stretch marks to prove it—ones that no amount of plastic surgery or overpriced, glorified buttercream lotions could completely erase.

But sharing space with another person?

With someone she was…seeing?

That was uncharted territory—territory she hadn’t dared set foot in since the divorce. And if history was any indication, it was less of a scenic detour and more of a well-marked path straight to catastrophe.

Not that she had much of a choice anymore.

This was the proverbial hole she had dug for both of them, and now, like two particularly unlucky fools, they had no choice but to jump in.

Like a grave.

With that delightfully grim thought, Lenora strode toward the door, calling over her shoulder.

“The hallway or the spare bedroom—your call.”

She stepped inside, forcing herself through the motions of her usual routine.

Purse on the entryway table.

Shoes off.

Coat hung neatly in the closet.

Cell phone in hand.

Each step was mechanical, a lifeline in the growing sea of chaos that she could cling to.

Behind her, she heard Sol following suit. Not surprising—this wasn’t her first time here. Sol knew the routine. But knowing it and living it were two different things.  And unfortunately, Sol would find that out—likely the hard way.

Lenora made it as far as the living room before everything shifted. The moment she stepped into her sanctuary, her breath hitched, and her fingers twitched at her sides.

There were too many people here.

They were moving through her space like they belonged there. They were speaking in hushed voices, but the sharp whine of power tools slicing through the air made their presence infinitely worse.

It felt invasive.

Wrong.

The storm inside her chest surged, clouds thickening, twisting tighter and faster. The warning sirens in her mind wailed at full volume.

She was going to snap.

“Lenora.”

Her name, spoken low but firm, cut through the noise. A single thread of light breaking through the storm.

And she grabbed onto it like a drowning woman.

Lenora turned.

Sol stood there, watching her with that look—intense and somehow infinitely understanding. The kind of look that made Lenora feel irritatingly seen, like Sol had somehow gotten hold of the operating manual for her brain while most barely made it past the table of contents.

“What room?” Sol asked.

Lenora let out a slow, shaky breath, her eyes flicking toward the hallway.

“Second door on the right,” she answered softly.

Sol nodded, turned to go, but then hesitated.

She stopped mid-step, glanced back, and something in her expression softened.

“Come with me.”

It was more of a command than a request.  Then, as if suddenly remembering they weren’t alone, she adjusted the bag on her shoulder, toned down whatever she had been about to say, and softened even further.

“I need your help.”

Lenora hesitated, her brain still catching up, still running a cost-benefit analysis on whether walking down that hall would end in an emotional disaster.  But before she could decide—before logic could so much as clear its throat—her feet had already moved.

Her body had developed a nasty habit of betraying her where Sol Ruiz was concerned.

Lenora followed Sol down the hallway, teeth grinding every time a drill whined or a hammer cracked against her walls. Strangers brushed past her, too close in an already narrow space.

It made her skin crawl.

She hated this.

Her life was being invaded.

Her walls were breached—literally and metaphorically.

Sol reached the second door on the right and stepped inside, pausing just long enough for Lenora to follow before quietly shutting the door behind them. The relative silence was almost jarring, but the muffled sounds of security work still bled through.

Lenora’s gaze swept the room. She hadn’t been in here in ages—why would she? It wasn’t a space she used. But it was exactly as she remembered. Simple yet elegant. Understated but inviting.

The third nicest bedroom in the house. But more importantly, the last one with its own en suite—a choice she made deliberately. 

If they had any shot at surviving this arrangement—and let’s be honest, the odds weren’t great—Lenora needed every advantage she could get. That meant making damn sure Sol had a space that kept her from encroaching on hers.

Just when she thought she could settle—bang.

A hammer slammed against something in the house. She flinched, her teeth snapping together hard enough to ache as her hands curled into tight fists at her sides.

Sol, unfazed like always, tossed her duffle bag onto the bed and then wandered toward the open bathroom door. She flicked on the light, took a brief glance inside, and then turned to face Lenora.

For a long moment, she just watched her. Not in a way that was invasive or expectant, but in that way Sol always did. Then, finally, she tilted her head slightly and gestured toward the bathroom.

“Come here.”

Miraculously, Lenora’s body didn’t listen to Sol.

It stayed rooted to the spot, her heels practically stapled to the floor. She did not want to move. And most importantly, she did not want to be bossed around.

Not now.

Not when her home was crawling with strangers. Not when every wall, every surface, every inch of her carefully controlled life was being invaded by cameras, security measures, and people who thought calling her ma’am was a good idea.

Her jaw locked, tension coiling so tight inside her that it felt like her ribcage was the only thing keeping her from detonating. It was like trying to hold back a flood with nothing but duct tape. If even one more thing slipped out of her control, she was liable to start hurling the security team's power tools out the window.

And Sol saw it.

Of course she did.

She always saw it—like some kind of human stress detector calibrated exclusively for her.

Lenora didn’t need a mirror to confirm what she already knew.  Her hands were curled into fists at her sides, and her breath was coming too fast and too shallow. She had a posture that all but screamed one wrong move, and I’m either bolting or committing a minor felony.

Surprisingly—or maybe not, Lenora was too frazzled to decide yet—Sol didn’t push.

She just waited.

And then, as if sensing exactly how close Lenora was to snapping, her gaze softened. The sharp edges smoothed out, and patience settled over her like she had all the time in the world.

“Lenny,” she murmured, steady but pleading. “Please, come here.”

Goddamnit.

That was so unfair.

The nickname she hated somehow sounded good in Sol’s gravelly tone, and please—God help her—just sealed the deal. Two harmless little words on their own, but together? They were a chemical disaster waiting to happen.

Like toilet bowl cleaner and tin foil.

By themselves? Innocuous.

But under the right conditions—say, inside a sealed Pepsi bottle…or in this too-small, too-tense room—you give it a shake and wait.

Explosion.

And just like that, whatever fight she had left?

Fucking annihilated.

3

A Landmark Ruling

Lenora’s throat tightened, but she forced herself to move, each step slow and steady, like walking straight into a trap she could see but was somehow powerless to avoid.

The bathroom was the smallest in the house—just enough space for a single sink, a toilet, and a decently sized tiled shower. The moment she crossed the threshold, the walls seemed to take a deep breath, pressing too close.

The weight of everything—her office, her home, her entire life being invaded, the endless noise, the fear, the uncertainty—it all built inside her like a fuse lit on a stick of dynamite.

And Sol?

Sol was standing right there, close enough to touch, close enough to catch whatever explosion was about to detonate.  And then just when she thought she was about to combust.

Sol reached past her and turned on the fan.

Lenora blinked.

The sudden whirrrrr of the fan’s mechanical hum had that fury teetering on the edge of detonation wobble, and skid sideways into something else entirely.

Confusion.

Her brain scrambled to figure out what was happening and why Sol would turn on the fan.   And then, just like that, she caught up.

The fan drowned everything out.

No voices in her house.  No drills, no hammers, no footsteps creeping through her home like a rat infestation.  All that was left was just the steady rhythmic hum filling the room and then miraculously filling her head.

Lenora exhaled slowly, and her chest ached.  Had she even been breathing before?

She wasn’t sure.

But the tension inside her—that relentless, suffocating chaos, finally stilled.

Not completely.

But just enough for her to focus, as her gaze snapped to Sol. 

They stared at each other for a few moments before Sol stepped back.  The size of the bathroom worked against her, but she moved until her back pressed against the opposite wall, giving Lenora as much space as physically possible.

They stood there for a moment, the hum of the fan filling the cramped space, neither of them speaking. The noise helped—a little—but the restlessness inside her refused to dissipate fully.

“Tell me.”

Sol’s voice cut through the noise.

Lenora blinked, her gaze snapping back to Sol, who watched her with that infuriating mix of patience and understanding.

Tell me.

She knew exactly what Sol meant.

She was asking about her.

About what was wrong.

What was clawing at her from the inside out?

Lenora opened her mouth and then shut it again.

How did she even begin to explain?

How did she put into words the suffocating weight pressing down on her chest?

How everything—her home, her life, her very sense of self—felt like it was fracturing, slipping through her fingers faster than she could hold it together?

And worst of all? How she was terrified that with Sol being here meant she’d get caught in the fallout.

Her fingers flexed at her sides, her gaze darting away, landing on the bathroom tiles, unable to piece together a single coherent explanation for how she felt.  So finally, she settled on the only words that seemed to fit. Her voice was raw, strained, thick with the kind of exhaustion that seemed to be squatting in her bones when she finally spoke.

“I feel completely out of control.”

A bitter laugh threatened to bubble up following her confession because—understatement of the century.

Lenora kept her gaze locked on the tile, vision blurring slightly as her fingers curled and twisted at her sides, the tremor in them betraying her.

Silence stretched between them. And then, so softly it barely cut through the hum of the fan, Sol spoke.

"Okay."

Just that.

Simple.

Steady.

But it still managed to wrap around Lenora like a warm blanket she hadn’t asked for but desperately needed.

"Okay," Sol repeated, even softer this time.

The silence that followed wasn’t suffocating.

It just… existed.

A rare, fragile pause in the chaos, like Sol had carved out a quiet space just for her.  And then, just when Lenora started to think Sol might actually let the moment settle—

"Take it back."

The words sliced through the stillness.

Lenora’s head snapped toward her.

"Take what back?" she bit out, exhaustion sharpening the edge of her voice.

Sol didn’t flinch.

Didn’t so much as blink.

She just tilted her head against the wall, her dark eyes holding that infuriating blend of understanding and unshakable intensity.

"All of it."

Her tone was steady, but there was something beneath it—something simmering, hanging there like she was dangling a raw steak in front of a starving animal.

"Take it," she continued, voice dipping lower, settling into something rough and dangerous. "Your control. Your power. Everything you think you’ve lost."

The words pressed into Lenora, heavy, like a match held too close to gasoline.

And because Sol was a pyromaniac, she sagged into the wall just a little more, as if softening herself, offering something she had never offered Lenora before. And when she spoke again, even her voice had lost its edge.

"It’s right here, Lenora. The one thing you can control."

Lenora’s breath hitched. It took a second for her brain to catch up, to process exactly what Sol was suggesting. And when it did? Heat rushed beneath her collar, spreading up her neck and blooming across her chest like wildfire.

Without thinking, her hand shot up, tugging at the neckline of her hoodie, desperate to relieve the sudden, suffocating pressure building inside her.

Sol’s gaze flicked to the movement, eyes catching on Lenora’s hands. But there was no smugness in her expression, no triumph—just something patient, like she was reaching inside Lenora for something only she could see.

“It’s okay,” Sol murmured.

Her eyes flashed, and then—just the slightest nod.

Like she was giving permission.

"Take it."

The urge to act—to take the control Sol was so freely offering—clawed at her, and Lenora fought it with everything she had.  Because she knew herself and she knew exactly what simmered beneath her.

And it wasn’t something you unleashed on a person.

It needed containment.

Solitude.

And a bottle of bourbon.

Sol didn’t know what she was saying. She didn’t know what she was inviting. She couldn’t possibly understand the monster she was daring to walk through her front door.

Lenora’s fingers left the collar of her shirt and twisted restlessly at her sides, a traitorous tell that she was rapidly losing ground in this battle of wills.  Her breathing hitched, and her chest tightened, as heat and tension coiled tighter, winding her up like a spring stretched to the breaking point. Every second dragged out unbearably thin.

Then—

"Lenora."

Sol’s voice, low and rough, slithered through the small space, curling around them like steam from a shower.

Lenora’s breathed it in, feeling Sol in her goddamn lungs.

Sol’s gaze flicked down, zeroing in on the restless motion of her fingers before dragging back up to meet her eyes.

There was no patience left in her expression now.

No soft edges.

Just something sharp.

“All you have to do,” Sol dared, her voice low with a challenge laced into every syllable, “is take those restless, beautiful fingers of yours… and bury them—”

Lenora moved before the sentence even finished.  Two long steps had her crossing the distance, as she surged forward and grabbed Sol’s face, pulling her forward in a kiss so fierce, so consuming, it bordered on devastating.

Because if Sol wanted Lenora’s storm—

Lenora would give her a goddamn hurricane.

Sol’s head hit the wall with a thud, the sound reverberating through the small space. She gasped, her lips parting in shock.

Perfect.

Lenora seized the opening, her tongue sliding in, devouring her like she was something Lenora had been starving for.

Which, honestly, at this point, she probably was.

Her fingers tangled in Sol’s hair, gripping at the roots with just enough force to control her movements. It left no escape, no chance at pushing back. Just Sol, exactly where Lenora wanted her—pinned, trapped, completely at her mercy.

Their mouths continued to crash together, as Lenora’s lips moved with an intensity that was less of a kiss and more of a reckoning. A force of nature, unchecked and unrelenting. One of her hands braced against the wall beside Sol’s head, as both a physical barrier and a reminder that there was no getting away from this.

Not that Sol seemed interested in running.

Her gasp melted into Lenora’s mouth, and her hands twitched at her sides, itching to move—to take. But Lenora’s grip made the rules crystal clear.

This wasn’t a negotiation.

This wasn’t an even playing field.

This was hers.

The rough pull on her hair drew out another groan from the back somewhere deep in the back of Sol’s throat.

Lenora felt the sound vibrate through her, raw and needy, and she tugged harder, deepening the kiss, her tongue sweeping inside to taste it.  Her grip tightened in Sol’s hair, fingers curling at the nape of her neck as she gave another sharp pull.

Sol gasped, her lips breaking away, her head tilting back on instinct, exposing the long, graceful line of her throat like an offering.

Lenora didn’t hesitate.

She descended with a ferocity that left no room for second-guessing. Her lips traced the delicate skin, alternating between teasing, featherlight brushes and sharp, biting kisses that left a searing path in their wake.

Sol’s breath hitched, her hands flying to Lenora’s hips, slipping beneath the fabric of her sweater, nails digging. 

Lenora half expected to be pushed away, to be told to stop, but Sol surprised her, and simply pulled her closer and spoke.

"Lenora."

It was barely more than a breath, lost beneath the steady hum of the fan, but it was there.

And it was wrecked.

And God, that only made Lenora want to devour her more.

The sharp pull on Sol’s hair kept her exactly where she wanted her—vulnerable, exposed, hers. The power of it coursed through Lenora was delicious, lighting up something primal within her.  She kissed the side of Sol’s neck once and then bit down hard.

Sol gasped.  It was a ragged, choked sound that shot straight to Lenora’s center. She soothed the mark immediately after, tongue flicking over the bruised skin, a silent apology that was anything but sorry.

She was high on this.

Too high.

Every ounce of control she seized from Sol felt like reclaiming a lost part of herself, slotting pieces back into place she hadn’t even realized were missing.

And Sol—

Sol didn’t pull away.

She didn’t shrink from the intensity of it. She didn’t ask Lenora to slow down or to soften.

If anything, she leaned into it.

Her breathy moans spilled into the space between them, her fingers tightened on Lenora’s hips as if bracing herself, like she was gripping onto Lenora for dear life.

"Yes," Sol breathed, voice husky and trembling.

Her chest rose and fell against Lenora’s with each shaky inhale.

"Yes… don’t stop. Keep going."

Lenora exhaled sharply against Sol’s neck.

God help them both.

Her words were a spark to dry kindling, igniting something deep, something feral in Lenora—a hunger that burned hotter and brighter than anything she’d felt in years.

Maybe ever.

Lenora pulled back, just enough to take in the wreckage she’d already caused.  Sol was pinned against the wall, panting, with her eyes heavy-lidded and pupils blown wide.

Wrecked.

Beautifully wrecked.

And Lenora had barely even started.

Sol’s earlier words echoed in Lenora’s mind: "Take those restless fingers of yours… and bury them…"

Lenora’s breath hitched just at the thought.  She tightened her grip in Sol’s hair, leaning in, her breath skimming over parted lips.

"Turn around."

Her voice was thick, rough, and commanding in a way she used to intimidate clients in depositions or contract negotiations, but never in the bedroom, and certainly never on Sol.

Sol’s eyes widened slightly, a sharp inhale slipping past her lips. But there was no hesitation.  She obeyed, spinning smoothly on her heel to face the wall before bracing her hands against it.

Lenora stepped closer, pressing into the space Sol had so willingly given up. Her palm slid up the length of Sol’s back, slowly feeling every ripple of tension and every shiver she caused.

Her fingers slipped over the curve of Sol’s hip before skimming forward to the waistband of her jeans. With practiced ease, she unbuttoned them, as the slow pull of the zipper seemed so much louder than the hum of the fan.

To anyone else, it was just a mundane sound.

But to Lenora, it was a goddamn starting gun.

Sol’s breathing turned heavier, her shoulders rising and falling with every inhale, but she didn’t move. She didn’t twist away or push forward. She just waited—held still, waiting for Lenora to act.  Like surrendering was the easiest thing in the world to her.

Lenora pressed flush against her back, her arm looping around Sol’s middle, pulling her in, and feeling the faint tremor running through her.

And fuck—that did something to Lenora.

Her hand slid up Sol’s chest, fingers greedy and possessive as they palmed her breast through the thick fabric of her sweater. She drank in the sound of Sol’s groan before trailing higher, higher—until her fingers wrapped firmly around Sol’s throat.

Lenora felt it all—the sharp inhale, the stutter of her breath, the way her body tensed only to melt seconds later.

Then, with a deliberation that belied how utterly unhinged she felt, her other hand slid lower, slipping beneath the waistband of Sol’s underwear.

And there it was—

Heat.

Wetness.

Sol arching into her touch like this was the moment she’d been waiting for forever.

"Jesus Christ," Lenora muttered under her breath, voice rough with something dangerously close to reverence.

She wasn’t religious.

Never had been.

But this?

Feeling Sol like this, hearing the soft, needy moan vibrating against her palm?

This was fucking divine.

Lenora’s grip tightened, and Sol responded instinctively—tilting her head back to rest against Lenora’s shoulder, baring her throat fully.

Offering it.

And for a moment, Lenora stilled.

Her lips hovered near Sol’s ear, her own breath uneven as her eyes drank in the scene—the long, exposed line of Sol’s neck, Lenora’s hand wrapped perfectly around it, the quiet, unspoken trust of it all.

It nearly undid her.

A shaky exhale slipped from her lips, barely more than a breath.

“You’re mine, Sol,” she whispered heatedly.

Sol whimpered softly at that.  It was a fragile sound, delicate in a way that sent Lenora’s entire world tilting.

Lenora was used to the deep, guttural noises Sol made when she touched her. The groans, the sharp gasps, and the unrestrained moans.

But this?

This tiny, helpless sound—this whimper—it hit harder than any scream ever could.

And with that, something snapped inside her.

Lenora always prided herself on being a quick learner, and even now, from this new angle, she proved it.  Her fingers moved with precision, seeking out exactly where Sol needed her most.

The groan that tore from Sol’s throat as Lenora pressed against that sensitive bud sent a thrill coursing through her. She felt every reaction—every shudder, every moan, every desperate gasp—branding itself into the skin of her palm against Sol’s neck.

Lenora moved her fingers, not wasting a single moment as she savored every sound spilling from Sol’s lips like a goddamn symphony.

"Fuck, Lenora—"

Sol gasped, her voice ragged, breathless, as she sagged further into Lenora’s embrace. Her hips moved instinctively, chasing the rhythm of Lenora’s fingers.

That sound.

The way her name broke in Sol’s mouth—

It shot through Lenora like lightning.

Her lips brushed against Sol’s ear, and the words came easy—natural, effortless, right.

"Good girl."

The same words Sol had once teased her with—she now owned. And God, it felt good—better than she’d imagined— to say them and claim them.

Sol’s reaction was immediate.

A whimper.

A full-body shudder.

She trembled in Lenora’s arms, and fuck—if that wasn’t the most intoxicating thing in the world.

Lenora let out a shaky breath against the shell of Sol’s ear, fingers pressing tighter, more insistent. She could feel the tension winding through Sol.  The shudder didn’t stop—it rolled through her in waves, like her body had ceased being hers entirely, like she’d handed it over to Lenora completely.

"That's it," Lenora whispered, voice low, possessive, lips grazing Sol’s jaw like a reward.

Sol’s breath hitched, her hand scrambled back, fingers threading through Lenora’s hair in a frantic grip, anchoring herself as her head lolled against Lenora’s shoulder.

Every moan, every tremor, every desperate clutch of her fingers fed the fire licking through Lenora’s veins.

She adjusted her hold, tightening her grip around Sol’s throat—not enough to restrict—just enough to remind. Her other hand moved with ruthless precision, circling, pressing, coaxing in exactly the way she knew Sol liked.

And then Lenora felt it—knew the exact moment Sol was teetering on the edge.

It started with a moan, deep and guttural, vibrating against Lenora’s palm. Then Sol’s fingers clenched harder in Lenora’s hair, gripping tight as though that was the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth.

And then—the quake.

Her entire body tensed, thighs clamping shut, hips jerking as she shattered in Lenora’s arms, crying out as she came apart.

Lenora might’ve smirked—if she wasn’t too busy watching.

God, seeing Sol like this was a high in itself.

Though her hand was effectively trapped, Lenora tried to move her fingers, dragging out every last tremor, wringing out every breathless aftershock, until finally, Sol sagged against her, utterly wrecked.

Only then did Lenora grant her mercy. Her hand slipped from Sol’s throat, out of her pants, moving in the same breath to wrap around her middle.

Sol’s breathing came in ragged, uneven gasps, her body trembling as she leaned into Lenora’s frame.

Lenora let her gaze sweep over her, acutely aware of every shake and flutter. Sol had that maddening stamina in the bedroom.  It was one of the perks and occasional pitfalls of dating someone nearly two decades your junior. Usually, Lenora was the one left catching her breath, sprawled out wherever Sol had maneuvered her in blissful defeat, while Sol preened over her like she’d just won Olympic gold.

And as Lenora saw another shiver roll through Sol’s body, vibrating deliciously against her own, she felt a sharp, dark satisfaction coil in her belly.

For once, she had the upper hand.

And honestly?

She kind of wanted to see what it would take to make Sol finally tap out.

Her hands moved before her thoughts caught up, gliding down Sol’s sides with maddening slowness until her fingers hooked into the waistband of her jeans and underwear.  She pressed a kiss to the curve of Sol’s neck, then dragged her nose up the delicate column of her throat, pausing at her ear.

“More,” she murmured, barely a breath against her skin.

Sol let out an audible exhale at the request, before nodding shakily. 

And that was all Lenora needed.

She tugged the fabric down. Sol stepped out of them with practiced grace, then kicked the bundle of denim and cotton aside.  Her movements were quick—even eager, as though Sol was just as excited as Lenora about where this was going.

Lenora’s hands returned to Sol’s hips, feeling the soft naked skin there.  Humming her approval, she leaned in, her lips grazing the sensitive shell of Sol’s ear again.

"Off," she said slowly, as her hands slid forward, gripping the hem of Sol’s sweater and tugging it upward.

Sol raised her arms without question, the fabric slipping over her head in one smooth motion, landing somewhere off to the side.

Lenora barely glanced at it.

Her focus was on Sol.

The moment she saw bare skin, she didn’t pause.

The bra was unclasped with efficiency, falling away before being tossed aside with the same careless disregard.

Lenora exhaled, fingers trailing possessively over the newly exposed skin.

Sol stood perfectly still, her back to Lenora, little gasps slipping from her lips each time Lenora’s fingers or lips skimmed over newly exposed skin. She didn’t speak. She didn’t move.

But the tension in her body—the way she practically vibrated under Lenora’s touch—told Lenora everything she needed to know.

Lenora took a moment to take Sol in. 

The faint red lines of still-healing scratches marked Sol’s back—her marks—etched into her skin from earlier today. The sight sent a deep, possessive satisfaction curling through Lenora’s chest.

She leaned in, pressing slow, gentle kisses to each line, letting her lips brush over every mark she’d left behind. As she kissed those marks, her hands moved and found one of Sol’s wrists, guiding it forward until her palm rested flat against the cool tile.

Lenora pressed against it, lingering, making sure the message was received.

Stay.

And Sol, surprisingly, obeyed.

Lenora repeated the gesture with her other hand, then let her lips skim along Sol’s shoulder with one last teasing kiss before she leaned in.

“Can you bend over for me, sweetheart?”

The endearment slipped out before she could stop it, surprising her more than the question itself. She didn’t say things like that. She didn’t do pet names.

Sol’s head whipped back, dark eyes wide—whether at the request or the unexpected tenderness, Lenora couldn’t say.
Then she saw it—a full-body shiver rippling down Sol’s spine before Sol let out a shaky breath and then…folded.

No hesitation.

No resistance.

Sol bent herself over, braced her palms against the wall, and arched her back in a way that made Lenora’s next breath catch.

Jesus.

Lenora stepped forward instantly, her hand gliding over the curve of Sol’s ass with excruciating slowness, reveling in the way Sol shifted beneath her touch.

Her fingers trailed lower, dragging along the dip of muscle and skin, until they slipped between Sol’s thighs. She found heat and slickness that had her groaning appreciatively.  She let her touch linger, featherlight and teasing, for a few moments before Sol let out a plea.

“Lenora…” Sol started, her voice already breaking—only for it to catch entirely in her throat when Lenora circled her clit in a few slow strokes… only to pull away.

Sol let out a soft, broken whimper, folding down further, instinctively chasing the loss of contact.

“What was that, darling?” Lenora asked, feigning innocence.

Another pet name.

God, what was she doing?

Before she could scold herself for it, Sol pressed back into her hand, desperate and trembling.

“Please. Inside.”

Lenora could never say no to that.

So, she dragged her fingers through Sol’s slick heat one more time, and then, from behind, eased one finger inside.

Then a second.

Lenora paused, wrist still, breath held, as she felt Sol's body pulse around her fingers. She exhaled slowly and then took the risk.

Her third finger pressed forward.

Sol gasp was sharp and sudden, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she moved towards it, pushing back into Lenora’s hand with aching slowness, with her spine arching and her hips tilting just so.

Lenora’s breath caught.

She watched, rapt, as Sol’s body opened around her, inch by inch, swallowing her down. Every muscle in Sol’s back quivered. And still, she took it.

Sol clenched hard around her fingers, body spasming like it was trying to resist and pull her in all at once. She was trembling now, visibly and beautifully, as her thighs twitched and her fingers dug into the tile, as if trying to find something to keep her upright.

Lenora’s own breath was shallow, lips parted, her free hand steadying Sol’s hip as she pushed the last inch forward—

Until she was buried to the knuckles.

Sol’s body fluttered wildly around her, as if in disbelief at what it had taken in. Lenora stayed there, deep and still, feeling the pulse of it—the heat, the tension, the exquisite stretch—and soaked in the image before her.

It was devastating.

It was divine.

It was hers.

And with that thought, her fingers began to move.

Curling.

Pressing.

Finding that one spot that made Sol’s whole body seize with need.

“Fuck,” Sol gasped, voice frayed and ragged, hips instinctively rocking back into Lenora’s hand, chasing Lenora’s fingers.

The force of Sol’s movements—the sheer desperation—hit Lenora like a punch. Her breath stuttered, and a dizzying thrill spiked through her. For half a second, she stopped her hand, struck by the absurd impulse to pull away, to tell Sol to stop, to remind her who was in control.

But then Sol rolled her hips into Lenora’s hand again and—

Jesus Christ.

Sol was moving against her fingers like she couldn’t survive without them.

Lenora barely had a second to breathe before Sol’s voice broke through the haze.

“Lenora, please—”

The sound shattered something inside her. The way Sol said her name lit a fire in her spine.

A growl rumbled low in Lenora’s throat as she surged forward, pressing flush against Sol’s back, her mouth brushing her ear, fingers plunging deeper—faster, harder—matching the frantic rhythm Sol’s body all but demanded.

Sol gasped and then moaned, the sound cracking open into a breathless, helpless—

“Fuck—yes.”

Lenora felt the words around her fingers, as Sol’s walls fluttered and clenched. 

Sol was close.

Lenora could literally feel it. 

So, she moved her free hand around Sol’s front, fingers finding their mark, brushing against Sol’s clit in perfect sync with the curling of her fingers.

The sound that tore from Sol’s throat was—frankly—indecent.  It was a mix between a scream and a moan, and it seemed to reverberate off the walls of the bathroom like a sound room.  If sin had a soundtrack, this would be the opening number.

For one brief, horrifying moment, Lenora sent up a silent prayer that the building’s security team was still busy drilling holes in her walls. Because there wasn’t a ceiling fan on Earth loud enough to cover that sound.

Sol’s entire body shook, hips jerking forward in a desperate rhythm, chasing Lenora’s hand, grinding down in a way that made Lenora’s brain short-circuit. Her fingers were buried deep, and somehow Sol was still pulling her deeper, writhing with just enough movement to drag her clit against the pads of Lenora’s fingers.

Gasps.

Moans.

Complete nonsense spilled from Sol’s mouth.

“What the fuck… how… oh my God—don’t you dare fucking stop.”

Lenora’s wrist was on fire, but the sounds coming from Sol’s throat and the slick, obscene ones from between her legs were pure adrenaline.

She wasn’t stopping.

Not now.

Not until Sol broke.

She leaned in, kissing along the line of Sol’s neck, tasting salt, feeling every guttural sound vibrate against her lips. Her hands never stopped moving.  She could feel that Sol was close—she just needed a push over the edge. 

“Come for me, my love,” she encouraged.

Following the words up with a curl of her fingers, and quick circles on Sol’s clit.

And then—

It happened.

“Fuck… fuck… fuck!” Sol practically screamed.

Lenora felt it a second later, as the sudden but familiar clench wrapped around her fingers—but what quickly, and surprisingly, followed was a rush of wetness that soaked her hand.

She froze.

Just for a second.

Then the realization hit her with all the subtlety of a lightning bolt.

Oh.

Oh.

Well…that’s new.

A slow, wicked smirk curved at her lips as power bloomed in her chest, thrumming like a second heartbeat.

Sol’s body jerked, still riding her orgasm as a breathless sob broke from her lips and her thighs clamped shut around Lenora’s hand, legs shaking so hard that they gave out entirely.

"Fuck!" Sol gasped, voice cracking as she collapsed.

Lenora reacted instantly, pulling her hands free and catching Sol before she hit the ground.

"Easy," she murmured, as she guided them both down to the cool tile.

Sol shuddered in her arms as the shocks continued rippling through her body.

Lenora wrapped one arm securely around Sol’s waist, the other threading through her sweat-dampened hair, brushing soothing fingers against her scalp as she pressed a kiss to her forehead.

It took a few quiet moments, of just holding her and feeling Sol’s breathing gradually steady, before Lenora felt Sol fully relax.

And when she did…she melted.

Completely, utterly boneless in Lenora’s arms.

Lenora blinked.

The sight caught her off guard—not just Sol taking a moment, but actually staying in it.

She looked wrecked in a way Lenora had never seen before.  Her eyes widened slightly in mock disbelief, lips twitching.

"Did I finally find your off button?" she teased, voice light, but unable to keep the unmistakable thread of pride from creeping in.

Sol let out a huff—half laugh, half exasperated groan. Her warm breath ghosted over Lenora’s neck before she finally muttered, muffled but unmistakable in both awe and possessiveness.

"Who in the fuck taught you how to do that?"

Lenora snorted before she could stop herself, her lips quirking into a wry smile as she tightened her hold around Sol, pressing another kiss to the top of her head.

"You did," she answered with a knowing smirk, teasing but undeniably smug.

Sol stiffened slightly, lifting her head just enough to squint at her in suspicion.

Lenora chuckled.

"You had the strap-on on that time, remember? I nearly passed out after? Absolute religious experience for me. Figured, sans equipment, the mechanics were still the same—and, well..."

She gestured vaguely, her grin stretching.

"Looks like I was right."

Sol groaned, falling back into her neck, and even though Lenora couldn’t see her face, she could feel the smile tugging at her lips.

"I want to hate how cocky you get when you’re right," Sol muttered, voice muffled against her skin.

A pause.

Then a quiet, begrudging huff.

"But it’s also annoyingly hot."

Lenora smirked, dragging her fingers back through Sol’s hair.

"Well, buckle up, darling," she drawled, her voice thick with playful arrogance. "Because I’m rarely wrong. So, this is going to be quite the ride for you."

Sol chuckled, her breath warm against Lenora’s neck as she shook her head, a soft laugh escaping her.

"As long as I’m the only one who gets to ride," she murmured, voice low and teasing, "then I think I can handle it."

Lenora’s smirk deepened.

"Possessive, are we?"

Sol tilted her head up, her face dead serious.

"When it comes to you?" Sol answered. "Absolutely."

Something in Lenora’s chest tightened—not with anxiety, for once, but something else, something solid.

She was Sols.

And Sol was hers.

Leaning down, Lenora caught Sol’s lips into a soft kiss before pulling back just enough to murmur against her mouth.

"Good. Because I don’t share well either."

Sol’s lips quirked, but she didn’t make a quip back.

They stayed like that, wrapped in the kind of silence that wasn’t empty, but full.  But after a beat, Sol spoke, voice softer now.

"How are you feeling?"

Lenora hesitated, not out of uncertainty, but to actually check. To reach inward and take stock.  The storm was still there, but it was distant now. Its edges softened, its presence no longer suffocating. And in its wake, there was Sol.

Just Sol.

That presence alone—that anchor—settled her even more.

"Better," she admitted, simply.

Sol hummed in quiet approval, her lips curving faintly.

"Good."

And for a while, they just existed like that.  Then, suddenly, before she could overthink it, Lenora muttered.

"Thank you."

Sol glanced up.

Lenora swallowed, her voice quieter.

"I didn’t know I needed that. How did you know I needed that?"

Sol let out a small breath, head tilting until it rested more comfortably against Lenora’s shoulder.

"Calculated guess," she replied with a small shrug, her tone light, but her words weighted with something deeper. "I feel the same way when my world starts spinning. We’re alike, you and I."

Lenora let that settle inside her for a second.

Then, Sol continued, voice taking on a thoughtful edge.

"Power, surrender, control, submission—they’re powerful forces. They have this…way of shifting dynamics. Of shifting you."

She paused, pulling back slightly, eyes searching Lenora’s face as if looking for something she needed to see reflected back. Finally, she exhaled, her breath soft, and her voice dipped into something almost hesitant.

"And I think…"

She hesitated, gaze lowering briefly as if sorting through her own thoughts before lifting again.

"I think I needed that as much as you did. I didn’t realize it until it was already happening, but I felt…unsteady too. With everything going on—all the chaos—I felt like I was losing my footing."

A wry, self-aware smile ghosted over her lips before her expression softened again.

"But being with you like that—letting you take control—it was nice."

Her voice dropped lower, quieter, the words laced with something vulnerable.

"Like I could let go… trust you to hold the reins… and everything would still be okay."

Lenora stared at her for a long moment, and damn it, she felt that. So, of course, because God forbid, she let a moment like this just sit, she smirked slightly.

"So, what I’m hearing is, you like being bossed around by me."

Sol let out a sharp laugh, shaking her head before letting it fall back down to Lenora’s shoulder.

"And just like that, the moment is gone."

Lenora chuckled, pressing another kiss to Sol’s temple, thoroughly unbothered.

Sol melted, her breath evening out as she rested her head against Lenora, and for a moment—just a moment—the weight of the world faded.

And then, because the universe was an asshole, her phone vibrated. Lenora sighed and adjusted her hold on Sol, fishing the device out of her pocket and glancing at the screen.

"Cameras are installed," she read aloud. "They just left."

Sol exhaled sharply, a sound of pure relief—

And then she froze—mid-breath, mid-movement, her entire body stiffening.

Slowly, she pulled back, her gaze snapping to Lenora, eyes narrowing with a mix of suspicion and dawning horror.

"They texted you instead of telling you in person?" she asked, voice cautious.

Then, her eyes widened.

Her gaze darted to the door.

"Do you think they... heard us?"

Lenora snorted.

"Us? No."

She shook her head, tone far too smug.

"You? Absolutely. I think the tenants two floors down probably heard you."

Sol groaned, face instantly flaming, and Lenora could not have been more pleased with herself.

Because fuck, Sol blushing?

That was new.

That was fun.

That was going to be exploited mercilessly.

Lenora smirked, watching the blush creep up Sol’s neck, the warmth blooming across her cheeks.

Oh.

She really liked that.

She liked it a lot.

"Fuck," Sol muttered, dragging her hands down her face. "I hope none of them are on my security detail tomorrow."

Lenora, never one to resist a prime opportunity to stir the pot, casually pushed herself up from the tiled floor, her joints loudly reminding her that she was far too old to be sitting on hard surfaces for this long.

She ignored them.

Instead, she dusted off her knees and said with a perfectly straight face.

"Well, if they aren’t, I am definitely going to arrange for it."

Sol’s hands dropped from her face as she glared up at Lenora.

"Lenora."

Lenora grinned, absolutely unrepentant, and extended a hand to help Sol up.

"What?" Lenora asked, her voice dripping with mock innocence. "Embarrassed?"

Sol pursed her lips, clearly biting back a retort, which only made Lenora’s grin widen.

She was just about to really start needling when her mind finally caught up to the reason for Sol’s… enthusiastic volume earlier.  Her smirk softened into something slow and wicked as she flexed her fingers at her side, still slick with evidence of their earlier activities.

"Speaking of that—" she started, dragging out the words, watching Sol carefully as she very deliberately lifted her hand, showing off the soaked sweater cuff like a fucking trophy.

Sol froze for exactly half a second—just long enough for realization to dawn.

Then—

"I’m going to bed."

The words came sharp and decisive, punctuated by a dramatic spin on her heel before she all but fled to the bedroom.

Lenora cackled, shaking her head as she grabbed a towel to clean her hand, amusement lingering even as she flipped off the bathroom light and fan, plunging the space into quiet darkness.

Still smirking, she followed Sol into the bedroom, her steps soft against the floor.

But the second she stepped inside, all traces of playfulness evaporated.

Sol was already in bed, tucked beneath the comforter, watching her.

Dark gaze steady.

Waiting.

The charged silence that followed stole every ounce of teasing banter from the air, replacing it with something heavier.

Lenora froze in the doorway, her smirk faltering slightly as uncertainty crept in.

And now what?

Was she supposed to just—what?  Turn around, walk down the hall, go back to her room, and pretend this didn’t just happen?

That thought sparked an unpleasant, restless feeling in her chest.  Before her mind could catch up, her body had already made the decision for her.  She grabbed the arm of her sweater, tugging it off in one swift motion.

Her bra followed.

Then the sweatpants.

Until she was left standing in nothing but her underwear, stepping toward the bed like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Sol’s eyes tracked every movement.

Lenora arched an eyebrow.

"Move over," she said, aiming for confidence but landing somewhere closer to awkward bravado, her voice betraying the faintest waver.

"That’s…my side."

Sol’s lips twitched, barely restraining her amusement, but she shifted without protest and lifted the blanket.

As Lenora slid into bed, she caught the soft smile tugging at Sol’s lips—that smile—the one that sent her heart into a sprint like it was going for gold in the Olympics.

She ignored it.

Shoved it into the emotional junk drawer where all other inconvenient feelings went to die.

Thankfully, Sol turned over, and before Lenora could start questioning the life choices that had led her to this moment, she did the only logical thing.  She wrapped an arm around Sol and reeled her in, pressing her front snugly against Sol’s back like she had every right to be there.

Sol sighed—a deep, contented thing—and melted into her embrace so easily, so naturally, it was almost insulting.

Like they did this every night.

Like this was normal.

Like Lenora wasn’t two seconds away from a minor existential crisis about it.

The weight of the day settled around them—softer, lighter, almost bearable.  Their breathing slowed in tandem, their bodies syncing effortlessly into the quiet.

And for about thirty whole seconds, Lenora let herself bask in it. Then, because she was physically incapable of shutting the hell up—

"So..."

Sol hummed lazily in response.

Lenora smirked against her shoulder.

"Is that... something that can happen often? Or is it more like Christmas? You know, if it happens every day, it loses its holiday spirit?"

Sol stiffened briefly—then let out a wheeze, her body shaking with quiet laughter.

Even though Lenora couldn’t see her face, she knew Sol was smiling.

"You did not just compare me squirting to Christmas."

Lenora grinned.

"What?" Lenora teased, pressing a smug kiss to Sol’s shoulder. "It felt like a gift to me."

Sol let out a choked laugh at that, the sound caught somewhere between exasperation and reluctant fondness.  She went quiet after, and for a moment, Lenora thought she might have actually drifted off.

A pang of disappointment flickered through her—because come on, that had been prime material—but she knew herself.

She’d get her answer.

Sol had to know by now—Lenora Graves did not let things go.

And sure enough, Sol spoke.

"I don’t know," she murmured suddenly, voice low and shy in a way that immediately caught Lenora’s attention. "I’ve never done… that… before."

Lenora’s jaw dropped.

Practically unhinged in shock.

She didn’t say a word—couldn’t say a word—because her brain had short-circuited.

The silence hung thick between them for a beat, until Sol glanced over her shoulder and caught Lenora’s expression.

Her groan filled the room.

"Oh my God—you’re going to be insufferable now, aren’t you?"

The question snapped Lenora out of her stupor, and her lips curved into a smirk.

"I’m always insufferable."

Sol huffed—a sound loaded with I could not agree more—then let out a long, exasperated exhale, snuggling deeper into the pillow.

A clear I am done entertaining this conversation signal.

Lenora, naturally, ignored it.

She rested her chin against Sol’s shoulder, her smirk widening as she innocently murmured.

"So, you’re saying it can happen again…?"

Sol’s groan was immediate, her voice muffled by the pillow.

"Lenora, go to bed."

Lenora chuckled, pressing a kiss to the back of Sol’s neck, letting her lips linger before whispering.

"You didn’t say no."

Sol groaned louder, her whole body physically vibrating with exhaustion and secondhand embarrassment.

"Yeah, well, you will never hear me say yes again unless I get some fucking sleep," she grumbled.

Lenora smirked faintly, recognizing that she was teetering on the dangerous edge of pushing her luck.  And while she usually would have taken that as a personal challenge, even she knew when to quit.

Well.

Sometimes.

She let the teasing fade, resting her head against the pillow, still wrapped securely around Sol’s waist.

The silence between them wasn’t awkward—it was comfortable.

Soothing, even.

A rare balm for the chaos that had surrounded them all day. As if feeling the same way, Sol let out a soft, contented hum, her body melting further into Lenora’s hold.

The sound—small as it was—brought a faint, almost involuntary smile to Lenora’s lips. She pressed another kiss to the back of Sol’s head, her grip tightening ever so slightly.

Lenora's eyes slipped shut as she exhaled, her chest unconsciously rising and falling in sync with Sol’s—and with that, the storm inside her had finally settled.

4

Plausible Deniability

Lenora sat at the dining room table, staring down at the plate in front of her like it was a ticking time bomb. Scrambled eggs—fluffy, golden, and irritatingly perfect. Crisp bacon and a slice of buttered toast.  The whole thing smelled incredible, and her stomach growled, traitorous as ever.

Still, she didn’t pick up her fork.

Instead, she just... stared at it.

She didn’t usually do breakfast. Mornings were for efficiency, not indulgence.  An organic granola bar and an absurd amount of coffee, preferably consumed while walking, working, or glaring at her inbox, while Ben had cereal and toast.

It was a system.

And it worked.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like breakfast. On the contrary, she loved it. Pancakes, omelets, french toast—breakfast was the one meal that had no business being so comforting. It was her favorite, and in a just world, she would eat it regularly.

The issue?

She didn’t cook.

She was objectively—catastrophically bad at it. Always had been.

And when Lenora Graves was bad at something there was one thing for certain: she was going to avoid it like the fucking plague.

Thank god for Sonya.

Sonya, who was part human, part miracle, and all lifesaver. Nanny, cleaner, and, most importantly, an actual master in the kitchen. Without her, Lenora and Ben would have been living on a diet of takeout, pizza rolls, and whatever pitiful excuse for nourishment could be microwaved in under three minutes.

Home-cooked meals made a house feel like a home, or so people claimed. Lenora couldn’t personally verify that, but she liked knowing Ben had that kind of stability. Even if it came via a well-negotiated employment contract rather than any actual domestic skill on her part.

The problem?

Sonya had weekends off. And she didn’t arrive until 8:00 a.m. on weekdays, which meant Lenora was left to her own devices for breakfast. Devices that, historically, stuck to granola bars and cereal.

Weekends?

Takeout.

It was a system. Not a great one, but functional.

For a brief, fleeting moment, she had entertained the idea of hiring a private chef to handle every meal, breakfast included. The fantasy had been so tempting, but it felt like too much. Too indulgent, even for her. Besides, there was something to be said for Ben growing up with the occasional bowl of sugary cereal or sad, frozen pizza.

A dose of humility.

Character-building, even.

And if she were being honest with herself, she didn’t actually want to give up pizza roll nights.  Those nights—just her and Ben on the couch, laughing as they tried to figure out which one was cake and which one was real, eating tiny, molten-lava pockets of joy—those nights were sacred.

Ben loved them, and honestly?

So did she.

Her gaze lingered on the plate in front of her, a flicker of memory creeping in before she could shove it back into the depths where it belonged.

Irene had been a terrible cook, too.

Lenora could still recall the dry, gray slabs of meat her mother would unceremoniously slap onto a plate, flanked by canned vegetables that somehow managed to taste both mushy and metallic. But even those sad meals were rare. Mostly, it had been bologna sandwiches—cheap, cold, and dependable. There was always a pack of bologna in the fridge, right next to the expired milk and whatever else Irene had forgotten to throw away.

Then, there was movement beside her. A steaming cup of coffee slid into her peripheral vision, right next to her plate. Lenora glanced up just in time to see Sol sink into the chair across from her, utterly at ease.

Sol didn’t say anything.

She just sat there, drinking coffee from one of Lenora's favorite mugs.

After waking up in Lenora’s arms.

After showering in her bathroom.

After cooking in her kitchen.

And now here she was, sitting at her table, eating her breakfast, and using her fork.

It was so… domestic.

Lenora hated it.

She reached for the coffee and took a sip.

She hated the way Sol had waltzed into her life and rearranged pieces of it without even trying. Hated how easily she had slipped into Lenora’s world, like she belonged there. Like it wasn’t an intrusion, but a natural shift.

But most of all?

She hated that it felt good.

Her grip on the coffee cup tightened slightly as the thought slithered into her mind, unwelcome and wholly unacceptable. She was not the kind of person who liked things like this—cozy domesticity, shared space, and the quiet comfort of having someone else’s presence woven into her routine.

And yet…

The soft clink of Sol’s fork against her plate pulled Lenora from the dangerous spiral of her own thoughts.  She watched as Sol took a bite of her food, completely at ease, as if they’d been doing this for years. As if this was just another morning, another breakfast, another day in a life they shared.

The anxious coil in Lenora’s chest wound tighter as she mirrored the motion, spearing a bit of egg with her fork and taking a bite.

And fuck.

The eggs were perfect. Soft, fluffy, seasoned with just the right balance of salt and whatever else made them taste like they’d been blessed by a higher power.

She fought against the traitorous urge to groan.

As if she needed another reason to love this woman.

The thought slammed into her with the force that her fork slipped from her fingers and hit the table with a loud clang.

Sol glanced up at the noise, one brow arching in lazy amusement.

“I know it didn’t taste that bad,” she teased.

Lenora shot her a withering look before sighing heavily and dragging a hand through her hair.

“Doesn’t this feel weird to you?” she finally asked, gesturing vaguely between them and then around them, trying to capture the sheer absurdity of this moment.

Sol didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she leaned back in her chair with the kind of deliberate casualness that only made Lenora more irritated. Sol took a slow sip of her coffee, like she was savoring the suspense, before finally smirking.

“When life gives you lemons…”

Lenora’s glare was instant, sharp enough to cut glass—and, hopefully, straight through whatever bullshit Sol was about to say next.

Sol sighed, her smirk fading as she slouched slightly in her chair. The playful mask slipped, replaced by something quieter..

“Yes,” she admitted simply, meeting Lenora’s gaze head-on. “It’s weird.”

Lenora flicked her hand up in sharp exclamation.

“Thank you,” she muttered, needing the affirmation like she needed oxygen.

She exhaled slowly, gaze dropping back to her plate. Then, with a sense of determination, she picked up a piece of bacon and bit into it, trying not to let the awkwardness swallow her whole.

But, of course, Sol couldn’t just leave well enough alone.

“You know,” she began, her voice dipping into that unmistakable tone—teasing, mischievous, just waiting to get on Lenora’s nerves.

Lenora froze mid-chew, eyes narrowing, already bracing herself for whatever nonsense was about to come out of Sol’s mouth.

Sol smirked, clearly enjoying herself far too much.

“This whole situation,” she said, pausing dramatically to take a languid sip of coffee, “is basically the epitome of stereotypical lesbian behavior.”

Lenora wasn’t sure what she was expecting Sol to say, but that wasn’t it. She tilted her head, chewing slowly, trying to process the statement like it was written in Latin.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Sol leaned forward, taking her time spearing another bite of egg. She popped it into her mouth, humming thoughtfully before finally locking eyes with Lenora, with that teasing glint burning brighter.

“U-hauling,” she said simply.

Lenora blinked.

Once.

Twice.

What?

“…Like the moving truck?”

Sol’s jaw dropped dramatically, like Lenora had just insulted her entire family lineage.

“You’ve really never heard the lesbian U-Haul joke?” Sol asked, tone brimming with disbelief, her amazement as playful as it was genuinely appalled.

Lenora scowled, her brow furrowing as she racked her brain, searching for any context to latch onto. Nothing. Not a single, miserable clue. The frustration of not knowing—of being outside the joke—pricked at her pride.

She glared at Sol, jaw tightening, tone sharpening to a lethal edge.

“I’m so sorry,” Lenora deadpanned, voice a perfect mix of disdain and mockery. “I must’ve missed that act in The Vagina Monologues. Please, enlighten me.”

Sol’s grin widened, eyes glinting with pure, unfiltered mischief. She leaned back in her chair, clearly relishing every ounce of Lenora’s irritation.

“I forget sometimes that you’re a baby lesbian,” she cooed, her voice dripping with exaggerated sympathy, like Lenora was a poor, naïve lamb who had somehow wandered into the wilderness.

Lenora’s left eye twitched. A clear, immediate sign that her patience was dangling by a thread.

Sol, unfazed, raised her hands in a patronizing gesture, then brought them together as if about to explain the birds and the bees to a 12-year-old.

“Alright, listen,” she began, her tone so infuriatingly placating that Lenora nearly bent her fork. “When two mommies fall in love—”

Lenora growled, fingers tightening around her fork to keep herself from throwing it at this infuriating woman.

“You do realize that I have enough connections in New York high-society to kill you with my bare fucking hands and still get away with it?”

Sol, of course, reacted to the threat with her mouth twitching with barely-contained laughter as she took an infuriatingly slow sip of coffee, clearly letting the moment stretch long enough to test every ounce of Lenora’s patience.

But then, just as quickly, the teasing flickered. The smirk softened into something quieter, more thoughtful, as she set her cup down and met Lenora’s gaze with something almost like resignation.

“Okay,” she murmured, exhaling like she was about to drop a bomb. “There’s this running joke about lesbians—how we move fast.”

She tapped a finger against the rim of her mug.

“Women bond quicker. There’s no emotional gatekeeping, no decade-long fear of commitment, none of that agonizingly slow-build nonsense that straight couples seem to suffer through.”

She paused, considering her next words. Then, with devastating precision, added—

“Even for the truly emotionally stunted—”

Lenora’s glare sharpened. She could feel the insult coming. She opened her mouth, ready to shut it down, but Sol beat her to it.

“—like us,” she finished simply, leveling Lenora with a look that was knowing rather than teasing.

A brief, heavy pause settled between them, the weight of the statement hanging in the air. Then, Sol leaned forward, spearing another bite of egg as she continued, casual as ever.

“Even then, it’s like running a 100-meter hurdle race—except there are no hurdles for us. Just a straight shot to the finish line, while everyone else is tripping and breaking ankles behind us.”

Lenora blinked.

She stared at Sol as if she had just spoken in tongues. Then, slowly, she set her fork down with a clink, waving a hand through the air like she was physically swatting away the sheer nonsense of it all.

"That cannot be a real thing," she stated flatly, with the kind of deep skepticism usually reserved for sovereign citizenship arguments and cease-and-desist letters written in Comic Sans.

Sol chuckled, leaning back in her chair with that look-the one that set Lenora’s teeth on edge, which was equal parts honesty and enjoyment.

“Oh, but it is,” she replied breezily. “One of my friends from Texas used to say lesbians date like dogs age—one year for a straight couple equals seven for us.

Lenora’s entire thought process screeched to a halt.

“What?!” she practically exclaimed.

Sol, unbothered, tapped her chin like a professor deep in a lecture.

“Let’s do the math.”

She made a show of glancing up at the ceiling, mumbling theatrically.

“We’ve been at this for, what, a little over a month now?”

She clicked her tongue, pretending to calculate.

“Carry the one, divide by seven…”

Then, her gaze snapped back to Lenora, and the smirk that spread across her face was downright villainous.

“Congratulations, my love.” Sol’s voice dipped into a smug, teasing lilt. “We just celebrated our one-year lesbian anniversary.”

Lenora’s jaw dropped.

She stared, caught somewhere between disbelief and outright indignation.

“That—”

She started, then faltered, because what the actual hell.

Her eyes narrowed.

“You’re just fucking with me.”

Sol met her gaze, utterly deadpan, and bit into her bacon like she had all the time in the world.

“Unfortunately, no,” she said, brandishing the strip of bacon like Voldemort brandishing his wand before shooting an avada kedavra. “It’s absolutely a thing. I mean, I managed to avoid the stereotype my whole life, but I’ve seen it happen. Stereotypes exist for a reason.”

She paused, taking in the scene, then gestured around them.

“And now, look at me.”

Her expression was downright tragic, but the glint in her eye betrayed her amusement.

“You’ve ruined me.”

Lenora scoffed, shaking her head, but the unease settled low in her stomach like a bad meal. This couldn't be true. Women wouldn’t be that dumb. That easily influenced.

We were made from sharper things.

We pushed bowling balls out of our vaginas, for Christ’s sake.

We were careful. We were cautious. We knew the reality of dating—how it really worked. How feelings needed to be examined under a microscope, fact-checked, cross-examined, and still taken with a grain of salt. Because attachment was dangerous. Because people weren’t always who they seemed. Because love—

Her thoughts stuttered to a halt.

Oh.

Because that was how she had approached dating men.

Every careful inch of distance, every raised eyebrow at a grand romantic gesture, every mental escape route she had mapped out—those instincts weren’t natural. They had been taught.

Shaped.

Forged in the fires of dealing with men who saw women as speed bumps—something to roll over on their way to get what they wanted.

Fuck.

Her stomach twisted, her grip tightening around her coffee cup like it was a life raft keeping her from drowning in this new reality.  She scrambled for footing, for logic, for anything that would keep her from sinking in too deep.

“We’re not like that,” she blurted, her words clumsy, desperate, as if fighting for purchase.

Sol’s smirk deepened.

"Oh, sweetheart," she drawled, leaning in just slightly, elbows resting lazily on the table. “We absolutely are.”

Lenora bristled instantly, her spine going rigid as if the sheer force of her indignation could will this entire conversation out of existence.

She paused, frowning slightly, as if saying it a second time would make it sound more legitimate.

“And two—” she continued, her voice lowering in an attempt to be commanding. “I barely even...like you.”

The second the words left her mouth, Lenora regretted them.

Damn it.

Not as confident as she’d intended. The slight hesitation at the end had been a dead giveaway, a crack in the foundation, and of course, Sol noticed it immediately.

Sol’s head tilted, her slow grin spreading like she’d just been handed the best present of her life. Then she laughed—loud, full-bodied and unabashed. She even had the audacity to throw her head back, as her dark hair caught the soft morning light in a way that made Lenora’s chest tighten despite her best efforts.

When Sol looked back at her, her eyes were warm, playful, and entirely too fucking knowing.

“Barely like me, huh?” she echoed, her smirk widening like a wolf scenting blood. “You are so full of shit.”

She leaned forward slightly, like she was giving a closing argument in a case she already won.

“You love me, Lenora Graves. You just can’t say it without choking, but you do.”

Lenora glared, ignoring the way her heart tried to betray her by doing an irritating little flip at the sheer certainty in Sol’s voice.

“Did those exact words ever leave my mouth, counselor?” she shot back, lifting her chin with pure, unfiltered stubbornness that she could call on without a moment's notice.

It was a solid argument.

Legally speaking.

She hadn’t said those exact words—not directly, anyway. Sure, she had technically called Sol “my love” once, and yes, there had been that moment back in the office where she implied it. But both instances had been carefully worded and wrapped in enough layers of plausible deniability to avoid the terrifying weight of saying it plainly.

Just the thought of that—of saying those three words—of handing Sol that kind of power, twisted something sharp and unpleasant in her stomach. Vulnerability had never been her strong suit, and she wasn’t about to start treating it like a casual hobby now.

Sol raised an eyebrow, considering her like a counselor deciding just how hard she wanted to push a witness. Her smirk didn’t waver, though.

Lenora wasn’t having it.

She lifted her chin a fraction higher. She still had some dignity left. She grabbed her fork and pointed it at Sol like a weapon made of pure, unrelenting defiance.

“If it can’t hold up in court,” Lenora bit out, her tone clipped, “it won’t hold up in my home.”

She put extra weight on the last two words, landing them like a gavel striking a judge’s bench.

Sol blinked, just for a split second, like she hadn’t been expecting that. Then, to Lenora’s horror, her lips twitched into an even bigger, infuriatingly self-satisfied grin.

“Noted,” Sol murmured, leaning back in her chair, the very picture of mock compliance. But her eyes—dark, amused, and brimming with that infuriating confidence—told a different story. The kind of confidence that made Lenora want to strangle her or kiss her.

For a brief betraying moment, her mind conjured the image of doing both.  Which, naturally, only pissed her off even more.  So instead, she channeled all that irritation into stabbing her fork into her eggs with the kind of precision that could have easily been mistaken for premeditated violence.

“Good,” she said, her tone firm—the embodiment of a woman fully in control.

At least, that was the lie she was going to tell herself.

One-year anniversary.

How utterly ridiculous.

5

Due Process

Lenora knew sharing a space with Sol was going to be difficult. She had prepared for it, steeled herself for it. She knew herself. She knew how easily her routine could be thrown off by someone else’s presence, how quickly she could grow irritated by the smallest disruptions.

And yet, nothing could have prepared her for the reality of it.

It wasn’t that Sol was doing anything in particular. That was the problem.

Sometimes, she was just there.

Sitting on the couch, curled up with a book. Scrolling through her phone, aimlessly flicking her thumb against the screen. Standing in the kitchen, getting a glass of water like a perfectly reasonable person.

Things that were utterly inconspicuous in nature. Things that should’ve gone unnoticed.

But to Lenora?

They were monumental.

Every single time she walked into a room and saw Sol, it took her by surprise. Like her brain simply refused to update its internal map of the apartment to include her.

Which was deeply unsettling.

But the most unsettling thing of all is that she had expected to hate it. The invasion of her space, the disruption of her routine, the constant presence of someone else breathing her air. She had braced for that discomfort and prepared to endure it like some necessary evil.

But she didn’t hate it.

It was like taking a tropical vacation in the middle of February—something that shocked the system at first, all glaring sunlight and oppressive heat, leaving her disoriented and unsteady.

But after a while, after she acclimated to it, after the initial jarring sensation faded.

It felt… nice.

Something she could bask in.

Something she could get used to.

Something that, if she weren’t careful, she might start wanting.

Maybe even the kind of thing a person convinces themselves to keep—first by visiting regularly, then by buying a vacation home, and then, before they know it, they’re on Zillow at 2 a.m., debating whether to uproot their entire life and just move there permanently.

And that thought?

That implication?

It was completely unacceptable.

Which was why she was currently avoiding Sol by barricading herself in her office, drumming her nails on her desk, and glaring at the clock like she could will 2:00 PM to get here early.

Because today—both a godsend and a bad fucking omen—was her monthly appointment with her long-time therapist, Judith.

Judith reminded Lenora of one of her old law professors. The one she had simultaneously hated and respected. The one who had made her fall in love with the law while also holding her to the brutal standards it required.

Judith operated the same way.

It had taken Lenora years to find a therapist she couldn't manipulate, out-argue, or bulldoze with sheer force of will. Someone immune to her sharp edges and stubborn deflection.

Judith didn’t coddle. She didn’t let Lenora spin things into a neat little narrative that absolved her of self-reflection. She gave her the brutal truth, stripped of comfort or convenience, and called her out mercilessly when she was being completely fucking ridiculous.

And, just like that law school class, Lenora dreaded every session.

But she was better for it.

Not that it made this any less aggravating.

The sharp ding of her computer snapped her out of her thoughts—the notification that her appointment had arrived.  Lenora exhaled sharply, before she clicked into the meeting with forced nonchalance, schooling her expression into something aloof—as if her life hadn’t been completely turned on its head since the last time she saw Judith.

Which, of course, it had.

Spectacularly.

The screen flickered, and then there she was—Dr. Judith Fuller.

She was in her sixties, but time had done little to soften her. Sharp features, shrewd eyes, long gray hair that she wore down today, though Lenora had seen it swept into everything from a no-nonsense bun to an effortless twist that made her wonder if Judith had some secret past in fashion.

And, as always, she had style.

Today, it was a chunky, stylish sweater—ivory, with an elegant drape that made it look expensive, paired with layers of jewelry that somehow managed to be bold without being gaudy. It was one of the first things Lenora had ever noticed about her, the thing that had immediately set her apart from the long, bleak parade of therapists before her.

Because, unlike them—unlike Dr. Argyle Sweater with his ill-fitting khakis and the personality of a manila folder—Judith didn’t look like she had resigned herself to existing in some lifeless, clinical void.

No, Judith had presence.

Lenora straightened in her chair, already bracing herself.

“Lenora,” Judith greeted, voice smooth and expectant. Her gaze flickered across the screen, assessing in that way that always made Lenora feel like she was being measured against some invisible standard she had already failed to meet, but not in a bad way.

“I take it from the tension in your jaw and the fact that you look like you’d rather be anywhere else,” Judith continued, ever perceptive, “that you’ve been having an interesting month.”

Lenora exhaled slowly, forcing herself not to fidget.

She had exactly two options:

Attempt to deflect and prolong the inevitable.  Or just accept that Judith could smell her bullshit from a mile away and just get it over with.

She clicked her pen a few times, the rhythmic click, click, click filling the silence before she exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders back as she sank into her chair.

What the hell.

If she was going to suffer through this session, she might as well make it entertaining.  So, with the same casual ease as someone ordering a drink at a bar, she dropped the proverbial shitstorm directly into Judith’s lap.

“Well,” she began, tapping her pen against the desk, “let’s see. A little over a month ago, I made a spectacularly reckless decision to explore my sexuality with one of my employees—who, I should add, is sixteen years younger than me.”

She gave Judith a moment to absorb that, watching as the older woman’s expression remained frustratingly neutral.

Lenora continued.

“Then, my mother decided to drop by the office—unannounced, naturally—and proceeded to be exactly the delightful, nurturing presence she’s always been.”

Nothing.

Not even a blink from Judith.

Was she even breathing?

Lenora drummed her fingers against her desk, pressing on.

“And while I was exploring my sexuality with Sol—you know, my employee—we somehow, inexplicably, started developing feelings for one another.”

She said it like the concept itself was offensive. 

Judith still didn’t react, just tilted her head slightly. Lenora gritted her teeth and powered through.

“Oh, and my newest case—a real gem of a situation—is now actively threatening to kill Sol unless I drop it.”

She flashed a tight smile.

“So now I’m under protection from a private security company, which—and here’s the cherry on top—means Sol is currently living with me.”

Silence.

A slow blink from Judith.

Then she adjusted her glasses, leaned forward slightly, and said, in the calm, clinical tone of a woman who had seen some shit.

“Well, which one would you like to unpack first?”

_______________

An hour later, Lenora ended the call with a sigh, clicking the window closed before leaning back in her chair.  Somehow, she felt both free and weighted all at once.

Judith had a way of making every session feel like a damn TED Talk, leaving her with little bangers of truth that rattled around in her skull, looking for a place to take root. And, of course, she had delivered them all with that maddening calm.

On Lenora’s sexuality:

"You never questioned your attraction to men, but you also never felt safe with them. Attraction without safety isn’t connection, Lenora. It’s survival."

On her mother:

"You act like you should be immune to her, like if you were just stronger, she wouldn’t affect you. But that’s not how this works, Lenora. She’s your mother. You can heal, you can set boundaries, but you’re still going to feel it. And that doesn’t mean you’re weak—it means you’re human."

On her confusing feelings for Sol:

“It’s funny, isn’t it? You’ve built your entire life around certainty, and now that something feels right, you don’t trust it.”

On how it felt to have Sol in her home:

“There’s a difference between someone disrupting your life and someone fitting into it. You should ask yourself which one she’s actually doing.”

And, of course, because Judith never missed an opportunity to gut her like a fish—

On Lenora’s feeling like she was in love with Sol, but saying the words out loud made her feel sick:

"You’re not scared of loving her. You’re scared of telling her because once you do, it becomes real. And real things can be lost."

Lenora sighed as her eyes flicked toward the closed office door.

Sol was out there.

She had been out there all day, existing in her space while Lenora had done her absolute best not to exist in hers.

It had been remarkably effective, in a way that was both impressive and pathetic. Since their completely unhelpful and utterly destabilizing breakfast conversation, Lenora had managed to avoid Sol with the skill and precision of someone dodging a subpoena.

But now, post-session, she felt more settled. Not fixed, not cured—Judith would have a field day if she even suggested that—but more steady. Like she had been knocked off balance and had finally found her footing.

Which, unfortunately, meant she couldn’t keep pretending that the last twenty-four hours hadn’t happened.  Because one thing Judith loved to drill into her was that attending therapy didn’t magically fix anything.  She actually had to do something with all those uncomfortable truths she unpacked.

And that was the part Lenora fucking hated.

Because knowing what she needed to do?

Easy.

Actually doing it?

That was a whole other monster.

Her gaze remained locked on the door, jaw tightening.

Avoiding Sol wasn’t solving anything.  Not to mention, her office didn’t have an en suite, and every year her bladder seemed to get smaller and smaller.  So, she couldn't exactly hold out in here forever.

With another exhale, Lenora pushed her chair back and stood.

It was time to act.

Even if she had absolutely no idea how.

She opened the door and leaned out, her movements cautious, almost comically so—like a detective in a cop show, checking corners before entering a hostile hallway.

Clear.

She heard the faint hum of the TV from the living room and decided to just go for it. No more hiding. No more avoidance. No more being a complete coward. Lenora stalked toward the living room, every step a little too stiff, but she pushed through it. 

Sol was sitting cross-legged, completely relaxed, eyes on the TV—until Lenora entered.

Their gazes met.

Lenora froze for half a second, then forced herself into nonchalance. Her eyes flickered to the screen.  A documentary about space was playing.

There was something almost cosmically ironic about the fact that Sol was sitting there learning about the infinite expanse of the universe, while Lenora could barely come to terms with her own existence in her own goddamn home.

Lenora didn’t even realize she was just standing there, awkward and stiff, until Sol’s voice cut through the haze of her own spiraling thoughts.

“Want me to give you some space?”

Her head snapped away from the TV, eyes landing on Sol.

“What? No. I’m fine.”

Sol raised a single.

“You sure about that? Because you’ve been tiptoeing around me like you’re auditioning for The Nutcracker.”

Lenora scowled, feeling the heat creeping up her neck.

“Noticed that, did you?”

Sol leaned back against the couch, her expression unimpressed.

“Notice you walk into a room, see me, and then immediately turn around? Barely.”

Lenora exhaled through her nose, dragging a hand through her hair before muttering something under her breath and walking over to the couch. She sat down stiffly, ensuring there was a respectable amount of space between them. Enough to prove—to herself, to Sol, to the universe at large—that she could, in fact, exist in the same room without spontaneously combusting.

She sat there, awkwardly, arms crossed, gaze flickering up to the TV just as the narrator started talking about black holes.

Lenora let out a slow breath through her nose.

After a moment, she forced herself to speak.

“I am finding it… difficult… having you here.”

Lenora could feel Sol’s eyes on her, patient but searching, waiting for something she wasn’t ready to give. Instead, she kept her gaze fixed on the TV, pretending to care about black holes instead of the unbearable weight pressing down on her chest.

A few beats of silence stretched between them before Sol finally spoke.

“Lenora, I don’t have to be here. I can go to the hotel. I don’t want to stay if it makes you uncomfortable.”

Something in Lenora recoiled at that.

She did not like that.

The thought of Sol somewhere else—somewhere not as secure as here—tightened something in her chest. A hotel? Where Lenora couldn’t physically see her, couldn’t track every movement, and couldn’t be sure she was safe?

No.

Absolutely not.

She needed to make it clear.

It wasn’t Sol that was the problem.

It was her.

As cliché as that sounded.

Lenora clenched her jaw, inhaling sharply before finally, finally forcing herself to meet Sol’s gaze.

“I’m uncomfortable with the fact that I don’t find your presence here as uncomfortable as I should.”

Sol didn’t react immediately. Didn’t tease, didn’t smirk, didn’t throw some sarcastic comment back at her.

She just looked at her.

And then—

“That is surprisingly self-aware.”

Lenora scoffed, immediately offended—but not really, because, well… fair.

She knew damn well she didn’t exactly give off the self-aware vibe. It was much easier for people to assume she was a loose cannon rather than someone who was deliberately choosing to be an asshole.

Because sometimes?

It was just easier.

And yet—surprisingly, annoyingly—Lenora didn’t want to take the easy route with Sol.

But that didn’t make it easy.

Fucking ironic.

“Yeah, well,” she drawled, flippantly flicking a hand, as if to wave away any notions of personal growth. “Don’t give me too much credit. I’m usually more introspective after a therapy appointment. By morning, the warranty expires, and I go back to my factory bitch settings.”

Sol looked caught somewhere between amused and surprised at her words.

"You go to therapy?"

Lenora rolled her eyes.

“You met my mother,” she deadpanned, as if that was all the explanation required.

Sol blinked.

“Unfortunately, yes,” she drawled. “I never wanted to punch an elderly woman before, but your mother really tested my moral code.”

Lenora let out an abrupt sound at that—caught somewhere between a guffaw and a laugh—before shaking her head.

“Trust me,” she deadpanned. “I know the feeling well.”

Sol huffed, before turning towards her and stretching her legs out her sock covered feet nearly touching her.

“Is it bad that I kept running scenarios in my head about how much jail time I’d get for decking a senior citizen?”

Lenora actually snorted at that.

“First offense? Probably probation.”

Sol grinned.

“Good to know. If she ever shows up again, I’ll keep it in mind.”

Lenora fought against the smile threatening to overtake her face, pressing her lips together like that alone would keep it at bay.

They sat there for a beat, just looking at each other.

The air between them felt lighter.

Then Sol smirked, tilting her head just slightly.

“So, since insightful Lenora is on a timer, think I can take advantage and get you to come over here?”

Lenora exhaled sharply.

“Take advantage?”

Sol shrugged.

“I have to work with the window of opportunity I’ve been given.”

And then with lazy confidence, she widened the space between her legs and tapped her chest, a clear, wordless invitation.  As if Lenora needed any clarification on where exactly Sol wanted her.

Which, apparently, was on top of her.

And that was entirely unfair.

Because how the hell was she supposed to say no to that?

Lenora made a grand show of pursing her lips and sighing dramatically, as if this was some massive inconvenience.  But her body completely betrayed her.  Because despite the exaggerated reluctance, she all but scrambled across the couch toward Sol, like some touch-starved addict finally giving in to a fix.

And the second she moved close enough, Sol’s arms wrapped around her, guiding her forward, pulling her down until Lenora’s cheek was pressed against her chest. Lenora could feel the steady rise and fall of Sol’s breath and the sound of her heartbeat, and it was instantly grounding.

Then, almost immediately, Sol’s fingers started raking through her hair in that slow, absentminded way that turned Lenora into absolute jelly.

Lenora sighed contentedly, eyes slipping closed for just a moment, letting herself sink into it.  And just like that, the weight she’d been carrying all day—the spiraling, the avoidance, the overthinking—it all quieted. Between therapy and this, it was like something inside her had been patched up, stitched together just enough to feel whole again.

They lay there in silence, curled together, watching the documentary.  Lenora let herself get lost in the steady rise and fall of Sol’s breathing, in the warmth of her touch, and in the way it felt so easy to just be like this.

On the screen, the narrator's voice echoed through the room, like smooth jazz.

"The universe is vast, unpredictable—and sometimes, in its endless expanse, we still manage to find something that changes everything we thought we knew."

Lenora swallowed hard, pressing herself just a little deeper into Sol’s chest.

Because fuck.

She hated it when the universe made a point.

6

Due DilIgence

By mid-morning the next day, the living room was filled with the steady rhythm of typing, as she and Sol worked on opposite ends of the couch.

Lenora was focused.

Or at least, she was trying to be.

After waking up—again—with a near-death grip on Sol in bed, and after eating yet another delicious breakfast that Sol made, Lenora had decided to willfully ignore the situation. And if their feet brushed now and then as they each stretched across the couch, well… sue her.

Because as much as it simultaneously scared the shit out of her and felt dangerously good, Lenora also recognized that this—whatever this was—had an expiration date.

Tomorrow, Ben is coming home.

Which meant no more touching.

No more waking up tangled together. No more accidental—or not-so-accidental—brushes of skin. No more of this deceptively easy intimacy that she was already getting too comfortable with.

How she was going to tell Ben that Sol was staying here, she still had no idea. But one thing was certain—she definitely wasn’t ready to tell him they were dating. 

Hell, she wasn’t even sure she had fully processed that part yet.

Accompanying their silent work session, a documentary about mushrooms droned on in the background. Lenora was starting to sense a pattern in Sol’s taste in TV—boring, educational, but oddly calming.

At least it wasn’t some god-awful reality show.

From her side of the couch, Lenora glanced up from her laptop, eyes drifting across to where Sol sat, her fingers flying across the computer on her lap. Her posture was relaxed, but her focus?

Razor-sharp.

Her eyes scanned the screen like she was devouring whatever she was working on. And Lenora knew Sol well enough to recognize that look.  She’d seen it plenty of times at work and flashing up between her legs.

Sol was enjoying what she was working on.

Which was why she frowned.

Because, to the best of her knowledge, she hadn’t assigned Sol anything particularly pressing—certainly nothing that required the level of hyper-focus she was witnessing. 

And she hadn’t been fully transitioned to Imani or Mei yet. That shift wouldn’t happen until tomorrow.

So, what, exactly, was Sol Ruiz working on like it was one of those Millennium Prize Problems? The question had been gnawing at her for hours, and before she even realized she was speaking, it escaped.

“What are you working on?”

Sol blinked, startled, as if she’d genuinely forgotten Lenora was even in the room. Her eyes flicked up to meet Lenora’s, a flicker of surprise quickly masked.

“Nothing,” she said, far too quickly, her tone glaringly unconvincing.

Lenora lifted a brow.

“That’s a bold lie,” she retorted, snapping her laptop shut and setting it aside. She nudged Sol’s leg with her foot, like she could physically kick the truth out of her. “You’ve been glued to that thing for hours. So, what is it?”

Sol hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard as if she were actually debating her next move. Finally, she exhaled sharply and turned the laptop toward Lenora, angling the screen so she could see.

Lenora frowned, leaning in, her gaze scanning the display. It took a second to piece together what she was looking at—graphs, trend analyses, and an expansive Excel spreadsheet filled with neatly labeled money lines.

Her eyes snapped up to Sol, brows shooting skyward.

“You play the stock market?” 

Sol smirked, leaning back into the couch, arms crossing over her chest, clearly enjoying Lenora’s reaction.

“How else do you think I afford my place?” she quipped, one brow arching in challenge. “Because let’s be real—you pay your first-year associates barely enough to split rent with seven other people for a two-bedroom close enough to the office.”

Lenora’s jaw tightened, the accusation hitting a little harder than she cared to admit.

“Excuse me,” she shot back, tone sharp and defensive. “We pay very competitive starting salaries.”

Sol snorted.

Actually snorted.

“Competitive compared to what? Barista wages?”

Sol arched a brow, letting the words hang in the air before continuing.

“I mean, let’s be real. You probably don’t see it because…”

She paused to gesture vaguely around her, at the high-end furnishings and undeniable wealth of Lenora’s world, before continuing.

“—and most of my peers come from money. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the last names of my fellow associates.”

Lenora blinked, momentarily thrown off balance. She wasn’t used to hearing her firm and, by extension, herself, called out so directly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sol gave her a look.

“It means that for most of your associates, this job is a stepping stone or a résumé booster, not a lifeline,” she said matter-of-factly. “They have trust funds, inheritances, or mommy and daddy footing the bill for their midtown apartments. But for people like me?”

She shrugged.

“This job is a lifeline. And trust me, it’s not enough on its own.”

Lenora opened her mouth to argue—because surely that couldn’t be entirely true—only to promptly shut it again.

Because, unfortunately, it probably was.

Lenora tucked that little nugget of information away, making a mental note to dig into it later. She knew inflation was up—rent was sky-high, everything was more expensive—but she hadn’t felt it the way others might. Wealth had a way of making certain realities feel theoretical instead of urgent. And if her firm wasn’t paying their people a real living wage, well… that was a serious problem.

One she needed to fix.

Her gaze dropped back to Sol’s laptop, eyes scanning the screen with a sharper focus.

The patterns stood out immediately.

Lenora had represented enough investment firms and had a diverse enough investment portfolio herself to recognize skill when she saw it.

And this?

This wasn’t the work of someone dabbling in the market.

A series of scheduled trades were lined up for the next morning, each neatly organized and optimized, given that the market was closed today.

This wasn’t guesswork.

This was strategy.

Lenora exhaled, tilting her head slightly.

“You’re not just playing the market.”

She glanced up at Sol.

“You’re winning.”

Sol smirked, her expression smug but undeniably earned.

“What can I say?”

She leaned back against the couch, stretching her arms over her head, cockily.

“A girl’s gotta eat.”

Lenora snorted, shaking her head.

The sheer audacity of the statement hung in the air, but she couldn’t even argue with it. It was so quintessentially Sol—unapologetically bold, effortlessly competent, and, to Lenora’s growing irritation, impossibly sexy.

She blinked, tilting her head slightly, studying Sol with newfound curiosity.

“How do you even know how to do all this?” she asked, nodding toward the laptop.

Sol turned the screen back toward herself, sinking into the couch. She glanced at Lenora over the top of the laptop, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

“I double-majored in economics and statistics,” she answered with a shrug, as if that were a totally normal thing to do. “I started dabbling in the stock market when I turned eighteen. Took my measly farmers’ market paychecks and threw them into investments. I got good at it—fast. So, I figured, why not major in it? Then I went for my master’s in finance, graduated, started job hunting, and then…I went to law school.”

Lenora blinked.

She could literally feel the puzzle pieces clicking into place as to why Sol was older than her peers.  Because, of course, Sol wasn’t just some talented first-year associate.

No.

That would be too simple.

Instead, she was a self-made finance expert with the instincts of a hedge fund shark who had, for some baffling reason, chosen to also pursue a law degree.

Lenora exhaled, shifting her position to lean her elbow against the couch, resting her head on her hand as she studied Sol.

“You definitely have the cockiness for Wall Street,” she pointed out with a tease.

Sol worked her tongue against the inside of her cheek, her smile slow and knowing.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Lenora huffed, rolling her eyes but unable to suppress the smile tugging at her own lips.

“Of course you would.”

For a moment, Lenora just watched Sol, taking her in—not just in the way she casually sat, but in the quiet details she was beginning to collect.

Little pieces of Sol.

And somehow, despite everything she had just learned—despite knowing she should be satisfied—Lenora found herself wanting more.

“What made you want to go to law school?” she asked.

Less teasing.

More real.

Sol’s smirk faded, her expression shifting as something more bittersweet settled in its place.

“It was something my dad used to say to me growing up,” she began, her voice quieter now, tinged with a hint of nostalgia. “As you can imagine, raising a kid who remembers everything is… a real treat.”

A wry smile ghosted across her lips, but Lenora noticed it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Even as a kid, I’d call them out on all the little fibs—every harmless story, every trick parents use to keep their kids in line. And every time I did, my dad would let out this big, dramatic sigh and say, ‘You should be a lawyer someday, mija. Nothing gets past you.’”

She paused, the memory settling between them, both tender and achingly distant. It softened Sol in a way that made something in Lenora’s chest tighten.

Sol exhaled, her voice heavier now as she continued.

“When I started looking for jobs, nothing felt… right. I had all these degrees, all these options, but none of them fit the way I thought they would. And his words just kept playing in my mind.”

She paused, shrugging.

“So, I applied to law school—for him—thinking I’d just give it a shot. That I had my finance degree to fall back on when it inevitably didn’t work out.”

She gave Lenora a soft smile then, not the sharp, teasing smirk she so often wore, but the real one.

“And then… I fell in love with it. It just fit. Like—”

Her voice faltered, hesitation flickering across her face before she pressed her lips together, as if debating whether or not to say the next part out loud.

Finally, she did.

“—like he was guiding me to my happy place.”

The words settled into the space between them, carrying enough emotional gravity that Lenora couldn’t ignore.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

And for once, Lenora didn’t try to fill the silence—because this wasn’t something to be fixed with words.

Another puzzle piece clicked into place in the growing picture of Sol Ruiz. And this one fit squarely into the bittersweet corner of her life. A small but significant part of the whole that had shaped her into the woman sitting in front of Lenora now.

Then, with a subtle shift in energy, Sol tilted her head, her voice lighter, as if trying to cut through the weight she inadvertently created.

“What about you?” she asked. “Why did you go to law school?”

Lenora blinked, the question catching her slightly off guard.

But unlike Sol’s story, hers was easy.

It wasn’t tangled in loss or laced with sentimentality.

It just…was.

“Oh, that’s easy,” Lenora responded, a smirk tugging at her lips. “I did it for the money.”

Sol snorted, her expression practically dripping with disbelief.

“Seriously?”

Lenora shrugged, sinking back into the couch.

“I grew up in a trailer park,” she admitted, the words slipping out more easily than she expected. It caught her off guard for a second before she continued. 

“We were always scraping by, barely making it.  When you grow up trying to rub two pennies together just to survive, you think about security, and money meant security.”

Her tone darkened slightly, old memories surfacing whether she liked it or not.

“My mom—” Lenora started, catching the immediate flicker of disdain in Sol’s expression at the mere mention of her mother. A reaction that, frankly, she understood. Still, she pressed on.

“She was a self-proclaimed medicine woman—half home remedies, half religious healing, and full delusion.”

She rolled her eyes, but the bitterness laced in her voice betrayed the attempt at indifference.

“She single-handedly destroyed any inclination I ever had to go into medicine. Law seemed… safer. Lucrative.”

Something softer flickered behind Sol’s smirk at her admission.

“Wow,” Sol finally said, tone caught somewhere between genuine admiration and teasing. She paused, lips twitching like she was weighing whether or not to say something snarky.

Then, with perfect comedic timing, she spoke.

“Inspiring.”

Lenora snorted, the urge to lighten the mood outweighing any need to dwell on the past. After all, she had earned every ounce of humor that had come out of her highly traumatic childhood—she might as well use it.

“I was asked to be a keynote speaker at NYU next month. Think I should lead with that?” she deadpanned, raising an eyebrow, as she moved her hand through the air like she was painting her next words in front of her. “Don’t follow your dreams, kids—follow the money.”

Sol chuckled darkly as she leaned back against the couch, any lingering tension melting out of her.

“I’d watch it. Might even take notes.”

Lenora scoffed, rolling her eyes.

“You don’t need to take notes. You remember everything.”

Sol’s smirk deepened at that, and Lenora hated the way it made her stomach flip.

But it also wasn’t lost on her that, somehow, in the middle of all this playful back-and-forth, they had each just shared pieces of themselves that most people kept locked away.  And it wasn’t until the silence settled between them that she fully realized what had happened.

She’d told Sol about her childhood.

About growing up with nothing.

About a mother who barely deserved the title.

She hadn’t even told Henry any of that until they were engaged. And even then, it had only come up because he’d asked if her family would be coming to the wedding.

Her chest tightened.

Fuck.

Maybe Sol did have a point about the lack of hurdles between two women.  Because how else could she explain the fact that she had just shared one of the deepest, most guarded parts of herself—without even realizing she’d done it?

That wasn’t like her.

Lenora Graves didn’t open doors that had been bolted shut for decades—not for anyone.

And yet, here she was… letting Sol in.

With a sharp inhale, she pushed herself upright, snatching her laptop and flipping it open with a little too much force. Her fingers immediately found the keys, and the familiar rhythm of typing became a lifeline against the rising tide of emotions she had zero interest in dealing with.

She could feel Sol’s gaze on her, lingering like a soft weight.

But Sol didn’t call her out.

Didn’t press.

Didn’t push.

She just let Lenora run.

For now.

Lenora heard the faint shuffle of movement from the other end of the couch, followed by the steady clicking of keys resuming.

Sol had moved on, or at least, she was pretending to.

Good.

Lenora turned her attention back to her laptop, eyes scanning the environmental report for one of her clients in front of her. But within minutes, a dull strain crept in, her vision blurring slightly as she squinted at the ridiculously small text.

She adjusted the brightness, but it only seemed to mock her further, making the text even harder to read.

“Ugh,” she muttered, rubbing at her eyes, a reluctant acknowledgment of her own goddamn mortality.  She hated the reminder that age was creeping up on her, slow but unrelenting.

With a grumble, she reached into her bag, rummaging through its contents with a mild scowl until her fingers brushed against the offending object.

Her glasses case.

Pulling them out of the bag and then the case, she gave them a quick once-over. At least the wide black frames were fashionable, which made wearing them somewhat easier.

She slipped them on, and instantly, the world snapped into crisp clarity. Lenora exhaled, the tension easing from her forehead as the words on the screen became mercifully readable.

She settled back in, making it a solid two paragraphs in before she noticed a shift in the room. The documentary had stopped, leaving a silence so sharp it amplified every other sound—or rather lack of sound.

Not a single keystroke.

No idle movement.

Slowly, her eyes flicked up over the rim of her laptop and was immediately sucked into dark eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made Lenora’s breath hitch.

Oh.

That look.

The one that usually ended with Lenora pressed against some surface—legs trembling, chest heaving, brain short-circuiting from the orgasm Sol ripped from her body.

Her stomach flipped, her mind scrambling to catch up, to process what was happening.

Then Sol’s lips parted.

“You’re wearing glasses.”

Her voice was low and gravelly, sending an immediate shiver down Lenora’s spine.

It took her a beat too long to connect the dots.

Seriously?

The glasses did it?

Of all things.

“Really?” Lenora asked, her tone flat as she pointedly removed the glasses from her face, dangling them between two fingers. “This is what does it for you?”

Sol tilted her head, her smirk turning wicked as her eyes raking over Lenora like she was something to be devoured.

“I didn’t think you could get any hotter. And yet, here we are.”

Lenora felt the heat crawl up her neck, betraying her completely.

“You’re ridiculous,” she muttered, slipping the glasses back on and glaring at Sol over the frames.  Trying to dismiss the notion, and the moment Sol was clearly trying to start.  She exhaled sharply through her nose and tried—really tried—to focus, her eyes dropping back to the screen.

She read the same sentence.

Twice.

Then a third time, the words blurring together, completely meaningless because apparently her brain had abandoned ship the second Sol opened her sexy fucking mouth.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, unmoving as she willed herself to work—for her brain and body to listen to her.

“Lenora.”

Lenora felt Sol’s voice settle in her chest, curl low in her stomach, and spread outward like an ember catching fire.

“What?” she bit out, not looking up.

“Look at me.”

Lenora hesitated, her pulse thrumming in her ears.

She didn’t want to look.

Knew exactly what she’d find if she did.

“Sol,” she warned, voice low, edged with exasperation—because she had work to do, goddamn it.

“Lenora.”

Softer, this time. But with the same damn tone—the one that felt like a hand slipping inside her ribs and wrapping around her heart.

And like a chair, she folded.

Lenora sighed, lifting her gaze just over the rim of her laptop.

Big mistake.

Sol’s smirk was stretching, as her dark eyes locked onto her like she was the only thing in the world worth seeing.

Lenora swallowed.

Sol let the moment stretch.  Then, with a slow tilt of her head, her lips curved into a downright predatory smirk.

“Go to the bedroom and wait for me.”

The command was calm, which made it infinitely worse.

Lenora inhaled sharply, her pulse kicking into high gear.

The nerve of this woman.

The pure audacity.

She should push back. Say something. At the very least, she should pretend she wasn’t already thinking about how fast she could get to the bedroom.

But then Sol’s licked her lips like she was about to devour a meal, and just like that, any inclination to argue evaporated.

Lenora let out a slow breath, feeling the tension coil inside her. Then, with excruciating slowness, she closed her laptop with a decisive click, setting it aside.

Her fingers brushed the edges of her glasses, ready to slip them off—

“No.”

Lenora stilled, her eyes snapping to Sol’s.

"Keep those on," Sol murmured, her voice low and firm.

A shiver ran through Lenora.

Well.

That was new.

Then again, everything was new with Sol. It was like rediscovering herself all over again—like realizing the book she thought was a standalone had a sequel.

And this?

This next chapter with Sol?

This one was definitely worth exploring.

After all, there were already a few pages in this unexpected sequel of her life that she had dog-eared, highlighted, and filled with notes in the margins—pages she fully intended to revisit often, if not commit to memory entirely.

Without another word, she turned and walked toward the bedroom.  Her stride was deliberately unhurried, and if she added a little extra sway to her step—well, fair was fair.

She paused at the doorway, glancing over her shoulder, and—yep.

Sol was still watching her.

Dark and hungry.

And Lenora’s smile finally broke free.

Who knew getting older came with this kind of perk?

7

Mutual Discovery Clause

Lenora had gotten into a nasty habit. A truly terrible, no-good, very bad habit. One, she recognized that she had quit cold turkey the moment Ben returned home today after work.

That habit, of course, was sleeping with Sol.

It was one thing to sleep with Sol. It was another thing entirely to sleep with Sol.

At least sex had the decency to end at some point—sure, usually a hell of a lot longer than she was used to, but eventually, there came a point where her limbs stopped working, and self-preservation forced her to tap out.  But sleeping in bed with someone every night and holding them like some lovesick Victorian widow?

That was a choice.

An emotional decision.

And Lenora did not make emotional decisions.

Except, apparently, she did.

Repeatedly.

For several nights in a row now.

Which was why she was standing at the kitchen counter, fully dressed for the work day, sipping coffee like a perfectly rational, emotionally detached adult—pointedly ignoring the lingering warmth on her skin, like her body hadn’t gotten the memo that Sol wasn’t pressed against her anymore.

She scrolled through her emails, barely five sips in and already bombarded with an ungodly number of unread messages.

One email stood out.

The subject line: First Year Office Decision.

She raised a brow. It was from Imani, with all the other partners cc’d.

Due to Sol Ruiz’s stellar work on the Vanguard case, the partners have decided to grant her the first-year office. In addition, security believes this will help with her security protocol, as opposed to her remaining in the bullpen, which in no way takes from the fact that she earned the office on her own merit.

Lenora—you didn’t get a vote, for obvious reasons.

-Imani

Lenora ignored the little barb at the end and took another sip of her coffee.

Sol deserved the office. That wasn’t even a question. She was leagues ahead of her peers in every category that mattered.  And Lenora would like to think she wasn’t being biased in that assessment.

Which was a lie.

She absolutely was.

But in her defense, she was right.

Lenora stared at her phone, the words blurring slightly as she tapped a fingernail against the ceramic of her coffee mug. Then, almost on instinct, her eyes flickered up to the hallway, landing on Sol’s door.

She was in there, getting ready.

For a split second, Lenora considered crossing the condo, knocking, and telling her. But no—Sol would find out just like any other first-year getting their office.

No special treatment.

If they were going to do this—whatever this was—then there needed to be boundaries.

Clean, sharp lines separating work from… them.

Because the power balance was already a slippery slope, and Lenora wasn’t naive enough to think she wasn’t on the wrong end of it. If they weren’t careful, they’d go careening off the edge like the world’s worst slip-and-slide.

The first-year office—that was a big thing.

A big deal.

A lot of great lawyers had sat in that office over the years. Once, it had even belonged to Imani. Lenora never got it—not because she hadn’t earned it, but because Vivienne had poached her when she was a third-year at a rival firm. Still, she knew, without a doubt, that if she’d been at this firm from the start, that office would have been hers instead of Imani’s.

It wasn’t just a reward—it was a message. A preview of the future. You want to keep this? Then keep thriving because nothing was more humbling than getting a taste of success only to be tossed back into the bullpen like a washed-up reality star who overstayed their fifteen minutes.

And it wasn’t just about Sol. The first-year office set the tone for everyone. There were a lot of associates, and only so many offices allotted to each year. Friendly—and sometimes not-so-friendly—competition. The kind that made the other first-years work harder, push themselves more, because if Sol had earned it, that meant someone else hadn’t.

Corporate law was brutal.

Unforgiving.

And sometimes, the first battle you fought wasn’t against opposing counsel—it was against the people sitting right down the hall from you.

Lenora found herself knowing—without a doubt—that Sol would rise to the challenge.

She would never go back to the bullpen.

Sol was too smart, too relentless, too damn good to let herself be knocked down. She’d take this office, settle into it, and then claw her way up to the next one, and the next, until she was sitting at the top looking down.

And damn it, Lenora was proud of her.

The realization settled in her chest, a quiet warmth curling around her ribs. Pride. Not possessive, not indulgent—just simple, unshakable pride in her success.

Because Sol had earned this.

And Lenora wasn’t just proud of her as her boss.

She was proud of her as her…partner?

Or whatever the fuck they were.

She let that thought sit for a moment, uncomfortable but undeniable.

She may have been rusty in this whole dating thing—if that’s even what they were doing—but she was pretty sure this warranted some sort of acknowledgment on her part. A normal person, in a normal relationship, would probably do something about it.

Which meant Lenora had to figure out what the hell that something was.

She sipped her coffee and thought.

What would Sol actually like?

Lenora usually celebrated professional wins with a nice bottle of bourbon—smooth, aged, expensive enough to hurt even her bank account.

No, Sol would want…

Lenora exhaled sharply as realization hit her.

A fucking plant.

She fought the sudden, violent urge to vomit at how disgustingly sentimental that was. It was so—so—cheesy, like something out of a terrible rom-com.

But despite every instinct in her body screaming abort, abort, abort, she found herself typing out a message to Ethan anyway.

Go to Root & Bloom. Speak to Lindsay. Tell her I need another plant. Same expectations. Money is no issue. Deliver it to Sol Ruiz’s new office. No card.

She stared at the message for a second, then hit send before she could think too hard about it.

There.

Done.

And if she pretended not to notice the ridiculous warmth curling in her chest at the thought of Sol walking into her new office and seeing it there—well, that was nobody’s business but her own.

Lenora barely had time to revel in—or regret—her decision before another thought struck her.

Sol loved her plants.

And with that thought, another idea struck her. Because why the hell not? If she was already doing this sentimental bullshit, she might as well lean into the fucking chaos.

Her fingers moved before she could second-guess herself, firing off another rapid text to Ethan.  She hit send just as she heard Sol’s door at the end of the hallway click open.

Lenora glanced up—and immediately regretted it.

Sol’s hair was pulled back, not a strand out of place, the sleekness of it making Lenora’s fingers twitch with the completely irrational urge to mess it up. She was wearing a tailored tan suit, sharp in all the right places, and paired with a crisp white shirt.

And as if that wasn’t bad enough, she was fastening a leather-banded watch around her wrist, her fingers—those goddamn fingers—latching the band easily.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Lenora took a slow sip of coffee to distract herself.

Failed.

Took another sip.

Still failed.

Sol looked really fucking good.

Disgustingly good.

The kind of good that made Lenora want to do something about it.

She glanced down at her phone, checking the time, and pursed her lips. Judge Marks would not appreciate her being late to voir dire, and she was fairly certain fucking her—partner, girlfriend, whatever the hell Sol was— wouldn’t be an acceptable excuse in his courtroom.

Though, to be fair, the sheer horror on his face might be worth the fine.

Sol walked forward, moving with that effortless, unbothered grace that always managed to get under Lenora’s skin. She grabbed a mug from the cupboard, poured herself a cup of coffee, and settled into a silence so easy it was borderline infuriating.

Lenora, meanwhile, felt like she was standing in the middle of a landmine field, completely unsure of what to do with herself.

Her morning routine had been disrupted. Usually, she finished her coffee, grabbed her bag, and left.

No lingering.

No awkward pauses.

No standing in her own kitchen wondering if she was supposed to… say goodbye?

Or worse—kiss her?

The thought sent a weird, warm flush through her chest, quickly followed by a sharp wave of nausea, because what the actual fuck had Sol turned her into?

This was exactly why she needed boundaries.

Rules.

Structure.

A clear separation of church and state.

She needed to leave for court. The other car would be here soon to take Sol to the office. Security was waiting in the lobby, according to this week’s “plan” that she’d read through this morning. Logically, she knew she could just walk out the door and solve this whole situation.

And yet—

She stood there, coffee cooling in her hand, staring at Sol like a woman debating whether to cut the red or blue wire.

Lenora cleared her throat, the sound too sharp in the quiet space, and walked toward the sink. She poured the remainder of her coffee down the drain, setting the cup aside with more force than necessary—because obviously, the real problem here was the coffee, and not the fact that she had no goddamn clue how to navigate this moment.

She smoothed down the front of her blazer, squared her shoulders, and finally spoke.

“Okay… well, I’m sure you read the plan the security team sent this morning. I’m off to court. A car will be here for you shortly. You should receive a text.”

And with that, she turned and walked away, posture straight, stride purposeful—like a woman with things to do and places to be and absolutely not a woman running for her life.

But because escape was never an option with Sol, a hand caught her arm

Lenora froze.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Sol’s voice was smooth and entirely too amused.

Lenora’s brain short-circuited.

Because, really—what was she supposed to do with that? With Sol standing there, hand on her arm, looking at her like she was waiting for something?

Like she expected something?

And worse, like she knew she was going to get it.

Lenora exhaled sharply through her nose, her fingers twitching at her sides. She could walk away. She should walk away. Pretend she didn’t hear her. Pretend she didn’t care.

But Sol was still looking at her.

Still waiting.

And Lenora, against all better judgment, said fuck it.

She leaned in and kissed her.

Quick.

Far too quick.

A drive-by kiss, barely a press of lips—and yet, somehow, it still managed to make her shiver.

She pulled back, eyes steady, voice flat.

“There. Can I go now?”

Sol was still looking entirely too amused. Somehow managing to both smirk and smile—a kind of expression that made Lenora want to throttle her or kiss her again just to wipe it off her face.

And then, just to make things worse, Sol bit her lip, as if trying to suppress it from growing into a full-blown grin. She released it at the same time her hand fell away from Lenora’s arm.

Lenora had approximately one second to think she was in the clear before Sol reached past her, pulled back, and extended something her way.

Lenora looked down at it.

Her travel mug.

Filled with coffee.

Sol lifted a brow, expression deceptively innocent.

“Don’t forget this.”

Lenora stared at the travel mug.

And then at Sol.

And then back at the mug.

Oh.

Oh.

Her stomach dropped in delayed realization, heat crawling up the back of her neck. That’s what Sol had meant about forgetting something.

Not the kiss.

No, Sol had just meant her coffee.

Wow.

Incredible.

Her own personal hell.

Lenora snatched the mug out of her hand, overcorrecting so aggressively that coffee sloshed against the lid.

She recovered, cleared her throat, and deadpanned.

“Right. I knew I left it behind.”

Sol’s lips twitched.

“Of course.”

Lenora turned on her heel, ready to make her escape before she somehow embarrassed herself further, only for Sol to casually call after her.

“Have a good day in court, sweetheart.”

Lenora flipped her off over her shoulder.

Sol’s laughter followed her out the door.

_______________

Lenora’s heels struck the polished floor with all the subtlety of a goddamn war drum.

This morning’s debacle had her on edge, her personal life smoldering like the aftermath of a five-alarm dumpster fire. But her professional life? That was a well-oiled machine, a sharp, efficient system that didn’t leave room for hesitation or confusing feelings. And the moment she crossed the invisible boundary separating the civilians from the gladiators, she fell right back into it.

She settled into her chair without ceremony, reaching into her bag and pulling out a stack of files, her pen, and hopefully the last vestiges of her patience. The files landed on the table with a satisfying thud, and the pen twirled between her fingers with an unconscious, fluid rhythm.

She wasn’t nervous.

Lenora Graves didn’t get nervous.

Not in court.

No, what simmered beneath her skin was something sharper.

Today wasn’t just about winning.

Today, she wanted blood.

She wanted to rip their fucking throats out.

Preferably with a well-placed objection and a few argument so airtight it left them gasping for air—but if push came to shove, she’d settle for her bare fucking hands.

A movement to her left caught her attention, yanking her from that particularly violent daydream. Kane and Grant were sauntering toward the opposing counsel’s table.

Kane stopped before sitting, and looked at Lenora for a second, before her eyes flickered past Lenora’s shoulder to the empty chair next to Lenora, before landing back on her with a look of completely fake concern.

“Where’s your co-counsel, Lenora?”

The act lasted all of a second before her smirk sharpened, her voice dipping low enough to twist the knife.

“I hope she’s okay.”

The words hit with all the subtlety of a flash grenade, the ringing in Lenora’s ears drowning out the hum of the courtroom.

Kane knew.

She fucking knew about the threat against Sol—and now she was taunting her with it.

The fury was instant. Lenora was already halfway to her feet as her chair loudly scraped back against the floor. She didn’t know what she was about to do, but it definitely wasn't legal.

Before she could take a single step, a firm hand landed on her shoulder, pressing her back into her chair with surprising strength.

Lenora whipped her head up, already prepared to tell someone to fuck off, only to find Vivienne standing behind her.

Vivienne, who for once didn’t look at her with irritation or chastisement but instead with calm. Then, without a word, Vivienne turned her head and looked at Kane.

Just looked at her.

Kane, to her credit, didn’t crumble completely under that razor-sharp gaze, but the shift was there. The smug veneer wavered, her mask slipping for just a fraction of a second.

And that was all Vivienne needed.

Because the thing about cracks? They had a funny way of turning into leaks.

And leaks?

Well.

Leaks eventually sank ships.

“Vivienne,” Kane said, surprise flickering in her tone before she quickly masked it under her usual cocky bravado. “I didn’t know they let you out of the office anymore. I thought you were more of a figurehead these days.”

The faintest smile curved Vivienne’s lips, but it was far from friendly. It was the kind of smile that promised pain.

Vivienne’s faint smile didn’t waver as she stepped forward. She stopped just short of Kane’s table, her gaze steady and sharp, cutting through the tension.

“Madeline,” Vivienne said, her voice smooth and calm, but carrying the unmistakable weight of authority that Vivienne’s 30 plus years in law has earned her. “It’s always a pleasure to see you. Your theatrics never fail to entertain.” 

She tilted her head slightly, her smile remaining, but her eyes were cold. 

“Though I must say, threats of violence against a colleague feels a bit… desperate. Even for you.”

Kane’s smirk tightened.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied with a casual shrug.

Vivienne leaned forward slightly, resting her fingertips on the edge of their table. 

“Oh, I think you do,” she remarked, her tone dropping, quiet but lethal. “Mocking the personal safety of opposing co-counsel, particularly in light of certain recent threats, isn’t just tasteless. It’s dangerous, and unbecoming of someone who’s supposed to uphold the integrity of the court.”

Lenora’s heart thudded as she watched Vivienne systematically dismantle Kane’s smug facade. She’d seen Vivienne work before, but there was something about the way she wielded her words now that made even Lenora sit a little straighter.

Kane’s smile finally cracked, her jaw tightening as she struggled to maintain her composure. 

“I was simply making conversation,” she said, her tone strained. “Surely you’re not implying—”

“I’m not implying anything,” Vivienne cut her off. “I’m stating facts. And if you continue down this path, rest assured, I will make sure those facts are formally addressed with the AGC.”

For a moment, the courtroom seemed to hold its breath.  Then Vivienne straightened, her gaze sweeping over Kane with an air of effortless dismissal, like she was beneath her. Her voice, when she spoke, was as cold as ice.

“I suggest you focus on your own side of the aisle, Madeline. Because from where I’m standing… desperation does not look good on you.”

She paused and gestured to Kane’s face. 

“You’re getting wrinkles, darling.”

Her gaze lingered for a heartbeat longer on Kane’s face before she turned on her heel and walked back to their table with the kind of calm, unhurried confidence that made every step feel like a statement.  

Vivienne settled into the seat beside Lenora, the weight of her presence as tangible as the heavy silence now emanating from the other side of the aisle.

Lenora exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, turning to Vivienne with a questioning glance, her voice low to avoid being overheard.

“Not that I didn’t enjoy every second of that,” Lenora murmured, “but what are you doing here?”

Vivienne turned her head, a slow, satisfied smirk curling at the corners of her lips. 

“Oh, Lenora,” she purred, her tone almost playful. “You didn’t really think we were going to let you face this alone, did you?”

Before Lenora could respond, Vivienne reached forward, tapping her hand lightly in an almost friendly gesture. Then she leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper, smooth and sharp.

“Let’s take these fuckers down, shall we? Like old times.”

A small smile tugged at the corners of Lenora’s mouth, despite herself. The chaotic energy that had been buzzing under her skin began to settle with Vivienne's presence. She hadn’t realized how much she needed her until this very moment, and though Lenora would never admit it aloud, she felt... surprisingly grateful. 

Of course, she wasn’t about to show it. Old habits died hard, and besides, Vivienne liked Lenora exactly as she was.

Sharp.

Unflappable.

A consistent pain in everyone’s ass, but in a way that won cases.

“Vivienne—language,” Lenora said, feigning mock outrage as she placed a hand over her heart like a scandalized debutante.

Vivienne smirked, leaning back in her chair with the kind of effortless confidence that made it very clear she wasn’t buying the act.

“Please, Lenora. I’ve heard worse from you before dawn.”

Lenora opened her mouth, ready with some witty retort, but before she could, the door to the judge’s chambers swung open.

“All rise,” the clerk called, snapping Lenora’s focus forward.

“The Honorable Judge Harrison Marks presiding.”

Judge Marks entered the courtroom and then settled into his chair, adjusted his glasses, and let his gaze sweep over the room.

“We’re here to voir dire and get ourselves a jury. Are you counselors ready to proceed?”

Kane, the little brown-noser, rose first.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Lenora followed, standing with practiced ease.

“Yes, Your Honor,” she said—but not before casting a pointed look at Kane.

Judge Marks’s gaze flickered between them, his lips pressing into a thin line of weary resignation. He exhaled, long and slow, drumming his fingers briefly against the bench.

“Alright,” he muttered. “Bring in the prospective jurors.”

_______________

Six hours later, they had a jury.

Shockingly, the process had moved faster than expected, thanks to Vivienne. She had an uncanny knack for reading people with an almost surgical precision when it came to jury selection. It was the kind of skill that shouldn’t have been possible without either a decade of behavioral psychology training or a pact with the devil.

As they descended the courthouse steps, Lenora half-listened to Vivienne rambling about the latest fiscal report—something about projections, margins, and a whole lot of numbers Lenora didn’t have the bandwidth to care about. Around them, people flowed like a current, the courthouse steps a human highway of suits, reporters, and hurried conversations.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, Lenora caught a flicker of something.

Her stride faltered.

At first, she wasn’t even sure why. A man stood at the far end of the courthouse steps, casually leaning against a pillar, half-shrouded in shadow. The crowd moved between them, a living blur that forced her eyes to refocus again and again.

And then the man smirked.

Lenora’s blood turned to ice.

It was James Hughes.

Head of Security at Vanguard.

The man who had killed Brooke Sinclair.

Her pulse slammed against her ribs, pounding so hard it felt like it might crack them open.

Another wave of people passed between them—attorneys, clerks, jurors rushing to lunch. The shifting bodies momentarily blocked her view, and her breath caught, her gaze darting, tracking, scanning, searching.

And then—

He was gone.

The spot where he had been was empty, as if he had never been there at all.

Her chest constricted, the thundering in her ears drowning out everything—Vivienne’s voice, the hum of the crowd, the world itself narrowing into a single, suffocating moment.

She scanned the steps, her gaze flicking from pillar to pillar, but James Hughes had vanished.

“Lenora?  Are you okay?”

Vivienne’s voice cut through the haze.

Lenora forced herself to swallow, nodding stiffly as she shoved down the panic clawing its way up her throat.

“Yeah,” she answered, her voice too quick, too brittle. “I’m fine.”

She wasn’t.

Not even close.

Lenora took a slow, measured breath, forcing her heart to fall back in line. The image of James Hughes still lingered, clinging like smoke from a fire she thought had burned out, but she pushed it aside, focusing on the present.

She turned to Vivienne, voice steady, if a little subdued.

“You want a ride back to the office?”

Vivienne studied her, sharp eyes scanning her face, reading her, the same way she read jurors, witnesses, and opposing counsel. For a moment, it seemed like she might call Lenora on her bullshit.

But instead, she let it go.

“No, I’ve got a meeting uptown.”

Lenora nodded before turning to leave, but then hesitated. Against all instincts—and probably shocking Vivienne as much as herself—Lenora turned back.

“…Thanks for today.”

Vivienne blinked, caught off guard. But then—a smile. Not the smug, condescending one Lenora had once loathed, but something real. Something genuine.

“Of course,” Vivienne said, her tone warm, easy.

She started to turn away but then suddenly stopped, her eyes widening like she’d just remembered something.

“Oh!”

Lenora barely had time to brace herself before Vivienne reached into her bag, pulled out a blue folder, and handed it over with a little too much flourish to be anything good.

“I took the liberty of getting this for you.”

Lenora squinted at it, already deeply distrustful.

“And what exactly is—”

“I really must be going,” Vivienne interrupted, already turning on her heel with the grace of a woman who knew exactly what she’d just done and had zero intention of dealing with the fallout. “Have a good rest of your day, Lenora.”

Lenora did not like the way she said that.

Before she could demand clarification, Vivienne was already vanishing into the crowd, her departure suspiciously swift.

Lenora sighed and glanced down at the folder, curiosity warring with suspicion. With a slow exhale, she flipped it open—

And immediately regretted it.

RELATIONSHIP DISCLOSURE FORM

Bold, black letters stared back at her, so loud and obnoxious they might as well have screamed.

Lenora’s entire face went blank. Then her lips thinned into a flat, murderous line.  Her eyes flicked over the words with her firm’s letterhead on it. 

With a sharp exhale, she snapped the folder shut and strode toward her car, muttering under her breath, as a new frustration simmered just beneath the surface.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

8

Key Witness

Lenora pushed open the glass door and stepped inside.  She rarely ventured to this side of the building—the far end where the associates’ offices were tucked away like an afterthought.

Associates came to her, not the other way around.

But today was different.

At the end of the corridor, near the bathroom, sat the smallest office in the building. Barely more than a glorified supply closet, but symbolic nonetheless. The firm reserved it for the most promising first-year associate.

And now, it was Sol’s office.

Lenora exhaled slowly, fingers grazing the cool metal handle before she pushed the door open.

She didn’t knock.

It might have been Sol’s office now, but her name was still plated on the wall outside the elevator—secured with enough industrial-strength adhesive that it would take a jackhammer to remove.  So, technically, every office in this building still belonged to her.

Sol looked up as soon as she stepped inside, her sharp gaze locking onto Lenora’s. The tailored tan suit paired with a crisp white shirt had already caught Lenora off guard this morning.

And apparently, it wasn’t any easier the second time.

Even knowing what to expect, it still hit her like a punch to the chest.

Lenora recovered quickly, striding forward and sinking into the chair across from Sol’s desk. She regretted it immediately.

The chair was stiff.

Uncomfortable.

Completely unacceptable.

Her mind wandered to logistics—who handled office furniture orders? Could she have it replaced by the end of the day?

“You get your jury?” Sol asked, interrupting her thoughts, setting aside a stack of paperwork before leaning back in her chair like she had all the time in the world.

Lenora leaned back too, mirroring her posture.

“I did.”

Silence settled between them.

They hadn’t talked about it.

Not really.

Lenora pulling Sol from the case.

Sol had taken it in stride, hadn’t even flinched when the decision came down. But Lenora knew her better than that. They were alike in a lot of ways, and if the roles had been reversed, Lenora would have been furious.

But they were also calculated and strategic. They both knew how to play the game, and Sol understood—once the partners made a decision, there was no undoing it.

Still, understanding didn’t make it hurt any less.

Because the truth was, Lenora wouldn’t even have a jury—wouldn’t even have a case against Vanguard—if it weren’t for Sol.

Lenora hesitated, then finally spoke, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

“Sol. I am sorry you were taken off the case.”

Sol didn’t react right away.  She just watched her Lenora with that unreadable mask.

Wow.

A thank you and an apology on the same day?

Either she’d undergone actual personal growth, or Mercury was in retrograde. Or maybe some other cosmic bullshit was at play, because this was definitely outside her norm.

Sol tilted her head, her sharp features softening slightly as she regarded Lenora for a beat. Then, with a sigh, she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk.

“I know,” she said simply. “I’m just disappointed I won’t get to watch them go down.”

She paused, then a slow, teasing smirk curled her lips.

“Or… see you in your element. The showmanship of a trial and all that, you know?”

Lenora snorted, arching a brow as she leaned back in her chair.

“I thought I put on one hell of a show for you last night.”

Sol’s eyes sparked at that, a flicker of amusement turning wicked. She bit her lip, as if trying to hold back a grin, but the effort was half-hearted at best.

Instead, she let it spread—slow, and utterly devastating. It was the kind of smirk that was actively ruining Lenora’s life in a way that was both deeply infuriating and, somehow, weirdly enjoyable—if such a thing even existed.

“Yes, you did,” Sol murmured, her voice dipping into something low, rich, and dangerous.

Heat flickered at the base of Lenora’s spine, curling upward.  She felt warmth creep beneath her collar as her own traitorous mind flashed back to last night—Sol utterly dismantling her, putting her back together again and again, all while Lenora wore those damn glasses.

Who knew a simple pair of glasses could turn someone so feral?

Lenora forced herself to climb out of the deep, dangerous gutter of her thoughts, lifting her gaze—only to find Sol already watching her.

Smirking and smug.

The kind of smirk that told her, with crystal clarity, that Sol knew exactly where her mind had wandered.

Lenora shot her a pointed look, silently warning her not to push it, before remembering why she was actually here.

Straightening in her chair, she forced herself to focus.

“Look…” she started, the slight hesitation in her voice making her internally cringe.  She hated how uncomfortable she sounded. But then again, this was an uncomfortable conversation. One she’d been avoiding but could no longer dodge.

“I’m going to work from home for the rest of the day,” she finished.

Sol straightened slightly at that, the playfulness slipping from her features, replaced by a flicker of concern.

“Everything okay?”

Lenora waved a hand dismissively, as if that flicker of concern wasn’t making her chest tighten.

“Yes,” she replied, though her throat felt too tight as she forced out the rest. “I’m picking Ben up from school. He’s coming back to me this week, and since he doesn’t handle change all that well”—her gaze flicked pointedly at Sol—“and there’s now a stranger living in his house temporarily, I figured it was best to break the news to him in person.”

Sol leaned back in her chair, her expression softening as understanding settled across her features.

Of course, Sol knew about Ben. She’d walked past his Toy Story-themed bedroom more times than Lenora could count. His photos were everywhere—on the walls, on Lenora’s desk, even his artwork was hanging on the fridge.

And then there was that afternoon in the park. The first and only time Sol had met him. They’d sat together on a bench, talking for a while as Sol’s demeanor put Ben at ease almost instantly.

So, yeah.

Sol had to know this conversation was coming. And judging by the calm, unbothered expression on her face, she’d been expecting it.

“Okay,” Sol responded, voice steady, eyes locked on Lenora’s. “What do you need from me to make this as easy as possible? For him—and for you?”

And that did something to Lenora’s heart.

It was a small thing, maybe, but it struck a chord deep inside her—one she hadn’t expected. Sol’s sincerity, her lack of hesitation, and the completely unflinching way she asked how to help Ben settled over Lenora with a quiet warmth she hadn’t been prepared for.

Since the divorce, the men she’d been romantically entangled with had treated her son like an obstacle in her life rather than the center of it. Some ignored him entirely, some handled the subject like radioactive waste, and a few had tried—badly—only to make it clear they were doing it for her, not for him.

But here was Sol, meeting the moment head-on. No discomfort, no forced smiles, no half-assed promises—just understanding and a straightforward willingness to do whatever was needed.

Lenora cleared her throat, willing herself to push past the unwelcome flutter it sent through her.

“Honestly,” she sighed, the word carrying the weight of uncertainty she hated admitting, “I’m not really sure. He already took to you at the park—faster than I’ve ever seen—but he might be different in his own space. I guess…”

She hesitated, meeting Sol’s eyes, searching for some kind of reassurance.

“Play it by ear? He can be unpredictable sometimes.”

Sol nodded, a slow, knowing smile tugging at her lips.

“Wonder where he got that from?”

Lenora rolled her eyes, but didn’t dismiss it entirely.

“He is like a miniature version of me,” she admitted, exhaling a long-suffering sigh. “Sometimes I wonder if I made him from scratch, with no help from Henry at all.”

Sol smirked, leaning back in her chair with the kind of smug ease that should be illegal.

“Well, if anyone could pull off immaculate conception through sheer willpower and stubbornness, it would be you.”

Lenora couldn’t hide the faint smile that pulled at the corners of her lips at that.

The moment hung there, light and freeing, before that familiar itch crept beneath her collar. The one that made her shoulders tense and her composure teeter.  Every nerve in her body felt like it was vibrating as she reached into her coat pocket, fingers curling around cool metal.

She should have thought twice.

Hell, she should have thought three times.

But instead, she pulled the object free and slapped it onto Sol’s desk with a little more force than necessary, her hand staying firmly over it as she slid it forward.

“I want this back as soon as this is over,” she insisted, voice steady. Too steady. Which, of course, meant her heart was currently doing its best impression of a jackhammer inside her chest.

Sol’s brows knitted in confusion, her gaze flicking between Lenora’s unmoving hand and her face, clearly searching for some kind of clue.

And then, slowly, with the kind of caution one might use when defusing a bomb, Lenora lifted her hand and revealed the object beneath.

A spare key.

The silver gleamed brightly against the dark wood of Sol’s desk, catching the light like some shiny beacon of significance, screaming implications that Lenora would rather launch herself into the sun than acknowledge out loud.

“I realized—” Lenora started, only to hear the slight waver in her own voice. She cleared her throat like it would erase whatever emotional nonsense had just leaked through.

“I realized that you’re going to need it. There will be times when we won’t be on the same schedule, and you’ll need access to the house when I’m not there.”

A pause.

Then, softer, more reluctant words escaped.

“Or even when I am. There’s no reason for you to knock.”

The weight of her words and the key settled heavily between them.

Lenora resisted the urge to fidget, to retract the key and pretend this had never happened. Her composure hung by a thread, stretched dangerously thin as she waited for Sol’s response.

Sol leaned forward, her movements uncharacteristically slow, and took the key from the desk.

Lenora, still seated, watched as Sol turned it over in her fingers, her expression thoughtful.

And then it hit her.

Sol was just as uncomfortable as she was.

Her discomfort flickered in the way she avoided holding Lenora’s gaze for too long and in the careful way she moved, as if she, too, was processing what the hell this meant.

And somehow, that made it easier.  They were both on uneven ground and both figuring this out in real time.

Then Sol let out a breath, reaching into her desk drawer and retrieving her keyring.

Lenora did not react—not outwardly, at least—as Sol slipped the key onto the ring alongside the others.

A small, simple action that felt anything but.

The key fit there, seamlessly.

Lenora stared at the keyring, something tightening in her chest as her brain struggled to categorize the moment.  Because there it was—the key to her home, now nestled among Sol’s other keys.  And though Lenora wasn’t one to get sentimental about such things, she couldn’t quite shake the way it made her feel.

Which, of course, made her want to run.

She slapped her palms against her thighs, sending up a silent prayer that she hadn’t just left sweat marks on her trousers, and pushed herself to her feet.

“Okay,” she said, voice a little too brisk and forced, as she desperately grasped for an exit—both from this conversation and the boiling mess of feelings bubbling inside her.

She flicked a glance at Sol and added stiffly.

“I’ll see you later.”

Wow.

Flawless execution.

Absolutely zero awkwardness there.

Thankfully, Sol didn’t push. She just nodded, graciously granting Lenora her reprieve.

Lenora wasted no time turning for the door, her hand gripping the handle like a lifeline—

“Lenora.”

Sol’s voice was quiet and firm, but precise enough to thread through Lenora’s ribs and stop her cold.

Lenora’s fingers tightened on the handle, but slowly, reluctantly, she turned.

Sol was watching her, expression unreadable, eyes steady in a way that made Lenora’s stomach tighten for absolutely no reason whatsoever.

For a moment, the office felt too still, the hum of the building’s heating system the only sound between them.

Then Sol stood, her movements unhurried, and rounded her desk with ease—stopping just inches away.

Close enough that Lenora could feel the warmth of her presence, close enough that she caught the faintest scent of her perfume.

Close enough that running was no longer an option.

“Did you know I was getting the first-year associate office?” Sol asked, as her eyes searched Lenora’s face.

Lenora blinked, momentarily thrown. Instinctively, her shoulders straightened, bracing like this was some kind of cross-examination.

“Of course,” she replied evenly. “I got the email this morning.”

Sol nodded, a small, knowing smile curving at the corner of her lips.

“And do all new offices in your firm come with a Hoya Carnosa Madara?”

The name rolled off Sol’s tongue smoothly, casually—but with just enough emphasis to be entirely too pointed.

Lenora frowned.

“A what?”

Sol tilted her head, flicking a glance over her shoulder and gesturing toward her desk.

“The several-thousand-dollar plant sitting on my desk,” she clarified, her lips tugging into a teasing smirk that sent a ripple of warmth and unease through Lenora’s body.

Oh.

That.

Lenora’s mind went blank for half a second before scrambling for an exit strategy. She hadn’t left a card for a reason, and she wasn’t about to start confessing now.

“I wouldn’t know,” she said, lifting her shoulders in a carefully curated shrug, aiming for disinterest. “Imani handles the floral orders. You’d have to ask her.”

Sol’s lips tugged, amusement flickering in her eyes like she was watching Lenora attempt to lie her way out of a speeding ticket.

“Right,” Sol said smoothly, her voice drenched in skepticism. “Imani.”

Lenora didn’t dignify it with a response. Instead, she did the only rational thing—got the hell out of there.

She tightened her grip on the door handle, yanked it open, and stepped forward, eager to leave this entire conversation behind.  But just as she crossed the threshold, Sol’s voice drifted after her—soft, warm, and completely ruinous.

“Thank you for the plant, my love.”

Lenora’s body locked up so fast she might as well have walked into a wall. Her fingers clenched around the door handle, white-knuckled.

My love.

Not mocking.

Not playful.

Not murmured into her skin in breathless aftershocks of pleasure.

This was casual.

Unhurried.

And somehow, that made it feel infinitely worse.

Or better.

It was unclear.

All she knew was that it landed differently, settled deep, and wrapped itself around her heart.

Her first instinct was to make a run for it and never speak of this again.

Instead, she forced a breath into her lungs, locked down whatever the hell was happening in her chest, and let out a measured—if slightly strained—reply.

“You’re welcome.”

And then, before she could further humiliate herself, she walked out, letting the door shut firmly behind her.

But as she walked away, something shifted in her chest.

My love.

The words settled in, warm and steady, like they belonged there.

Like they always had.

And, despite everything—despite how much she wanted to fight them—Lenora let them stay.

9

Emotional tampering

Lenora had braced herself for all sorts of reactions from Ben—nervousness, a flurry of questions, maybe even a bit of resistance. She’d spent the entire drive mentally rehearsing explanations, anticipating every possible why or how long? like she was preparing for oral arguments in front of the Supreme Court.

But when she picked him up from school and gently explained that Sol would be staying at their house for a while because of a work thing, Ben just smiled at her and said—

“Okay.”

…Okay.

That was it.

No questions.

No hesitation.

Just okay.

Lenora blinked, momentarily stunned by the simplistic acceptance, her carefully crafted responses dissolving into irrelevance.

She had prepared for everything—except for nothing at all.

Of course, the reprieve didn’t last.

The moment they walked into their house, as Lenora leaned down to slip off her heels, Ben’s voice broke through the quiet, delivered in that perfectly innocent, utterly lethal way only children could manage.

“Is Sol your girlfriend?”

Lenora jerked so hard she lost her balance, her hand shooting out to brace against the wall before she could faceplant into it.

She stayed there for a beat, stunned, fingers splayed across the cool surface as if it could somehow steady her pulse, which had, unfortunately, decided to sprint.

“Ben,” she began as she turned to face him, still bracing herself against the goddamn wall. “Where did that come from?”

Ben, utterly unfazed, sat on the floor, tugging off his sneakers like he hadn’t just sent his mother into cardiac arrest. He looked up at her with wide eyes, the kind that only children could manage—pure curiosity, weaponized.

“She makes you smile,” he said matter-of-factly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Remember? I saw it at the park.”

Lenora blinked, caught off guard yet again, her breath hitching as his words settled over her.

He had seen it.

Lenora took a moment, her mind spinning as she tried to navigate this conversational landmine. She could deflect, redirect, or outright lie—but none of that felt right. The truth was simpler.

Besides, she and Sol hadn’t even talked about labels.

And girlfriend?

The word alone made her shudder, a full-body cringe rippling through her. It sounded so…juvenile. Like they were two high schoolers sharing milkshakes in a diner instead of grown adults with bills and responsibilities.

“We are not girlfriends,” Lenora said firmly, slipping off her other heel and straightening up like she was settling a case in open court.

“We are…”

She hesitated, searching for the right phrasing.

“We’re friends who enjoy spending time together outside of work.”

Ben finished taking off his last shoe, placing it neatly beside hers—because, unlike most children his age, he liked order, much like his mother. He stood, tilting his head in that way he did when he was dissecting something.

“But she makes you smile,” he said again, his tone so simple, so certain, as if that was the only criteria that mattered.

He scrunched his nose, adding.

“You see Aunt Imani outside of work, and she doesn’t make you smile.”

Lenora huffed at that, arms crossing over her chest.

“That’s because your Aunt Imani is annoying,” she shot back, narrowing her eyes.

“And she’s not your aunt,” she added pointedly. “She just told you that to bother me.”

Ben shrugged, entirely unfazed.

“I like calling her Aunt Imani.”

He said it with such finality that Lenora knew the battle had been lost. 

Then he paused, as though gathering his thoughts.

“So… Sol doesn’t annoy you. And she makes you smile.”

Lenora let out a long, theatrical sigh and pinched the bridge of her nose.

This.

This is what she got for having a child with a neurosurgeon.

The kid had inherited both their brains, but Lenora wasn’t delusional enough to think she’d outpaced Henry in raw intellect. She was smart—she'd passed the bar, two bars, actually—but Henry? Henry was a certified genius. A literal brain surgeon. The kind of man who could quote obscure medical journals in his sleep but would still forget to put the milk back in the fridge.

Book smart. Painfully, infuriatingly, only book smart.

Lenora, on the other hand, had range.

Ben—unfortunately—also had range. He would’ve been so much easier to manage if he’d taken after Henry alone.

But no.

Of course not.

She and Henry's genetics had somehow combined forces to create a pint-sized, genius-level interrogator with Henry’s intellect and Lenora’s sharp instincts—the curiosity, the challenge, the relentless need to pick everything apart until it made sense on his terms.

And now?

She was paying for it.

In full.

With interest.

“Oh, Sol annoys me,” she muttered, narrowing her eyes at him for good measure.

Ben blinked up at her, his lips twitching like he was actively fighting off a grin.

“But she still makes you smile,” he said, his voice dripping with that maddening six-year-old confidence—the kind that shouldn’t be possible for someone who still needed help zipping up his coat.

Lenora sighed, placing her hands on her hips as she stared down at him.

She was losing an argument to a child.

She pursed her lips, trying to salvage what little authority she had left, but then—

Ben, in all his tiny, insufferable brilliance, mirrored her stance.

Hands on hips.

Chin tilted just so.

A perfect miniature reflection of her.

And damn it—if that didn’t do something to her heart.

“Fine, yes,” she huffed, throwing her hands up in dramatic defeat. “You win. She makes me smile. Happy?”

Ben’s grin exploded into something blinding—full-blown, unapologetic, heart-melting.

And before she could process what was happening, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her, burying his face against her stomach.  The suddenness of it knocked her off balance, forcing her to stumble back a step to regain her footing.

One of Lenora’s arms instinctively wrapped around him, and her other hand slipped into his messy dark hair, smoothing it down like it was second nature—because it was.

Ben tilted his head up, resting his chin against her stomach, his big blue eyes—her eyes—locking onto hers.

“I like it when you smile,” he said softly, his voice so earnest, so simple, it left her breathless.

Lenora felt her chest tighten, and before she even knew it, she was smiling.

How could she not?

She cupped his small face in her hands, her thumbs brushing gently over his cheeks.

“I do too,” she whispered, her voice low and almost conspiratorial, as though she were sharing a secret meant only for him.

And in a way, she was.

It felt like a secret—an unspoken truth she didn’t often let herself admit.

But for Ben, she’d let it show.

Because if anyone in the world deserved to see her like this, it was him.

_______________

Hours later, Lenora and Ben sat at the dinner table, about to demolish the lasagna Sonya had made. Lenora was mid-scoop, about to place a steaming piece onto Ben’s plate, when the unmistakable sound of the front door opening echoed down the hallway.

She froze, the serving spoon suspended midair, as her muscles locked up.

It all seemed to happen in slow motion—Ben’s head snapped toward the sound, his wide eyes lighting up like a kid on Christmas morning.

A look that Lenora knew too well. The one that meant trouble.

“Don’t you—” she started, but before she could finish, Ben launched out of his chair like he’d been shot from a cannon.

“Ben!” she growled, twisting in her seat as the lasagna scoop wobbled precariously in her hand. She could only watch in horror as he darted down the hallway, his small footsteps echoing against the walls.

“Get back here!”

Her voice followed him, sharp and very much a warning—but, as expected, completely useless.

He was already gone.

With an exasperated sigh, Lenora slammed the spoon onto his plate, sauce splattering across the table like some kind of crime scene.  She pushed up from her chair, her heart hammering for reasons she did not care to analyze right now, and chased after him.

“Hi, Sol!” Ben’s voice rang out from the hallway, bright, excited, and way too loud.

Lenora nearly tripped over her own feet at the sound of his greeting. She came to an abrupt halt just shy of the hallway, straining to listen.

A brief pause.

And then—

“Hi, buddy.”

Sol’s voice was soft, warmer than Lenora had ever heard before.

It wasn’t just polite or casual.

It was… gentle.

Ironic, since the tone settled in Lenora’s chest with all the subtlety of a nuclear bomb.

“Mama said you’re going to be staying with us for a little bit,” Ben announced, completely oblivious to how much his words felt like tiny grenades being thrown.

A long pause followed.

Then, Lenora heard the faint rustle of movement and was able to place every one—Sol hanging up her coat, the quiet creak of the closet door closing, every tiny sound somehow deafening in the silence.

“…Is that okay with you?”

Sol’s voice held that same quiet warmth, but there was a careful hesitance to her tone, like she actually cared about the answer.

Leaning against the wall, Lenora closed her eyes for just a second.

This was already more than she’d expected.

And it was only the first night.

She was so screwed.

Lenora took a steadying breath, bracing herself before stepping into the hallway.

As she rounded the corner, she found Ben standing just a foot away from Sol.

Sol was crouched slightly, meeting Ben’s gaze with an amused half-smile—one of those effortless ones that made Lenora’s pulse do something annoying.

Ben nodded solemnly, like he was bestowing some great honor on Sol.

“It’s okay with me,” he announced. Then, with all the subtlety of a child, he added, “But you should know Mama burns toast all the time.”

Lenora let out a groan as she stepped forward.

“Ben—”

Sol looked up at her, her eyes glinting with amusement.

“Good to know,” she mused, nodding as she looked at Ben, and throwing him a wink. “I’ll make sure to keep an eye on her when she’s near the toaster.”

Ben giggled, clearly delighted at the team-up against his mother, and Lenora could feel her irritation disintegrating under the warmth of the moment.

She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, leaning against the wall.

“He doesn’t need encouragement,” she muttered.

Sol straightened, sending her a look that was entirely too soft.

“He’s just telling me the important stuff,” she said with a smile. “It’s good to know what I’m walking into.”

Ben reached forward and grabbed Sol’s hand with the kind of easy, thoughtless trust that punched Lenora in the chest.

“Come on,” he said, tugging her toward the dining room. “Sonya made lasagna, and it’s really good.”

Lenora lingered in the hallway as Sol let herself be led away, watching the unfairly natural way Ben had already folded Sol into his tiny world.

Her arms uncrossed as she rubbed the back of her neck, feeling unsettled in a way she didn’t entirely hate.

Shaking off the thought, she followed them into the dining room, slipping back into familiar ground.

“Ben, sit down properly this time,” she said, pointing at his chair like a stern dictator. “And Sol, don’t let him con you into extra dessert.”

Sol raised a brow.

“Oh, I don’t know. He seems like a pretty good negotiator.”

Lenora sighed as she reclaimed her seat, already regretting the inevitable chaos Sol seemed way too willing to enable.

Ben, already seated, beamed at Sol and gestured toward the chair directly across from him. Sol took the offered seat without hesitation.

Lenora, fighting the ridiculous urge to fidget, glanced at Sol across the table. There was something unsettling about this—Sol sitting there with them, as if she belonged.

Not bad, unsettling.

Just… unsettling.

With forced composure, Lenora leaned forward and scooped a generous helping of lasagna onto Sol’s plate.

“Thanks,” Sol said smoothly, but that damn smirk was back, lighting up her face like she knew exactly how much she was messing with her.

Lenora narrowed her eyes.

Glared, really.

Sol took a bite of lasagna, completely unbothered.

Before Lenora could retaliate with some well-placed sarcasm or maybe accidentally knocking Sol’s plate into her lap, Ben interrupted the moment entirely.

“Today my friend Charles told me that birds have hollow bones,” he announced between bites, his small, sauce-covered face utterly serious. “That’s why they can fly so easily. They don’t weigh a lot.”

Both Lenora and Sol turned to him, blinking slowly.

“That’s… cool,” Sol said, nodding slowly as she took another bite of lasagna.

Lenora opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, the oven timer beeped.  So, instead, she pushed her chair back and stood up.

“That’s the bread—”

“—I’ll get it,” Sol said quickly, rising to her feet and shooting Lenora a look that dared her to argue.

Lenora scowled.

“They’re already cooked!” she called after Sol, exasperation creeping into her voice. “I can’t ruin them!”

“Best not take any chances,” Sol quipped over her shoulder, walking into the kitchen.

Ben snorted into his lasagna, his small shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

Lenora turned to him, her expression one of exaggerated betrayal.

“Et tu, Brutus?” she asked, placing a dramatic hand over her heart.

Ben paused mid-chew, brow furrowing.

“…Who’s Brutus?”

Lenora snorted, shaking her head as she stabbed at her lasagna.

“Never mind, kid. Finish your dinner.”

Lenora dragged her gaze toward the kitchen, where Sol was expertly maneuvering the bread out of the oven. Then her eyes flicked to the blue folder sitting on the countertop—the one she’d left there to discuss with Sol later tonight.

Her chest tightened.

She hated the idea of using Ben as a human buffer, but she wasn’t above it. She’d already endured too many hard conversations today, and the thought of another one—this one particularly uncomfortable—made her stomach twist like an impending jury verdict that she wasn’t sure was going to swing her favor.

“There’s a document from work I need you to look at on the countertop,” Lenora said, forcing her voice into something casual, detached, and absolutely-not-a-big-deal.

Sol turned, one brow lifting slightly in curiosity, but she didn’t press or call out the stiffness in Lenora’s tone. She just crossed the kitchen, picked up the blue folder, and flipped it open with the same kind of ease she did at work. 

Lenora stayed in her seat, gripping her fork like it was a lifeline, the edges of the metal biting into her fingers.

The room felt unnervingly quiet.

Even Ben, engrossed in his lasagna, seemed blissfully unaware of the suffocating weight in the air.

Lenora tracked every micro-movement and every shift in Sol’s expression.

And then it happened.

Lenora watched as Sol’s gaze landed on the bottom of the Relationship Disclosure Form—right where Lenora’s signature was.  The signature that took Lenora a good hour to work up the courage to write, and even when she did, she may have signed it with her eyes closed. 

Sol’s expression shifted—small, barely perceptible, but Lenora saw it.

Then, slowly, Sol looked up.

Their eyes met across the space that suddenly felt far too small.

Sol held her gaze for a long, excruciating moment—then, without a word, she reached over, grabbed the pen sitting beside the folder, and signed with a quick, fluid motion.

No hesitation.

No questions.

Just ink meeting paper.

Sol closed the folder, set it neatly back on the countertop, then, just as casually, turned to retrieve the bread.

Lenora blinked, her brain trying and failing to catch up with how ridiculously unbothered Sol seemed to be about just legally declaring they were in a relationship.

Sol started walking back to the table.

“Did you know owls can turn their heads all the way around, but they can’t move their eyes?”

Sol said it completely deadpan, like they were just continuing a casual chat about birds, as if she hadn’t just signed a legal document binding her to Lenora in the eyes of HR. Ben’s eyes practically doubled in size, his expression nothing short of awestruck.

“No way, that’s so cool!” he gasped, as if Sol had just revealed the secrets of the universe instead of a random fact about owls.

Sol smiled at him, effortlessly sliding into the role of bird expert, while Lenora—

Well, she was still sitting there, clutching her fork like a lifeline, trying to process what the hell had just happened.

Her HR-compliant relationship, which, frankly, they hadn’t even really discussed yet, had just been signed into corporate existence over garlic bread and bird facts.

How was this her life?

Ben, blissfully unaware of his mother’s silent spiral, bounced in his chair, turning to Lenora with uncontainable excitement.

“Mama, can we watch the bird show after dinner?” he asked, words tumbling out at record speed. “Then I can tell Charles all about it tomorrow!”

Lenora blinked, still half-trapped in an emotional black hole, but Ben’s enthusiasm was impossible to resist.

She exhaled, finally setting her fork down, and gave him a small smile.

“Sure,” she said, her voice softening despite herself. “We can watch it after dinner.”

Ben beamed, his entire tiny body radiating joy, while Sol buttered a slice of bread with maddening nonchalance.

Lenora narrowed her eyes at her, but Sol ignored it completely.  She just sat there, eating her bread like she hadn’t just rearranged the entire landscape of Lenora’s life.

Ben, still buzzing with energy, launched into another story—this one involving recess, a stolen kickball, and something about a squirrel he was certain had rabies—his words tumbling over each other in an enthusiastic blur.

And then, mid-breath, mid-bite, mid-chaos—Lenora and Sol’s gazes locked across the table.

For a blissful moment, the rest of the room faded out.

The weight of the day, the ridiculousness of the last five minutes, the sheer insanity of the signed document sitting on the kitchen counter—

None of it mattered.

Because in this moment, it was just them.

Ben’s voice filled the space, warm and unfiltered, but everything else went still.

Sol’s lips curved into that slow, real smile.

And God—

It felt so right.

Her, Ben…

And Sol.

10

Domestic Relations

The next couple of days were nothing short of a reality TV fever dream—the kind that had Lenora just waiting for Ashton Kutcher to jump out from behind a corner and yell—

Wait.

What did he say again?

Punk’d.

Right.

It should have been fucked.

Because this situation?

This was entirely, one hundred percent, without a doubt, fucked.

Lenora, Ben, and Sol…living together.

It was going suspiciously well.

Ben was smiling more than ever, laughing more, his usual wariness around new people vanishing in record time.

And Sol?

Sol was so good with him that it was almost unfair.

Whatever lingering hesitation Ben might have had about her disintegrated the first morning when Sol casually placed a steaming plate of pancakes in front of him.

And if Lenora was being honest?

She caught herself smiling more too.

Not that it meant anything.

It was instinct, that’s all.

Because seeing your child smile like that—so wide, so effortless—did something to you.  Some chemical reaction, or biological inevitability.  The kind that made your heart ache, made your lips twitch, and made you feel things.

Feelings that Lenora was absolutely not prepared to deal with.

Which was why she needed a distraction—and what better distraction than the biggest case of her career? Against an enemy who had spent years burying her in paperwork—and was now actively threatening to bury Sol in the fucking ground if Lenora didn’t drop the case.

The trial was set to begin next week, which was absurd.

Typically, once a jury was picked, the trial started immediately. But Kane, being the conniving witch that she was, had somehow managed to delay it by a week, all because of her witnesses.

And not just any witnesses.

CEOs.

Military generals.

Government auditors.

Hell, even a couple of senators.

A parade of powerful people, all ready to sing Vanguard’s praises, to wax poetic sonnets about how essential the company was, how stellar their reputation had been ever since they landed their first defense contract 27 years ago.

Legal jury manipulation at its finest.

However, getting that many rich and powerful people to drop whatever they were doing and fly into New York was a logistical nightmare.

So, Judge Marks granted them the delay.

And Lenora was pissed off about it for multiple reasons.

One, she was ready for trial.

The witnesses she was calling? They were all on Vanguard’s side. Lenora had been practically salivating at the chance to tear them apart on cross and force them to acknowledge what they had done, and the rot underneath all that corporate polish.

But now?

Now, they had another week to prepare. Another week for Kane and Grant to coach them, polish their answers, and close up any cracks in their armor.

And two?

Well—

Every delay in the trial meant an extension of Sol's stay in her home.

Of Sol winning over her son.

Of Sol just… being Sol.

And their "situationship" quietly mutating into a legally binding relationship, now neatly filed away in HR records, like a ticking time bomb disguised as paperwork.

And three—which was the real fucking kicker.

Living and working with Sol in such close proximity was like being dropped into an all-you-can-eat Vegas buffet, surrounded by crab legs, prime rib, unlimited dessert trays—

only to remember it’s Ramadan, and she can’t eat a damn thing.

Pure.

Unfiltered.

Torture.

Sol in tailored suits at work?

Torture.

Sol lounging at home in a tank top and gray sweatpants?

Torture.

Walking past Sol’s room at night, hearing the shower running, knowing she was naked, just fifteen feet away?

Absolute, excruciating torture.

Sol just existing in her space—breathing, stretching, standing too close, smirking too much, being entirely too fucking Sol—

And Lenora? Completely unable to do a damn thing about it.  Because while her six-year-old might have looked indifferent, he had the eyes and ears of a goddamn bloodhound.

And work?

No fucking better.

There were eyes everywhere, but none as obnoxiously present as Imani’s, who had apparently appointed herself the unofficial referee between Lenora and Sol.

Every glance.

Every interaction.

Every accidental brush of a hand.

Imani was watching.

Like she expected Lenora to snap, cash in her jokes, and bend Sol over her desk and fuck her in broad daylight.

Which was ridiculous.

…Right?

Tantalizing.

Tempting.

And certainly, something Lenora had thought about—far too much—while lying alone in bed at night.

Which, frankly, was another form of torture entirely.

Because now?

Now, she couldn’t even find peace in her own damn bed, because Sol wasn’t there.

She wasn’t wrapped in her arms.

She wasn’t tangling their legs together in sleep, stealing the covers, pressing against her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And honestly?

At this rate?

This kind of torture felt like a clear violation of the Geneva fucking Convention.

So, to put it bluntly, she wasn’t exactly a joy to be around.  Between the trial delay, the disruption of her life in ways she was still barely processing, and, of course—she was horny as hell with no outlet until Ben went back to his dad.

And it wasn’t like she could just rent a hotel room like some cheating husband in a midlife crisis.

No, of course not.

Because Vanguard had to fuck her over there, too.

And while Lenora was pretty sure she had top-tier persuasive skills, even she doubted she could argue that sex with her—

Girlfriend?

Partner?

Jesus.

She really needed to have that conversation with Sol.

But regardless, she doubted she could convince security that to transport, clear, and then monitor a safe house while Lenora got her rocks off was a valid use of resources.

Even she wasn’t that good of a litigator.

She could already picture Imani reviewing that bill for service, flipping through it with disgust and then contempt.

Speaking of Imani…

The door to her office swung open without a knock.

That meant one of two people.

Imani or Sol.

And since Sol was currently buried neck-deep in Imani’s newest pharmaceutical patent case, that eliminated one option. Sol had seemed excited about it last night, asking questions about patent law from Lenora’s perspective—which, frankly, was practically fucking foreplay, in Lenora’s opinion.

She sighed, already bracing for whatever Imani had decided was worth interrupting her day for.

“Imani, I don’t have time for whatever this is,” she deadpanned, not even bothering to look up from her paperwork.

Silence.

Which was odd.

Lenora’s brows furrowed slightly as she finally glanced up, and her eyes widened slightly when she saw Ethan standing there.

Not Imani.

Ethan.

Who never entered her office without knocking.

A prickle of unease ran down her spine as she set her pen down, sitting up a little straighter.

Lenora stared at him, her pulse already picking up speed, sensing something bad.

“What is it?”

Ethan grimaced, which was never a good sign.

"I overheard some associates in the break room…”

Lenora's brows knitted together.

“And?” she pressed.

Ethan shifted on his feet, hesitating before speaking.

“They know about you and Sol,” he said, grimacing even harder, like the words themselves had a bad taste. “Someone got into Sol’s HR file.

Lenora’s blood went ice cold.

Ethan stepped forward, setting a paper on her desk.

She snatched it up, her eyes scanning over it before widening.   She ran her fingers over the signatures at the bottom—both hers and Sol’s.

No indentation from the pen.

It was a copy.

Of the Relationship Disclosure Form.

The one she and Sol had signed days ago—the one that was supposed to be locked in HR’s confidential files.

Lenora blinked, momentarily thrown off balance.  She barely registered Ethan shifting uneasily in front of her.

Someone had gotten ahold of Sol’s HR file.

Not just looked at it.

Copied it.

Distributed it.

Plastered it all over the damn firm like a fucking tabloid scandal.

And while Lenora had absolutely pulled Sol’s HR file in the beginning herself, there was a big difference between a partner wanting to know things about a new employee and this blatant invasion of privacy.

Her jaw clenched as fury crackled through her.

Ethan cleared his throat before adding.

“They’re… questioning whether Sol slept her way into the first-year office.”

And that did it.

Lenora saw red.

Everything else faded.

She wasn’t just angry anymore.

She was furious.

The kind of rage that made people reckless, made them ruin careers, and burn things to the fucking ground.

She slammed the paper down on her desk, as she pushed up from her chair so fast it nearly toppled over.

Ethan took a half-step back, likely weighing whether he was about to get caught in the crossfire of her rage before Lenora marched out of the office and dragged someone’s ass across the break room floor.

"Who?" She exhaled in a hiss.

Ethan gave her a pleading look that screamed “don’t shoot the messenger” before speaking.

"I don’t know exactly. But it spread fast—like, firm-wide fast. By the time I overheard, copies were already making rounds. I came right here after I realized how bad it was..."

He trailed off.

He didn’t need to finish.

Lenora already knew exactly what he meant.

The damage was already done.

11

Invasion of Privacy

It took Lenora exactly one hour to find the culprit.

One. Hour.

She could have done it in ten minutes, thanks to the newly installed security cameras that the firm had placed around the office.  But she wasted the first fifteen with Imani, who tried to talk her down like a hostage negotiator.

Imani tried to tell her to let her handle it.  Or have Lenora go through the proper channels, as if this were some bureaucratic oversight and not a blatant, calculated attack.

Lenora hadn’t even entertained the ideas.

Because this wasn’t just about Sol.

This was about her reputation, too.

She was a goddamn partner, and someone at her own firm had decided to take a shot at her.  Someone had dragged her name through the mud and reduced Sol’s achievements to office gossip.  Not to mention, they had also turned something she had signed to protect Sol—and herself—into a punchline.

And Lenora was not letting that stand.

Imani must have realized there was no talking her down, because after that, she didn’t argue. She just stayed close, likely to make sure Lenora didn’t commit a felony.

Lenora’s first stop was the breakroom.

To, ironically, break up the gossip party currently happening at her expense.

The second she stepped through the door, the entire room fell silent.

Eyes widened.

Conversations died mid-sentence.

Employees froze, like they had just been caught in a crime scene.

Good.

Lenora’s gaze flicked to the table.

And there they were.

Copies of her and Sol’s relationship disclosure form, scattered across the surface like cheap bar coasters.

The sheer lack of satisfaction she felt at the panic in the room only confirmed just how pissed she really was.  And unfortunately for her, no one was holding one in their hands because she needed a target.

A slow breath left her, her voice low and softer than she expected.

But somehow, it still rattled the air when she spoke.

"Leave. Now."

They didn’t hesitate to take the out and flee.

Lenora didn’t wait to watch them go. She was already moving as she swept the scattered copies from the table.   She doubted these were the only ones.  There was no way this kind of pettiness stopped at a single print job, but it was a start at least.

Ethan hovered nearby, trailing her like a man who knew exactly how close he could get without entering the blast radius.

Without a word, Lenora shoved the stack of papers into his hands.

Ethan didn’t ask. He just gave a tight nod and turned, already heading toward the shredder with the efficiency of a man disposing of state secrets.

Lenora turned to Imani, who met her gaze with a silent, knowing look.

And then, without a word, she pivoted, heels clicking like a metronome of wrath as she strode toward the security team’s office.

It was a secluded, windowless conference room, tucked away in the quiet, unglamorous belly of the firm. The kind of room reserved for clandestine meetings, off-the-record negotiations, and the occasional “no one needs to know this happened” conversation.

The moment she stepped inside, the security team snapped to attention, their backs straightening like soldiers under inspection. It was then, through her blind rage, that Lenora remembered why they were here, and Lenora Graves bursting through the door with murder in her eyes probably set off every one of their internal alarms.

She lifted a hand.

“Everything is fine,” she said briskly—well, fine-adjacent—before her gaze snapped to the monitors lining the wall, feeds from every hallway and group area in the building playing in silent loops.

Her entire firm was on display—every hallway, every corner, every office captured in quiet, looping surveillance.

Lenora didn’t waste time. Her voice cut clean through the room.

“I want to know who’s been in the HR office in the last twenty-four hours.”

There were no questions.

No raised eyebrows.

No follow-ups.

They just moved.

And Lenora had to give it to them. They were efficient.

It gave her the smallest sliver of relief—not just that Sol was in good hands, but that the obscene amount of money the firm was forking over for their services wasn’t entirely going to waste.

She spent the next 30 minutes standing over their shoulders, arms crossed, eyes locked on the security monitor as the footage flashed across the screen—a direct, perfect vantage point of the HR office.

She watched as bodies she recognized came and went. People who actually had a reason to be there.  There was nothing suspicious or out of place. The minutes ticked by, and just as Lenora was starting to think this was about to be a much bigger pain in the ass than she had originally planned—

She saw it.

“Stop.”

The agent froze the video, and Lenora leaned forward, her eyes narrowing as the footage caught a man exiting the HR office right around noon—lunchtime.

Not an HR official.

Not an assistant.

Not someone who had any damn business being in that office.

Lenora pointed at the screen.

“Who is that?”

She barely registered Imani shifting beside her until she was right next to her and leaning in, before she let out a long, suffering sigh.

“Fuck.”

_______________

Dwayne Bolden.

Bolden.

A fourth-year associate.

And, most importantly, the nephew of a long-standing senator, Amelia Bolden.

Fuck, indeed.

Dwayne was the human equivalent of background noise—always there, never useful, just taking up space and occasionally screwing up document formatting like it was a full-time job.

He was what Lenora liked to call an AA, not to be confused with the battery or a support group.

He was an Access Asset.

Similar in structure to a DEI hire, except instead of bringing diversity to the firm, Dwayne brought opportunity—as in, opportunities to kiss the ass of powerful people in Washington.

He didn’t bill hours.

He billed favors.

And now, their Access Asset—their human participation trophy—had gone rogue.

Perfect.

Her career-murdering, soul-crushing fantasies of what she would do when she found the little shit who pulled this just got tossed out the fucking window.  Because unless she wanted to set fire to the very fragile bridge her firm had built with Senator Amelia Bolden—and by association, the entire goddamn political machinery of Washington—she couldn’t tear Dwayne to pieces.

Not publicly, anyway.

Amelia Bolden wasn’t a four-term senator because she was just good at her job, though, unfortunately, she was.

No, she held her seat because she had very powerful friends in very powerful places.  It was the kind of people who could turn funding into silence, and scandal into vapor.

Ergo: do not bite the hand that feeds you.

Even if that hand was attached to a deadweight nephew who deserved to be launched into the sun.

Fuck.

She needed to play this right.

Especially since she had a lunch scheduled with Amelia tomorrow—an event that was already going to be a diplomatic minefield, and now came with the added bonus of having to pretend she didn’t want to strangle the woman’s nephew with his own tie.

Lenora had plans for that lunch.

She had questions about James Hughes, whose military background had been conveniently scrubbed from public record like he’d never existed before he put on a suit and worked Head of Security for Vanguard.

She needed those records.

And she wasn’t about to let Dwayne fucking Bolden jeopardize that because he decided to wage office warfare with the grace and subtlety of a greased pig being released into a high school for a senior prank.

So no, she couldn’t burn him.

But that didn’t mean she could let it go, either.

Lenora Graves didn’t do forgive and forget.

She did remember and retaliate.

And Dwayne might have been shielded by bloodlines and political handshakes, but he wasn’t untouchable.

Even Amelia would understand.

She was a powerful woman in a powerful position—like Lenora—and women like them knew one unspoken rule above all else: an attack left unanswered was an invitation for more.

No matter how connected Dwayne was, Amelia would understand the need for a response, so long as it was measured, calculated, and didn’t turn into a public spectacle.

Because in their world, power wasn’t just about who you knew—it was about how skillfully you wielded it when someone tried to take a swing at your knees.

Retaliation was expected.

Restraint?

That was the art form.

_______________

The very second Lenora crossed the threshold into the bullpen, the room fell silent. Conversations died mid-sentence, bodies froze, eyes flicked toward her, and then just as quickly darted away, like looking at her for too long might turn them to ash.

She barely noticed.

Because she had already found him.

Dwayne Bolden.

Still at his desk, head down, pretending to work, completely unaware that his career was already a chalk outline on the floor.

According to his HR file, which Lenora had pulled the second Imani uttered his name, Dwayne was the walking embodiment of mediocrity.

And honestly? She had fought the deep, primal urge to print out every single one of his “below expectations” performance reviews and distribute them like Hogwarts letters after the Dursleys tried to stop the mail.

Just raining from the ceiling.

A monsoon of inadequacy.

It would’ve been a fantastic way to send him packing.

But instead, here she stood, seething, staring down the human beige wall sitting just a few feet away.

Dwayne was in his early thirties and already balding—not just thinning, but full-blown follicular surrender.  But despite the tragic state of his scalp, he was dressed well. Tailored suit, polished shoes, silk tie with a subtle power stripe—because, of course, he was.

He was a Bolden, after all.

Mediocre or not, nepotism made sure he looked the part—even if the rest of him hadn’t gotten the memo.

And yet, somehow, this guy had found the time and energy to breach HR protocol, steal confidential documents, and toss a grenade into Lenora’s life like it was office gossip.

Her spine straightened, fingers twitching at her side, her body humming with the kind of rage that begged for release.

She could almost feel his neck in her hands.

But no.

Killing him would be counterproductive.

Probably.

She drew in a slow, deliberate breath, letting it cool the fire beneath her skin. This wasn’t about fury—it was about precision.

Next to her, Imani shifted.

“You sure you want to handle this?” she asked, voice low and calm. The kind of tone used for handling wild animals.

Lenora’s jaw tightened.

“Yes,” she all but growled.

Imani didn’t argue. She didn’t try to play the voice of reason. She just exhaled and muttered.

“I’m staying in the room.”

Lenora raised a brow.

“You need a witness,” Imani said flatly. “In case Dwayne tries to cry wolf.”

Lenora huffed, annoyed but not disagreeing.  There was no doubt the second this was over, he’d go running to Amelia with some mangled version of events that painted him as the victim and her as the wicked witch in Louboutins.

No, she needed someone in the room. Someone who could testify that whatever hell she unleashed would be entirely verbal and technically HR-compliant.

She nodded at Imani before taking a step forward, her voice cutting through the silence.

“Bolden—my office. Now.”

Every head in the bullpen snapped toward Dwayne like clockwork.

It was the professional equivalent of passing a wreck on the highway—you knew you shouldn’t stare, you knew it was about to be grisly, but human nature didn’t allow you to look away.

Across the room, Dwayne Bolden looked up from his desk, his face lifting in slow, agonizing degrees until his wide, panicked eyes locked onto hers.

Lenora didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

She just watched.

Watched as recognition set in.

Watched as his entire body locked up—like a rabbit spotting a wolf in the underbrush.

And even from twenty feet away, she saw the gulp.

Oh, good.

He knew.

Lenora tilted her head, her expression calm, almost bored, like she wasn’t currently planning his career’s funeral.

“Did I stutter?” she asked, her voice like polished steel.

Dwayne shot a frantic glance around the bullpen, as if someone—anyone—might come to his rescue.

But no one moved.

Not a soul.

Because everyone in that bullpen knew exactly what happened when you pissed off Lenora Graves—and none of them were about to catch friendly fire on Dwayne Bolden’s behalf.

He was already a sinking ship.

And no one had any intention of going down with him.

Lenora turned without another word as she strode toward her office.

Behind her, she heard it—the pathetic screech of Dwayne’s chair sliding back across the floor, loud and awkward in the suffocating silence.

She didn’t slow her pace.

She just kept moving, a few strides ahead, her fury simmering beneath the surface like lava under glass. She could hear the distinct rhythm of the footsteps behind her—the steady click of Imani’s heels, and the uneven, uncertain shuffle of Dwayne’s loafers dragging like dead weight.

Lenora reached her office first and stepped inside, heading straight for her desk. She didn’t bother with pretense or theatrics—just sank into her chair like a queen reclaiming her throne.

Imani was just a few steps behind. She entered smoothly, her expression unreadable, and moved to the side of the office. She didn’t speak and didn’t move to sit.  She just leaned back against the glass wall, arms crossed, her posture saying exactly what needed to be said.

Witness.

Not enforcer.

And then, finally, Dwayne stepped in, looking like he wished he hadn’t.

Dwayne swallowed audibly.

“Yes, Ms. Graves?” he asked, tentative and painfully uncertain, like he wasn’t sure if he should even speak.

Lenora fought the immediate urge to crinkle her nose in disgust.

God, she hated that tone.

That simpering, half-whimpering voice people used when they knew they’d been caught but hadn’t yet decided whether begging or denial was the smarter strategy.

She stared at him, silent for a beat too long, just long enough to let the weight of her presence settle deep into his bones. Then, with a flick of her hand, she nodded to the chair across from her desk.

“Sit.”

Dwayne moved forward like a man walking toward the gallows. He dropped into the chair too fast, his knees almost buckling as he did, and immediately fumbled at his collar, tugging at his tie like it might strangle him faster than Lenora could.

His eyes flicked to Imani—wide, panicked, and pleading. Like maybe she’d swoop in and save him.

Imani didn’t move.

Didn’t even blink.

She just perched herself against the glass, watching like a court stenographer.

It was only when Dwayne realized no lifeline was coming—no intervention, no miracle save—that he finally turned to face Lenora again.

And Lenora didn’t hesitate.

“Dwayne,” she said coolly, folding her hands on the desk. “You’re fired.”

His eyes widened so fast she half-expected them to pop out of his skull and roll under her desk. 

“Wait—what? Why?”

Lenora scoffed. She didn’t bother with words. She just turned her monitor around to face him and then clicked.

And there it was.

Clear as Swarovski crystal.

Dwayne Bolden, strolling out of the HR office at exactly 12:07 p.m., eyes darting like a cartoon burglar as he looked up and down the hallway.

Then, straight to the copy machine.

Fidgety, sweaty, shifty little movements as he hovered over the machine making dozens of copies.  Then he went into the break room, where he casually placed them on tables… and, oh yes, slid them into mailboxes like he was passing out party invitations.

Lenora slowly turned the monitor back toward herself.

Her gaze locked on his.

“Well?” she said, voice razor-sharp. “Still unclear on the why?”

Dwayne’s eyes went impossibly wider, his mouth hanging open like his brain had just blue-screened.

“My aunt…” he stammered, voice thin and desperate. “She—she won’t—”

Lenora didn’t even let him finish. 

“Oh, please,” she said, her tone so dry it could’ve blast sanded paint off walls.

“Your aunt is the only reason you’re not being escorted out of here in a cardboard box, blacklisted from every reputable firm within a hundred miles, and slapped with a defamation suit so aggressive it would make your trust fund weep.”

She leaned forward slightly, her voice low and lethal.

“Don’t mistake mercy for weakness, Dwayne. You're walking out of here with your career barely intact because I’m choosing not to torch it as a courtesy to your aunt. But believe me—I could—and I desperately want to.”

Dwayne went pale—a shade just shy of wallpaper paste—and for a moment, Lenora genuinely thought he might throw up right there on the carpet.

She leaned back slightly, just in case, as her voice, low and sharp, came out.

“You will leave this office.  We’ll pack up your desk and have it delivered to your address tomorrow.”

He blinked at her, frozen.

“Do not stop. Do not linger. Do not speak to anyone. Head straight for the elevator and out of my firm.”

She stood then, her voice dropping to a near-growl, coiled fury radiating off her like heat off asphalt.

“If I so much as hear my name—” she paused, jaw clenched tight before continuing, “or Sol Ruiz’s name—leave your mouth anywhere out there in the world, I will come for you.” 

She took a step forward, letting the full weight of her presence crash down on him.

“And I will. Fucking. Destroy you.”

She let the moment hang there—let the threat settle into the marrow of his bones before slowly extending her hand across the desk.

Dwayne blinked at it, confused.

He looked up at her, clearly unsure if this was a trap.

“It’s not a test,” she hissed through clenched teeth, her smile sharp and tight. “Take it so it looks like we parted on good terms.”

She knew half the bullpen was watching, pretending not to, mouths whispering behind coffee cups and computer monitors.

Optics mattered.

And this? This handshake was her press release. 

Dwayne hesitated a second too long—long enough to make it awkward—then finally reached out and shakily took her hand.

Lenora had to fight off a full-body shudder the second his sweaty, clammy palm made contact with hers, but her fury outmuscled her disgust.

She squeezed his hand. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make a point. A very clear, very painful point.

She knew her grip was strong. She’d nearly shattered Henry’s hand during labor with Ben, and let’s just say…those particular muscles had been getting a very regular workout as of late.

His wince was deeply satisfying.

Lenora tilted her head, her grip unrelenting. 

“Why did you do it?” she asked, voice deceptively calm.

There was no kindness in the question.

And when he tried to pull his hand back, she didn’t budge.

She wasn’t letting go. 

Not until he answered.

Dwayne swallowed hard, his Adam’s Apple bobbing like it was floating in a barrel, trying to avoid Lenora's teeth.

“I—” he started, his voice thin and cracking under the weight of his own cowardice. “I heard the other associates complaining… about all the time she was getting with the partners. Special treatment. Meetings, check-ins, briefings. I just… I wanted to know why.”

He looked down, avoiding her eyes like a man staring into his own grave.

“And when I saw that she… and you…” he trailed off, then sighed like he was the victim in all this. “It felt unfair. That because she’s in a relationship with you, she gets privileges the rest of us don’t. I got mad. I felt like people deserved to know.”

He glanced up at her, guilt smeared across his face like cheap cologne. 

“I didn’t know about the cameras.”

Lenora’s jaw ticked.

Then she pulled.

Not hard, just enough to make Dwayne stumble forward, dragged by the hand he was now visibly regretting taking.

She leaned in close, her grip tightening further as her voice dropped

“Sol Ruiz didn’t earn that office because she’s in a relationship with me. She earned it because she’s brilliant, tireless, and frankly, a better lawyer than you’ll ever be.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“You felt threatened. So, you tried to discredit her. You weaponized her personal life, invaded her privacy, and jeopardized her reputation because you were bitter and mediocre and wanted someone to blame for your failure to advance. That’s not justice, Dwayne. That’s cowardice.”

She finally released his hand with a sharp flick, like she was done holding onto something rotten. Then, she wiped her palm on her pants.

“Get the fuck out of my office.”

No raise in volume. 

No theatrics.

Just seven perfectly enunciated words that dropped like a gavel.

Dwayne practically scrambled out of the chair, tripping over the corner of the rug in his rush to reach the door.

He didn’t look back.

He didn’t say a word.

He just fled—all sweaty panic and wounded pride—like the room itself was trying to devour him.

Lenora watched him go, her eyes tracking him until the door clicked shut behind him.

Silence settled over the room.

She didn’t move.

She just stood there for a long moment, her hands resting on the edge of the desk, her breathing steady, but her thoughts racing.

The rage still simmered—lower now, yes, but far from extinguished. It pulsed beneath her skin like an itch she couldn’t quite reach. And she knew exactly why.

Because she hadn’t gotten to destroy Dwayne the way she wanted.

Not properly.

Not thoroughly.

She’d shown restraint, and the beast inside her didn’t like being put on a leash.

It wanted blood.

And if she didn’t feed it soon, it would start snapping at people who didn’t deserve it.

Her eyes flicked toward the bullpen, the glass walls giving her a clear view of the quiet chaos already brewing.

She could practically see it happening in real time: hushed whispers over coffee cups, the Teams messages flying, heads huddled just a little too close. Office gossip was a living organism in this place, and right now, it was multiplying faster than she could kill it.

Which meant she needed to do what she did best—get ahead of it.

Control the narrative before it controlled her.

And she already knew exactly where to start.

And with them?

There was no need for control.

No need for restraint.

Out there, in the bullpen—that was a goddamn buffet, and she was starving.

And if she couldn't tear Dwayne apart properly, then she’d settle for reminding the rest of them exactly why you don’t poke the beast.

Lenora moved toward the door with purpose, fire in her chest and hell in her heels.

Behind her, Imani let out a sigh—long, weary, and knowing.

“Lenora, don’t,” she called, though there was zero conviction behind it. “Let HR handle it.”

Lenora didn’t even bother responding.

She opened the door and stepped into the bullpen, the temperature of the room dropping by ten degrees on impact.

Conversations stopped mid-sentence.

Fingers froze mid-type.

Cups of coffee hovered mid-sip.

Lenora stepped into the middle of the bullpen like she was walking into a courtroom, spine straight, and chin high.

Every eye in the room locked on her.

“I’m only going to say this once,” Lenora said, voice like frost over steel.

“And I want every single one of you to listen. Carefully.”

She didn’t need to yell.

She rarely did.

The stillness in her tone made people nervous—that, and the fact that she never raised her voice, only the consequences.

“What happened today wasn’t gossip,” she continued. “It was a breach of privacy, an ethical violation, and a coward’s attempt to defame a colleague. But more than that—”

She smiled sharply, exposing her canines.

“It was a mistake.”

The silence grew heavier.

“I don’t care how long you’ve been here. I don’t care who mentored you. I don’t care if your last name is engraved on a goddamn building down the street. If I catch anyone pulling a stunt like this again—dragging a colleague’s name through the dirt, undermining my leadership, or taking shots at someone under my protection—”

Oops.

She hadn’t meant to say that, and her voice trailed off, but she kept her face impassive.

Her eyes swept across the bullpen. Each face frozen. Each breath held.

“You think HR is scary?”

Her voice was almost amused now.

“You think a write-up is the worst thing that can happen to you?”

She took another step.

“Let me clarify: I don’t write people up. I write them off. Out of this firm. Out of this city. Out of this profession.”

She let the silence linger, sharp and suffocating.

And that’s when she felt it.

A gaze.

One that didn’t shrink.

One that didn’t flinch.

She turned, and there was Sol. Leaning in a doorway, file in hand, watching her.

Composed and as calm as ever, but Lenora saw it—the tension in her shoulders.

And suddenly, this wasn’t about reputation.

It was about protection.

Because the people in this room feared Lenora, but they didn’t fear Sol.

And lawyers?

Lawyers lived for loopholes. If Lenora didn’t slam this one shut, they’d slip through it like rats in the walls.

Her voice dropped, lethal and low as she bolted that door shut.

“And if any of you think you're clever enough to redirect this—to aim your whispers, your pettiness, your backroom bullshit at someone else—let me save you the effort.”

She pivoted, sweeping the room with a single, devastating look.

“I know what it’s like to want more,” she said. “Believe it or not, I started right here—in a bullpen, surrounded by people who wanted to climb just as badly as I did. And if you want to climb?”

Her brow arched.

“Then climb.”

She took another step forward.

“You want someone’s spot? Then earn it. You outwork them. You outwrite them. You bring in clients. You win cases. You face them on the battlefield of corporate law, and you win.”

She paused, eyes glinting.

“But if you can’t win fair and square—if your instinct is to sneak, to sabotage, to slither through shadows and call it ambition—then you don’t deserve the title of lawyer. You deserve to be forgotten.”

Another beat.

“And trust me—”

Lenora’s voice dropped to a near-whisper, but it hit with the force of a sledgehammer.

“I will make sure of it.”

Then, with the precision of someone who knew she had just rearranged the entire food chain, Lenora turned on her heel and walked away.

Each step echoed through the bullpen like a closing argument no one dared to rebut. The beast inside her—ravenous, coiled, denied its preferred meal—wasn’t fully sated…but it was satisfied enough.

The warning had been issued.

The fear had been planted.

The power had shifted.

She didn’t always need blood to win.

Her gaze cut once more across the room—just a glance, instinctive—searching for the one person she wanted to read most.

Sol.

But the doorway where she’d stood just minutes ago was empty now.

Gone.

And somehow, that absence of Sol was louder than anything Lenora had just said.

_______________

The rest of the day felt off. Not dramatically, not in a way she could point to and fix—just...unsettled.

Lenora made it through her afternoon with the same brutal efficiency she was known for—meetings, calls, emails, the usual parade of egos and demands. Nothing slipped as she hit every mark and checked every box.

And yet, under the surface, something buzzed.

Not loudly.

Not enough to derail her, but enough to irritate.

She hadn’t seen Sol all day.

Which was strange. They worked in the same building, and while the firm was doing well enough to afford a healthy dose of square footage and overpriced mid-century furniture, it wasn’t exactly the Pentagon. Avoiding someone completely took effort.

And Sol hadn’t texted either.

Now, that wasn’t exactly alarming—Lenora wasn’t the most...enthusiastic texter. She wasn’t a teenager. Or a millennial with a social media addiction. She was a grown woman who didn’t have the patience for texting when a phone call could accomplish the same task in half the time.

And, for the record, Sol was her employee. Lenora had torn into more than one associate for texting during billable hours, snapping, “If you can type that fast on your phone, you can type faster on your brief.”

It would be more than a little hypocritical to let Sol scroll or tap away during the day just because they were...well...doing what they were doing.

Still.

Sol had gotten into the habit—a begrudging, sweet habit—of sending Lenora a message when she thought she’d be leaving the office. Not for Lenora’s benefit, of course. But because Ben had made it his full-time job to ask, “When will Sol be here?” the second Lenora stepped through the front door.

But today?

Nothing.

No message.

No Sol.

Just silence.

Maybe Imani had her really tied up in that medical patent case—the one that made Sol’s eyes light up like she’d been handed a puzzle and a stopwatch.

But logic didn’t explain the persistent, maddening itch between Lenora’s shoulder blades. The one that had been there since her little speech in the breakroom and was now demanding her full attention with the subtlety of a jackhammer at five in the morning.

Like her body’s way of confirming what her gut already knew: something wasn’t sitting right.

Thank God for the privacy screen and the blackout windows in her town car, because if anyone had seen Lenora Graves shoving a Montblanc pen down the back of her shirt, twisting like she was possessed just to reach that one impossible spot, her reputation might’ve taken a hit.

She never quite got it.

The itch lingered.

Mocking her all the way up the elevator and all the way to her front door.

But then she opened the front door, and Ben came flying at her like a pint-sized missile, arms wide, cheeks flushed, and grin bright enough to cut through whatever existential dread had set up camp in her chest.

“Mama!”

She dropped to her knees, caught him in her arms, and breathed in the smell of crayon and grass and childhood—and everything in her went still.

For a fleeting second, everything inside her realigned.

And then—

He pulled back. Looked around her and then up.

“When will Sol be here?”

And just like that, the itch flared up again—rude, personal, and clearly holding a grudge.

Lenora resisted the very real urge to hurl herself shoulder-first into the nearest doorframe, just to dislocate the damn thing and finally scratch it.

_______________

Sonya had made grilled chicken and asparagus, the air in the kitchen warm with the scent of garlic and lemon. Ben was chattering about his day—something about a spelling test and how Charles tried to sneak extra snacks during quiet time—and Lenora let herself fall into the rhythm.

They were about halfway through dinner when the front door opened.

Ben paused mid-sentence, his fork halfway to his mouth.

Lenora glanced toward the hall, her pulse kicking up without warning.

A second later, Sol stepped through, her blazer slung over one arm, hair slightly wind-tossed, and that faint look of post-work exhaustion softening her normally sharp expression.

Ben didn’t go sprinting this time.

Thank God.

He waited.

A miracle, truly.

But the second Sol rounded the corner and came into view, he lit up again, practically vibrating in his seat.

Lenora watched as he turned to her, beaming.

“Sol! Sonya made chicken and asparagus this time. Mama says we have to eat green things or our brains will rot.”

Sol blinked, then laughed—low, warm, and tired in a way that said her day had been just as long.

“Thanks for the heads-up, buddy.”

Sol rounded the table, draped her blazer neatly over the back of the chair beside Ben’s, and paused.

Her eyes met Lenora’s.

And something shifted in her eyes.

Not cold.

Not hostile.

But unmistakably altered.

The usual flicker of quiet amusement wasn’t there. Nor was the familiar warmth Lenora had grown used to—an ambient sort of comfort she’d soaked in without realizing, like sunlight.

It wasn’t distance exactly, but it wasn’t closeness either.

It was something dimmer.

Like the sun had started to set, and she hadn’t noticed until the chill crept in.

A slow fade.

A vanishing warmth.

Then Sol looked away and sat down beside Ben, her attention folding effortlessly into his chatter, her smile easy and warm—for him.

Not for her.

And just like that, the itch in Lenora’s back disappeared—not because it had resolved, but because it had found its shape.

It wasn’t abstract anymore.

It was sitting across the table from her.

Smiling at Ben.

And deliberately...not looking at her.

Fuck.

12

case Law & Cold Shoulder

Dinner was… normal, or at least it looked normal.

Ben, as usual, commanded the table like a pint-sized talk show host with a captive audience. He launched into a detailed, winding explanation of the science project he and Charles had started—something about vinegar, baking soda, and “controlled explosions.”

Sol smiled in all the right places, and Lenora asked the appropriate follow-up questions.

From the outside, it was a well-oiled routine.

But the rhythm was off.

Like someone had shifted the tempo without telling the conductor.

They were 10 minutes in, and Sol didn’t talk to her.

Not once.

Not when Ben asked if they could all build the volcano together on Saturday. Not even when Ben looked Sol dead in the eye and said, “Mama stubbed her toe on the couch and said three cusswords.”

A prime opening.

Served on a silver platter.

Lenora had braced herself for a smirk.

For a jab.

Something.

But Sol didn’t bite.

She just chuckled softly at Ben, reached for her water, and took a slow sip, like Lenora wasn’t even in the room.  Like she hadn’t had her tongue down Lenora’s throat—and, well, other places—just a few nights ago.

It was impressive, really. The sheer level of detachment Sol was managing to exhibit. 

And while Lenora might be emotionally stunted, commitment-phobic, and mildly allergic to feelings… she wasn’t stupid.

Sol was mad.

About something.

She didn’t know what the issue was—exactly—but if she had to hazard a guess, it probably started with Dwayne Bolden and ended with the entire firm knowing about their relationship.

Given the circumstances, Lenora couldn’t even blame Sol. She was pissed too. It was a violation of privacy.  It was humiliating and infuriating.

But...

She wasn’t giving Sol the silent treatment. Because it wasn’t Sol’s fault that Dwayne was a petty, balding waste of corporate space.

So, did that mean Sol was blaming her?

Lenora stabbed at a piece of asparagus on her plate, trying to focus on Ben’s ramble about dinosaurs and spelling tests while her brain played emotional detective.

Did Sol think she’d been careless?

That she hadn’t done enough to stop the fallout?

That she’d failed to protect her?

Lenora didn’t know.

Which meant she had exactly two options:

Pretend nothing was wrong and hope it magically resolved itself.

Or—

Attempt to talk about it.

Lenora knew what the right answer was. She knew that if she wanted to qualify as a decent adult—and God help her, partner—she needed to choose option two.

The Communication one.

The Grown-Up one.

But the sheer anxiety that flooded her chest at the thought of actually doing it?

Unreal.

It felt like being asked to perform open-heart surgery with a butter knife. In the dark. Blindfolded. With Sol’s actual heart on the table.

She could already hear herself fumbling it, making everything worse, sending Sol retreating even further into that frustrating calm silence of hers. And so, instead of doing anything remotely productive, she let her brain spiral until—

“Mama, did you hear me?”

The voice snapped her out of it.

Lenora blinked and turned to see Ben watching her intently, that faint crease of concern developing between his brows.

“I didn’t, I’m sorry,” she said, forcing a small smile as she set her fork down. “I was lost in thought. What did you say, sweetheart?”

Ben tilted his head, his eyes narrowing just enough to let her know that she was now officially under investigation.

“Did you have a good day at work?” he asked.

It was such an innocent question.

Sweet, even.

But coming from a six-year-old who had the emotional intuition of a therapist and the timing of a federal judge, it felt suspiciously like a setup.

And suddenly, Lenora was very aware of the other person at the table—the one who still hadn’t spoken a single word to her or hadn’t even looked at her properly since sitting down.

“My day was okay,” she offered casually, stabbing a piece of chicken with her fork.

Ben gave her a long look. The kind of look that said he was absolutely not buying the shit she was selling. He opened his mouth like he was about to press the issue—but then, surprisingly, he pivoted.

“What about you, Sol? Did you have a good day?”

Lenora’s fork paused midair.

Sol froze too.

Then, slowly, she turned her head. For the first time in what felt like years, her eyes flicked to Lenora—so quick, so fleeting, that if Lenora had blinked at the right moment, she would’ve missed it. And then Sol’s gaze slid right back to Ben.

“I had a very busy day,” Sol said gently, clearing her throat as she gave him a soft, tired smile. “I might go to bed after dinner, if that’s okay with you. I’m feeling a little worn out.”

Ben’s brow furrowed instantly, the corners of his mouth tugging down.

He glanced at Lenora.

She said nothing. ‘

What was she supposed to say?

“Same, babe. Love a cold shoulder served with grilled asparagus”?

Ben’s eyes flicked back to Sol.

Then back to Lenora.

Then back to Sol.

It was a full-blown tennis match now—complete with the increasingly judgmental face of a six-year-old umpire watching two adults pretend not to be in emotional war across his dinner table.

And then, just as Lenora brought another bite of chicken into her mouth, he dropped the bomb.

“Are you two fighting?”

Lenora choked.

Like—actually choked.

Not metaphorically.

Not in the classy, “I’ll just clear my throat and sip water” way.

No.

This was a full-on, chicken-in-the-wrong-pipe, gasping-for-air moment. She grabbed her water glass, coughing so hard her eyes watered, waving a hand at Ben and Sol like that would somehow communicate, “Give me a minute, I’m not dying.”

Ben looked at her in concern.

And Sol—because, of course, she did—stood up and circled around the table, gently patting Lenora’s back like she hadn’t been emotionally icing her out for an entire day.

“You okay?” she asked, her tone carefully neutral, but her hand was gentle, warm, and maddeningly reassuring.

Lenora nodded, finally managing to choke down the treacherous bite with a wince and a breathless, watery gasp.

“Fine,” she rasped, eyes still leaking, her dignity hanging by a thread. “Just—wrong pipe.”

Sol nodded at that and moved back to her seat.

Ben, however, didn’t look convinced. In fact, he looked more suspicious than concerned now that she was breathing, which was saying something considering she’d just nearly met her end via grilled chicken.

But apparently, a near-death experience wasn’t enough to earn her a moment of mercy.

“So… is that a yes?”

Lenora inhaled—finally—and let her gaze drift upward toward Sol, who was still sitting silently across the table like a very attractive statue made entirely out of emotional distance.

And for one deeply unwise second, Lenora considered saying it.

Turning to Sol and deadpanning—

“Well, Sol? Are we fighting?”

But this wasn’t the place.

Not here.

Not in front of Ben.

Because the last thing she was going to do was unpack whatever this was in front of her emotionally sensitive son, who once cried for an hour because the moon “looked lonely.”

Her eyes flicked back to Ben just as Sol’s hand lifted from her shoulder—a casual enough gesture, but one that left behind a strange, hollow weight.

“No,” Lenora said, her voice steadier now. “We’re not fighting.”

She forced a smile, even if it felt like it sat wrong on her face.

“We just had a long day, honey. That’s all.”

Ben narrowed his eyes. The kid had inherited all her bullshit detectors and none of her poker face.

“Uh-huh,” he said slowly, clearly unconvinced but choosing, for now, not to press further.

Lenora reached for her water again, clutching the glass like it was a lifeline and willing the evening to pass faster. Not that speeding it up was much of an improvement, because the sooner dinner ended, the closer she came to the inevitable: talking to Sol.

Which, frankly, felt like swapping one form of torture for another.

So instead of wishing time forward, she started wishing it backward.  Specifically, to that blissfully ignorant moment this morning, before Dwayne decided to play whistleblower on a relationship that wasn’t his business, wasn’t unethical, and sure as hell wasn’t his to weaponize with all the grace of a bull in a china shop.

Dwayne. Fucking. Bolden.

_______________

The past few nights, her home had been noisy in the best way.  There were high-pitched giggles from Ben as he pointed out some ridiculous fact in a nature documentary. And Sol’s low, melodic chuckle responding with mock-serious commentary. Lenora found herself half-watching from the couch, one eyebrow arched as she tried to pretend she wasn’t enjoying it just as much as they were, but for a very different reason. Sometimes she joined them. Sometimes she worked with one eye on her laptop and the other on the facially challenged deep-sea creature floating across the screen.

She hadn’t realized how alive her home had felt—how warm, how full—until it wasn’t.

Until it was just... quiet.

Sol had excused herself almost immediately after dinner, true to her word, claiming exhaustion and offering Ben an apologetic smile. She promised they’d watch that volcano documentary tomorrow and help with his science project this weekend. She even crouched to his level, smoothing his hair and whispering something Lenora didn’t catch.

But Ben, the relentless negotiator that he was, gave it everything he had. He deployed the please face—his nuclear-grade, weaponized form of emotional manipulation. Wide blue eyes that sparkled just a little too brightly, a devastatingly soft pout, and a look so pitiful it could’ve earned him a presidential pardon.

He’d perfected the look by age three and had been using it to topple adult resistance ever since.

Lenora knew.

Firsthand.

So, it didn’t surprise her one bit when she saw Sol falter.  She was seconds away from giving in, but Lenora rescued her.

Not just because Ben needed to learn he couldn’t always get what he wanted, though he absolutely did, but because she couldn’t take the pained awkwardness stretching Sol’s face any longer. The retreat behind polite smiles. The avoidance.

If Sol didn’t want to be around her?

Fine.

She didn’t want to be around Sol either.

Liar.

“Ben...let Sol go to bed.  She’s tired, sweetheart.”

Sol blinked—caught off guard for just a split second—as her eyes flicked to Lenora in surprise. But she took the out.

Of course she did.

She gave a stiff nod. The kind of nod strangers gave each other in elevators.

Polite.

Distant.

Meaningless.

And it hit Lenora square in the chest.

A low surge of something hot and sharp curled beneath her ribs—irritation at first, because how in who in the hell gave her the cold shoulder in her own home?

But underneath that?

Hurt.

A quiet, bitter kind that bloomed slowly and sour—like one of those awful flowers that only open once a year just to reek of death and decay.

Sol would probably know the scientific name, which sent another wave of hurt through her chest.  Because Lenora Graves could handle tension. She could handle conflict, and fire, and the entire legal system bearing down on her.

But this?

The deliberate retreat from someone who only days ago had been pressed against her with soft laughter and warm hands?

This was harder.

She forced her jaw to stay tight, her spine to stay straight, and didn’t let it show. Not even when Sol turned and disappeared down the hallway like she was just a tenant who paid rent. Not even when the click of the bedroom door echoed louder than it should have.

Lenora turned back to Ben, who was now staring at her with narrowed eyes and the grim expression of someone who knew exactly what passive aggression looked like—even if he didn’t have the vocabulary for it yet.

The rest of the evening moved forward on autopilot. Ben had his bath, brushed his teeth, and slipped into his dinosaur pajamas with minimal resistance, like he knew Lenora couldn’t take just one more thing.

There was no protesting bedtime.

No request for “just five more minutes.”

Not even the usual subtle stall tactic—water requests, stuffed animal drama, not even the classic “just one more story”—Ben just went to bed.

He hugged her a little longer than usual, tucked his small arms around her neck like he knew something in her needed healing, then kissed her cheek and whispered softly.

“Goodnight, Mom.”

And fuck if that didn’t wreck her in a new way.

She pressed a kiss to his forehead, whispered “I love you, baby” around the lump in her throat, and quietly slipped out. She turned off the light, pulled the door shut behind her, and leaned against it, back pressed to the wood like it was the only thing holding her up.

Her eyes stung, and then they burned.

Because it hit her—all of it.

The hell-storm of a day.

The mess with Sol.

Ben being this absurdly kind, emotionally intuitive little human, despite being raised by her.

Everything landed in her chest at once.

It rolled over her like a tidal wave—anger, hurt, hope, frustration, sadness, love. It didn’t come in layers.  It hit all at once, rapid firing and overlapping, like an EKG reading of someone mid-heart attack.

God, she was so tired.

Of the day.

Of all these emotions she was feeling.

And not knowing what the hell to do with any of it.

She sighed, long and deep, like the air leaving her body might take some of the weight with it.

No such luck.

Her eyes drifted toward the kitchen, landing on the top cupboard—the one that held her bourbon. 

She pushed off the door and made her way over, barefoot and heavy with the day. Her fingers curled around the cabinet handle and paused.

Bourbon wouldn’t fix this.

But it might take the edge off. Like slapping a paw patrol Band-Aid on a gunshot wound—not helpful, not remotely close to enough, but at least it gave you something to look at while you bled out.

She was nearly finished pouring herself a very generous pour—one that leaned more “therapy” than “nightcap”—when she heard a door creak open and the soft shuffle of footsteps across the hardwood.

She turned, already bracing for the sight of Ben in his pajamas, rubbing his eyes, claiming there were monsters under the bed again, or that he needed “just one more hug.”

But she froze mid-turn.

It wasn’t Ben.

It was Sol.

Barefoot, hair a little mussed, wearing a black tank top that exposed the sharp lines of her collarbones and a pair of heather gray cotton shorts, rolled just high enough to leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. 

The bourbon bottle tipped slightly in her hand, as she missed the glass, and spilled some very expensive bourbon on the counter. 

“Fuck,” she muttered, setting the bottle down and reaching for a paper towel. She wiped up the spill, only half-aware of Sol moving behind her, pulling a glass from the cupboard and filling it with water.

Lenora tossed the damp paper towel in the trash and reached for her drink—

“Did it ever even cross your mind to consult me before acting?”

Lenora’s fingers closed around the glass, but she didn’t lift it.

The words hit her like the fucking leg of the couch earlier, out of nowhere and shocking, but this time she barely managed not to cuss.  Slowly, she straightened, her back still facing Sol, staring at the drink, before bringing it up to her lips and swallowing.

“Consult you?” she finally said, carefully, her voice even but laced with something brittle. “I didn’t realize I needed a permission slip to defend you.”

Behind her, she heard Sol exhale. Not necessarily a sigh, but something heavier.

“That’s not what I said.”

“No,” Lenora said, turning towards her now, glass in hand, “but it’s what you meant.”

Sol was staring at her, her expression blank as she went quiet, just for a breath, maybe two. But it was the kind of silence that wasn’t empty.

It was weighty.

Measured.

Like she was pulling her words from a well and checking each one before allowing it to touch her lips.

“What I meant was… this is my reputation too. My name. My career.”

Her voice was steady, but it carried a quiet edge—hurt, not rage.

“Your name’s on the wall, Lenora. I’m still carving out my place.”

Lenora stared at her, jaw tight.

She heard the words.

Understood them.

But that didn’t make Sol right.

“I handled it,” Lenora pushed back. “Because it needed to be handled. Someone invaded your privacy. Accused you of sleeping your way into your office. And you think I’m the problem because I had the audacity to give a damn?”

“I didn’t say you were the problem,” Sol snapped—and then immediately pulled herself back. She exhaled, visibly resetting her tone. “But you made me a headline in a war I didn’t agree to even be in.”

Lenora set her glass down. The clink in the tense space echoed way too loudly.

“And what would you have done, Sol?” she asked, voice low but cutting. “Sent a firm-wide email asking for basic human decency? That’s not how this works.”

She leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, and eyes fixed on Sol like a challenge.

Sol didn’t answer.

She didn’t have to.

“You’re mad at me,” Lenora said, quietly now. “For protecting you.”

“I’m not mad,” Sol responded quickly but flatly, and then she paused, tilting her head as she searched for the words before finding them, and letting out a tired sigh. 

Sol’s voice was quiet, but heavy in a way that felt louder than any shout.

“I’m… tired. Of being handled by you.”

Lenora blinked.

Once.

Then again.

“Handled?” she repeated, sharp with disbelief.

Sol gave her a pointed look.

“When we first got together—yeah, the power thing, it was sexy. It worked, for what we were doing then. I was your subordinate. Still am. But it felt different then.  Like a game, neither of us had any business playing.”

She let out a slow breath, her eyes darting away at some distant point.

“I guess I thought that would shift now that it is no longer a game. But then the threat came, and now this...”

Her eyes flickered back to meet Lenora’s

“I don’t want to be another thing in your life that you have to handle, Lenora. I want to be someone you respect enough to loop in—to help.”

Lenora stood still, but her eyes flickered down to the glass forgotten on the counter, the burn of the bourbon now second to the burn crawling up her throat.

It took her a beat to register what Sol had said—what she meant.

Because Sol wasn’t wrong.

Not even a little.

She hadn’t considered bringing Sol in. Not even for a second. The moment Ethan handed her that printout, something inside her had snapped, and she moved, operated, and reacted like she always did.

Alone.

For as long as she could remember, that was her default setting. Handle it. Fix it. Quiet the chaos before it had the chance to grow teeth. And somewhere along the way, people just…let her.

Trusted her to do it.

Expected her to.

Relied on it.

Even Henry, God bless him and curse him in equal measure, hadn’t known the login to a single account. Never managed a bill, never coordinated a parent-teacher conference, and never once wondered how the fridge stayed stocked or how the appointments got scheduled.

Even when Ben got sick, he didn’t take the lead on a single part of it, and he was a fucking doctor. Lenora had found the oncologist. Lenora had arranged the treatment plan. Lenora had prepped Ben, had organized the calendar, and had fielded the calls from doctors and specialists.

Everyone trusted her to take care of it.

And she had.

Without hesitation. Without complaint. Because that wasn’t just what she did—it was who she was.

So, when Dwayne pulled that stunt, when he came for Sol in a way that felt personal, violating, and cruel—Lenora didn’t think.

She acted.

Like always.

She hadn’t thought about Sol’s voice in the matter. She hadn’t thought about how it would feel to her. She hadn’t thought about the kind of message that she sent—the kind of power it wielded over someone who never asked to be protected like a liability.

Her throat felt tight as she finally looked at Sol again. And for the first time since dinner, it wasn’t just with confusion or frustration—it was with understanding.

And perhaps...a little bit of shame.

Which, naturally, she shoved down like everything else she didn’t have the tools to deal with.  She reached for her glass and drowned it with a healthy bourbon chaser. It burned going down, sharp and hot, but didn’t do a damn thing to help.

Not that she expected it to.

But it did bring her a moment of relief. Just enough time to collect her thoughts, to sift through the sharp edges of pride and guilt until she found something that resembled coherence.

She set the glass down again and then crossed her arms, not out of defiance, but of habit—bracing herself by trying to keep her walls from collapsing and bleeding out all over the tile.

“You’re...right.”

The words left her lips slow and reluctant, like they’d been dragged, kicking and screaming, over high-grit sandpaper until only the raw truth remained beneath her usual superiority complex.

Sol looked genuinely surprised at her words. Her brows lifted, her grip on the glass in her hand stilled, and for a second, just a flicker, some of that ice in her shoulders melted.

Lenora was just as surprised.

She wasn’t entirely sure she’d ever strung those two words together in that particular order before.

You’re right.

The combination felt foreign in her mouth, like chewing on tinfoil.

But she’d said it.

Out loud.

And the sky hadn’t fallen.

Well...yet

“I didn’t even think about it,” Lenora added her voice quieter now, but still unsteady, like she was trying to cross a fast-moving river barefoot on slick stones. “I was just… furious. That idiot threw you into the middle of a firestorm you never asked to be in and treated our—”

She hesitated, searching for the right word.

Relationship?

Partnership?

Thing?

“He treated us—like some kind of joke. And my gut reaction was to do what I always do—handle it. Fix it. Burn down whatever needed burning.”

She let out a slow breath, eyes flicking briefly toward her glass before finding Sol again.

“It didn’t even cross my mind to ask what you wanted. And that’s on me.”

Sol stared at her for a moment, like she wasn’t sure if this was still Lenora Graves standing in front of her or some emotionally evolved doppelgänger. And then, slowly, Lenora saw it—the ice melting.

Sol’s shoulders relaxed, just slightly. Her arms, which had been folded in that perfectly passive-aggressive brace across her chest, dropped to her sides. Her eyes softened, and the tight line of her mouth curved upward, a small but unmistakable shift—like the sun just beginning to breach the horizon. Not enough to warm the world, not yet. But enough to remind her it wasn’t gone.

“Wow,” Sol said, voice softer, more human than it had been all evening. “I’m… a little shocked that you just said all that.”

Lenora gave a weak shrug, giving Sol a shaky smile, before glancing down at the bourbon like maybe it deserved a little credit.

“Yeah, well,” she deadpanned, “I’m emotionally stunted, not dead.”

She looked back at Sol, then really looked, trying to read the moment, to figure out how to not ruin the tiny miracle that had just occurred between them. If this were work, she’d know exactly how to proceed: assess the gain, double down on momentum, strike while the iron’s hot. There’d be a playbook, a plan, or a five-point strategy.

But this?

Relationships?

Feelings?

This was uncharted territory. There was no map or strategy deck to fall back on.  There was just Sol, standing there, watching her like she wasn’t quite sure what Lenora was about to do next.

Ironic, really, because neither did Lenora. 

Her brain, ever the diligent overachiever, immediately kicked into gear.

What could she do to fix this?

Apology, check.

Acknowledgment of wrongdoing, also, surprisingly—check.

What were the next steps?

Action items?

Strategic recovery?

And then, like a derailed train slamming into a wall of self-awareness, her thoughts skidded to a halt.

Wait.

Wasn’t that exactly what had started this mess in the first place? Lenora trying to fix things alone. Fixing without asking, without including. Charging ahead like a one-woman wrecking crew because that’s what she always did.

Sol didn’t want to be handled.

She wanted to be seen.

Heard.

Partnered with.

Lenora swallowed hard.

Which meant this needed to be different.

Fuck.

Why did personal growth have to be so hard?

The silence between them stretched. It was the kind of silence that buzzed in the ears. Lenora felt it like a weight on her chest and a flutter in her gut, that unholy cocktail of anxiety and hope that only came with being honest.

Her fingers danced at her side, mimicking the action her feet wanted to do—run.

“Okay, well…” she started, her voice a little rough. She swallowed hard and lifted her chin. “I’m currently experiencing a problem I could use your help with.

Sol, who had been halfway through a sip of water, paused—glass still in hand—and raised a brow. A single, perfectly arched brow that somehow managed to be skeptical and intrigued at the same time.

“Oh yeah?” she asked, the faintest thread of amusement winding through her voice.

Lenora nodded slowly, leaning back against the counter in a move that was supposed to look casual, but she knew she was missing the mark. 

“Want to help?” she asked, the words light, almost teasing, but her throat was dry, and her stomach was doing cartwheels.

Sol didn’t answer right away. She tilted her head, studying Lenora with a familiarity that felt like both a blessing and a curse, because at least Sol was looking at her again, but she didn’t miss being under the microscope. 

And sure as shit, a second later—there it was. The corner of Sol’s mouth twitched, curling upward in that way that always made Lenora’s heart lurch.

“That depends,” Sol said, stepping forward—close enough now that Lenora could see the soft dip in her collarbone, the way the dim kitchen light hit the curve of her cheekbone. “What kind of problem are we talking about?”

Lenora hummed, tapping her fingers against the countertop in what she hoped passed for casual contemplation. She was aiming for effortless charm, but realistically, she knew she was radiating nervous energy like a space heater in July—too much, too obvious, and somehow making everything around her hotter and more uncomfortable.

“What do you know about quantum mechanics?” she asked, forcing a casual tone. “I was thinking of building a time machine. So, I could go back and fix the mistake that landed us here.”

Sol blinked, then laughed—and God, Lenora had missed that sound. It was soft, caught off guard, and genuine. A real smile bloomed on Sol’s face—warm, crooked, just a little lopsided—and it hit Lenora like a punch to the sternum.

Sol took another step forward, their bodies now separated by barely a breath. She set her water glass down beside Lenora’s bourbon with a soft clink.

“I’m a little rusty on quantum mechanics,” she said, her voice low, teasing. “But I’m sure I could read a book or two.”

She paused, eyes steady.

“Any other options besides time travel?”

Lenora swallowed again—less fear this time, more hope. Her fingers twitched against the counter, aching to close the distance between them. Her mind was still a mess of tangled wires and unresolved guilt, but the flicker of warmth in Sol’s gaze and the softness returning to her body language… it was enough.

It felt like a breath of fresh air after hours of suffocating. Like that moment the tide finally pulls back and you realize you’ve survived the wave.

Sol was still standing there, open.

Waiting.

And Lenora didn’t hesitate.

She reached forward and gently tugged Sol toward her—no finesse, just instinct, raw and clumsy and real. Like she was afraid that if she didn’t grab her now, she’d vanish.

Sol stumbled slightly, letting out a soft, startled huff as she bumped into Lenora’s chest—one that turned into the tiniest gasp when Lenora’s hands cupped her face, thumb brushing over the curve of her cheekbone like it belonged there.

Something inside Lenora clicked into place.

They just stood there for a moment. Breathing the same air. Sharing the same silence. The whole condo felt like it had hit pause.

And then Sol’s hands slid around Lenora’s hips.

Lenora barely suppressed a sigh.

God, she missed those hands.

She missed the way they fit, the way they anchored her like they had a legal precedent to be there.

She swallowed loudly, embarrassingly so.

Her hand drifted up to gently push Sol’s hair back, tucking it behind her ear with uncharacteristic tenderness, like she was smoothing out a page in a favorite book.

“Full disclosure,” Lenora murmured, her voice quieter now, but no longer shaky. “Time travel was my only plan. You got any better ideas?”

Sol didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she just...melted a little. Her eyes softened, her shoulders eased, and her lips parted like she might say something—but then her gaze dropped.

Right to Lenora’s mouth.

Then back up.

Lenora’s heart executed a somersault.

She liked that plan...a lot.

“Sol…” she murmured—barely a whisper, all breath and want and something that sounded dangerously close to a plea.

And that was all it took.

Sol kissed her like she meant it—like the distance between them had been clawing at her all day, same as Lenora.

And Lenora?

She responded with all the desperation she’d been trying not to feel—hands grasping at Sol's face, dragging her closer like she could fuse them together and never let go.

She missed Sol’s mouth, missed the way she tasted, missed the way she moved against her like she belonged there. It hadn’t even been that many days since they last kissed, but Lenora felt it in her bones—this hunger, this need. She kissed Sol like a woman dying of thirst, and Sol was water, wine, and sin all wrapped in one maddening package.

Sol’s fingers dug into her hips, strong and possessive, and Lenora let out a soft, breathless moan that Sol swallowed like she’d earned it.

Until—

“Umm… Mom?”

The voice barely registered at first.

But motherhood did strange things to your wiring. Since the day Ben was born, Lenora swore her senses had been chemically rewired—like she’d undergone a full-body firmware update. She could pick his voice out of a crowd, sense a fever from across a room, or wake up at the tiniest shift of his breathing.

So even in the haze of desire, of fingers and mouths and whispered gasps—she heard him.

Barely.

But enough.

She froze for a second, and then her eyes snapped open. And then she did the only thing she could do in that moment of sheer panic—

She pushed Sol.

Hard.

Sol stumbled backward with a startled sound, catching herself against the opposite counter, her hair mussed, lips wet and puffy, and eyes wide.

Lenora turned sharply, heart hammering against her ribs like it wanted to escape her body entirely.

Ben stood by the dining room table, pajama-clad, clutching his stuffed bear, which he’s had since he was a baby.

She blinked.

He blinked back, his gaze ping-ponging between her and Sol.

Then his head tilted to the side.

And—wait.

Was he...smiling?

“Does this mean you guys are done fighting?”

13

Family Law

Lenora remembered the day she brought Ben home from the hospital—and the absolute disbelief that they just…let her leave with him. No test. No interview. Just handed her this tiny, squirmy human like she knew what the hell to do with him.

She didn’t.

Not even close.

She hadn’t held a baby since she was a teenager, taking whatever babysitting jobs she could to save up for a one-way train ticket out of that rotting trailer park and into whichever college would take her. And even then, she’d been terrible at it. The babies never stopped crying. At the time, she figured it was because she was a shit babysitter. In hindsight—and with adult horror—she realized those poor kids were probably in withdrawal. The trailer park had a serious meth problem. Those babies weren’t fussy—they were suffering.

Still, none of that prepared her for the reality of raising a child. Especially one that felt so impossibly small and breakable and suddenly…hers. Ben was dependent on her for everything, and the hospital just let her walk out the front doors with him like she had any clue what she was doing.

The early days were trial by fire.

Pure chaos.

She bought every baby book on the market. Her search history was a string of frantic questions about feeding schedules and poop colors.

Thank god for the internet.

And for the billions of women who came before her, who had the foresight and decency to write blogs and how-to guides and desperate forum posts at 3 a.m.

That was her jumping-off point.

She read.

She mimicked.

She survived.

And she learned that motherhood, like the law, had precedent. You didn’t have to know it all—you just had to know where to look.

But now, standing in the kitchen, staring at her wide-eyed six-year-old son, Lenora found herself wishing there was a different kind of guidebook—something like: How to Handle Your Child Seeing You With Your Tongue Down Your Girlfriend’s Throat.

She didn’t have a fucking clue how to navigate this. Not a roadmap, not a compass—nothing. So, it wasn’t all that surprising when the only thing she managed to stammer out was—

“—Ben…sweetheart… I—”

Her eyes flicked to Sol, who, for once, looked just as lost as she felt, which was almost funny, in a horrifying, want-to-crawl-out-of-her-skin kind of way.

Lenora turned back to Ben. If she didn’t have the first damn clue how to handle that conversation, she could at least fall back on the one she’d been navigating since he learned how to escape his crib at two in the morning like a pint-sized Houdini.

She stepped forward, placed a gentle hand on his shoulders, and crouched down until they were eye to eye.

“Why are you still up, sweetheart? Does your tummy hurt?”

Apparently, that was the wrong question. Ben’s gaze darted to Sol, then back to Lenora, his eyes going wide like she’d just committed some unspeakable act of social sabotage.

“Mom,” he groaned, drawing out the word like it physically wounded him. The same exact tone he’d used when she had the audacity to kiss him on the cheek in front of the school drop-off line on his first day this year.

And just like that, Lenora connected the dots.

Sol wasn’t just her "friend” in his eyes. Sol was the cool kid in his life. The adult who watched documentaries about space and deep-sea creatures with him. The one who’d sat through a two-hour, painfully detailed presentation earlier this week as he showed her every single one of his binders full of Pokémon cards, only for Sol to know half of them already.

Sol was fun.

Sol was young.

Young enough to have grown up with Pokémon cards—a detail that never failed to remind Lenora of the age gap she was only just starting to get comfortable with. A gap she could usually ignore… right up until moments like this came along and shoved it back in her face with all the subtlety of a brick through glass.

Still, there was a silver lining: Ben liked her.

He genuinely liked her.

Unfortunately, that only made things more complicated. Because no doubt seeing your mom make out with the “cool grown-up” in your life was probably the mental equivalent of watching Batman make out with your school principal.

Mercifully, however, Ben didn’t seem too traumatized by the kiss. If anything, he looked more scandalized by Lenora daring to ask about his tummy than by witnessing his mom engaged in what could only be described as Olympic-level tongue wrestling with Sol.

Given the circumstances, that felt like a win—a deeply awkward, questionably-scored win, but a win, nonetheless.

Lenora grimaced, offering him what she knew was a shaky, slightly-too-wide smile.

“It’s late, let’s get you back to bed,” she said as more of a directive than an offer as she placed her hands on his small shoulders and gently turned him around.

No negotiation.

No bargaining.

Just full mom autopilot, guiding her down the hallway like a low-battery Roomba beelining for its charging dock before everything shut down.

To his credit, Ben didn’t resist. But as they walked, he glanced over his shoulder at Sol, then up at Lenora—his face practically buzzing with curiosity.

She got him into his room, then into bed with the practiced ease of a mother who’d done this a thousand times, though tonight felt entirely different. She pulled the blanket up to his chest, smoothing it out, her fingers trailing through his hair as she searched for the right words.

“Ben…what you saw...” she began, her voice soft, but the rest of the sentence caught in her throat and dissolved. Because honestly, how the hell was she supposed to navigate this?

Ben looked up at her, all big blue eyes.

“It’s okay, Mom,” he whispered. “I like Sol.”

Lenora’s chest fluttered at his words. She knew Ben liked Sol—he lit up when she walked into the room, talked about her with the kind of reverence usually reserved for astronauts or superheroes—but hearing him say it out loud?

Now?

After what he’d just walked in on?

That was something else entirely.

Because this had always been the fear, hadn’t it?

The unspoken, lurking one that wrapped itself around her ribs and tightened when things got serious between her and Sol. Sure, she was starting to accept—slowly, reluctantly, terrifyingly—that she loved Sol. But their relationship wasn’t simple math. It wasn’t 1 + 1 = 2.

It was messier.

More like algebra.

With variables and unknowns and one very important wildcard: Ben.

He was the letter thrown into the equation. The part that didn’t factor cleanly. And making it all balance out in the end—Sol, Ben, herself—it wasn’t a sure thing.

Not even close.

But here he was, curled up in his little Buzz Lightyear bed, saying he liked Sol—not just as the cool grown-up in his life—but maybe, just maybe, as someone who could be the other half of Lenora’s life.

And just like that, Lenora felt something ease in her, like a lock turning.

It wasn’t a solution, not yet.

But maybe…maybe it was the start of one.

Lenora swallowed hard around the knot forming in her throat, thick with relief and something dangerously close to hope.

“I like her too,” she murmured, her fingers gently brushing through his hair again, slower this time. Softer. She gave him a smile—less shaky, more real—and let out a quiet sigh.

“I want to talk more about this with you,” she said, her voice warm but thankfully, steady now, “but it’s late, and you’ve got school in the morning. We’ll talk tomorrow, okay? I promise.”

Ben nodded, his eyelids drooping, the time and subsequent weight of the day finally settling over his small body.

“Okay…” he yawned, curling deeper under the blankets. “Love you, Mom.”

And just like that—like only a child can—he was asleep. No overanalyzing. No spiraling. No late-night existential crisis over the fact that his mom was with a woman, or that he’d caught them kissing in the kitchen on a completely ordinary Thursday night.

Just peace.

Just trust.

Just sleep.

Lenora blinked back tears, her heart aching in the best, most overwhelming way.

“I love you too, baby,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his forehead before rising to her feet.

She eased the door shut behind her with a quiet click, and no sooner had it closed, her thoughts snapped back to Sol. Maybe she’d retreated to the guest room—honestly, Lenora wouldn’t blame her. After the emotional rollercoaster of the last ten minutes, hiding under a blanket with the door locked sounded like a completely reasonable solution to processing this clusterfuck of a situation.

But as she padded down the hallway, bare feet silent against the hardwood floor, she stopped short at the unexpected sight—

Sol was still in the kitchen.

Lenora lingered in the hallway, watching her.

Sol was...pacing.

And—oh my god—was she chewing on her nails?

Lenora blinked, stunned. She couldn’t recall a single moment—not one—where Sol had looked so completely… unlike Sol. The woman was currently being targeted by a billion-dollar weapons company. She’d been followed, threatened, her life flipped upside down, and she hadn’t so much as flinched.

But now?

Now she looked like she was two seconds from falling apart. Like the kiss, her kid, the kitchen—all of it—had knocked her equilibrium off its axis.

Lenora stepped forward slowly.

“Sol?”

Sol nearly tripped over her own feet as she spun toward the sound of Lenora’s voice, eyes wide and frantic. She moved in long strides, each word tumbling out of her mouth in rhythm with her steps.

“Fuck, Lenora—I'm sorry.”

Step.

“I didn’t hear him come into the room.”

Step.

“I swear, I didn’t mean—”

She stopped just short of her, so close now Lenora could see the tight pull of tension in her shoulders, and the faint flush creeping up her neck.

“Is he okay? Are you okay?” Sol asked, voice cracking just enough to give away how tightly she was holding herself together.

The panic that had been simmering just beneath Lenora’s skin eased instantly, replaced by a sudden, unexpected rush of warmth.

Because Sol wasn’t worried about being caught, she wasn’t panicking over embarrassment or reputation or even the awkwardness of the moment.

She was worried about Ben.

About her.

About them.

And that…well, that meant everything.

Lenora reached out, her hand brushing Sol’s arm in a soft, grounding touch.

“Hey,” she said gently, her voice low and steady. “I’m okay.”

Sol blinked, like she didn’t quite believe it yet.

Lenora gave a small, crooked smile.

“He’s okay too. He said…”

She exhaled a quiet laugh, her voice catching on the edges of emotion.

“He said he likes you.”

She could hear Sol’s inhale at that, as her dark eyes searched Lenora’s face, like she was trying to decide if it was real or just something Lenora was saying to soften the blow.

For a moment, Sol didn’t move. She just stood there, breath held like she wasn’t sure it was safe to exhale yet. Then, slowly, the tension ebbed from her shoulders, and her expression softened—the corner of her mouth twitching into a hesitant, almost shy smile.

“Yeah?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper, uncertain in a way Lenora wasn’t used to hearing from her.

And oh, hell—Lenora felt herself melt.

God.

Between her kid and Sol, they were turning her into emotional soup. And because soft never sat quite right with her—never had—she did what she always did when things got too vulnerable.

Deflected like a Hall of Fame goalie. 

“Yeah, well… he’s six,” she deadpanned. “He likes to eat his boogers when he thinks I’m not looking. So don’t let it go to your head.”

Sol snorted, rolling her eyes with a soft shake of her head, but the tension in her shoulders eased. She gave Lenora a smile—small, a little hesitant, but undeniably warm.

“We’re good, then?”

Lenora swallowed.

Were they?

They’d been fighting.

Then they were making out.

Then her kid had walked in on them making out.

She’d jumped through so many emotional hoops in the last couple of hours, she didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or sleep for a week. It was like running a marathon fueled entirely by adrenaline and unspoken feelings, only to collapse the second you cross the finish line and realize your legs don’t work anymore.

She opened her mouth to say it—yes, they were fine—but the words stalled on her tongue. Because suddenly, unexpectedly, she didn’t want to say it.

She wanted to show it.

So instead, she reached out and took Sol’s hand.

When Sol didn’t move right away, Lenora gave a gentle tug. Sol followed, a half-step behind at first, then falling into rhythm, no longer needing to be pulled. Just letting herself be led.

Lenora didn’t look back. She didn’t need to. She could practically feel the puzzled expression on Sol’s face trailing behind her like a question mark at the end of a sentence.

She just kept walking, hand in hand, guiding her down the quiet hallway…

All the way to the last door at the end.

Her door.

She stepped through her bedroom door, walked a few feet inside, and promptly let go of Sol’s hand. She didn’t even glance back.  She just walked towards her closet, and she could feel Sol’s eyes on her.

Inside, she stripped off her work clothes with quick, careless movements, letting the designer pieces fall to the floor in an unceremonious heap. They’d get dry cleaned and pressed later. Right now, she didn’t give a damn. She tugged on a soft sleep top, still halfway adjusting it when Sol’s voice floated in from the bedroom.

“Umm… Lenora? Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

Lenora paused, then exhaled through her nose and stepped out of the closet. She didn’t bother with her usual routine—no trip to the bathroom, no ten-step skin care process. She’d book a facial later this week to make peace with her future clogged pores. Right now, she was too tired for rituals.

She made her way to the bed, pulled back the covers on her side, and glanced at Sol.

“We’ve both had a shit day,” she said, like that explained everything.

Sol nodded slowly.

“Yes. Yes, we have,” she agreed, voice still cautious, the question very much alive between them. “And I’m here because…?”

Lenora climbed into bed with a dramatic sigh. She shot Sol a pointed look over the pillow.

“Get in the bed, Sol.”

Sol’s brows shot up so high they nearly joined her hairline. Then her gaze darted toward the open door, down the hallway, to where Ben’s room sat just a few doors away.

“What about Ben?” Sol asked, her voice tight with hesitation, torn between impulse and the unspoken rules they’d both been dutifully following all week.

No PDA.

No shared bed.

Keep it G-rated while the kid was around.

Lenora huffed and reached across the bed, yanking back the covers on Sol’s side with the same dramatic flourish a matador might use to taunt a bull.

“He already saw your tongue halfway down my throat, Sol. I think him seeing us cuddle in my bed ranks a lot lower on the childhood trauma scale.”

Sol’s lips twitched, the hint of her trademark smirk threatening to break through.

“Cuddle?”

Lenora shot her a flat, withering glare.

“Sol—either get in this bed now or go to your own. This offer comes with an expiration tied directly to my patience and let me tell you—it’s on its last fucking leg.”

Sol nodded quickly at that, lips now forming into a full-blown grin.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Lenora opened her mouth, already halfway to snapping Don’t call me that—but before she could get the words out, Sol launched herself onto the bed like she was cannonballing into the deep end. The mattress gave a dramatic whoomph beneath her, testing both the structural integrity of the bedframe and the very last thread of Lenora’s patience.

She briefly considered kicking her out.

Literally.

Two feet to the back and one good shove.

But then Sol wiggled her way backward, scooting across the mattress until her back pressed flush against Lenora’s front.

Warm.

Solid.

Familiar.

And then, of course, Sol looked over her shoulder with a raised brow and that same shit-eating grin still plastered across her face.

“I believe cuddling was promised.”

Lenora glared, huffed, and then added a healthy dose of theatrical exasperation for effect.

But her hands betrayed her. They moved before she could stop them, sliding around Sol’s waist and pulling her in—tight and certain. She buried her face into Sol’s hair, breathing her in.

God, she’d missed her.

Missed this.

Not that Sol needed to know that.

“God, you’re annoying,” she hissed, mock outrage curling through her voice.

Sol chuckled, wriggling somehow even closer, her body fitting against Lenora’s like a final puzzle piece snapping into place.

“You love it,” she sighed contentedly, already settling in

Lenora stilled, arms around her, heart doing something treacherous and soft in her chest.

“Yeah, well,” Lenora muttered, eyes slipping closed, “don’t let it go to your head.”

_____________

Lenora had slept better than she had in days.  Waking up still holding on to Sol had done something to her—both easing something and settling a part of her she hadn’t realized was restless. Neither of them had wanted to get out of bed that morning. They’d lingered under the covers longer than they should have, reluctant to let go, both clearly missing this—them.

Which, of course, meant they were running behind.

So instead of the usual breakfast spread Sol had been making all week, Lenora handled breakfast her way.

Toast and cereal.

The coffee pot sputtered to life as she hovered nearby, half-watching a piece of toast that was already toeing the line between golden brown and charred. The first attempt had been a disaster, and the lingering scent of burnt bread still clung to the air despite her attempts to clear it by flinging a dish towel around like she was trying to perform an exorcism.

She muttered under her breath while plating round two of toast, paired with a modest bowl of cornflakes. With a nod of grim satisfaction, she poured herself a mug of coffee and set it on the counter just as Ben padded into the kitchen, his pajamas rumpled and his hair defying gravity.

He climbed onto the stool at the kitchen island, eyed the toast in front of him, and gave one exaggerated sniff before wrinkling his nose.

Then, just as Lenora expected, the flat looked at her and screamed: I know you burned the first one.

It was a ritual between them, one that needed no words as she followed up his look with one of her own that said: Don’t push it. Just eat it.

Ben held her gaze for a moment longer before shrugging and picking up the slice of toast. He took a bite, his face carefully neutral as if judging whether it was worth commenting on.  

Lenora, meanwhile, turned around and pushed the toaster down again to make Sol some toast as well.  As the toaster clicked into action, she froze, the weight of the inevitable conversation hitting her like a rogue bowling ball to the chest.

She didn’t think she’d have to tackle uncomfortable conversations until Ben hit double digits, when words like consent and crusty socks would start haunting her dreams.  She cringed at the thought of her sweet, innocent little boy eventually doing…what all boys do.

Gross.

But honestly? She’d take that mortifying future conversation over this one. Because that one? That one would be mutual embarrassment.

But this?

This was her romantic life.

Her awkward moment.

And now she needed to own it.

She turned back around and watched him as he spooned cereal into his mouth like it was any other morning and not the day after he'd caught her mid-make-out session with a woman.

She took a breath and braced herself.

“Ben.”

He looked up at her, wide-eyed and perfectly innocent, which only made it worse.

“I want to talk about what you saw last night,” she said, already regretting every life choice that had led to this moment.

Ben looked at her for a second, chewing thoughtfully. Then, with the kind of calm gravity that should’ve been reserved for war negotiations or hostage situations, he set his spoon down.

And gave her his full attention.

Lenora pursed her lips because, of course, he was laser-focused now.  Where was this level of attentiveness a couple of weeks ago when she had to give him a very serious, very mom-voice talk about sprinting through the grocery store like he was reenacting The Fast and the Furious: Grocery Edition?

Back then, he’d spent the entire conversation eyeing a forgotten bag of marshmallows Sonya had left on the counter—already plotting how to smuggle them into his room like contraband—and nodding along to her stern lecture without absorbing a single word.

Now he was sitting up straight and paying attention like he was about to take the SATs.  She really, really wished he’d saved this attentiveness for literally any other moment.

Lenora cleared her throat, bracing herself.

“Right. So… about last night—”

“Is Sol your girlfriend now?” Ben blurted, the words firing out of him like they’d been pressure-cooking in his tiny body since last night.

Lenora tensed—shoulders stiffening, spine straightening like her entire body was bracing for impact. The word girlfriend hung in the air.

But then she saw the look on Ben’s face—wide-eyed, earnest, not upset… just curious.

Just Ben.

And something inside her softened.

“Yes,” she said quietly, then a little more firmly. “Yes, she is my girlfriend.”

The confession hung in the air for a moment, and Lenora braced herself for his reaction.   

Ben’s expression didn’t change immediately.  His big blue eyes locked on hers while he processed what she’d just said.  

Then, with all the innocence of a child and the precision of a fucking bullet, he asked.  

“Do you love her?”  

Lenora sucked in a sharp breath, her stomach flipping.  

Could her kid ever just give her a fucking inch?  

Lenora’s chest tightened as she stared at her son, his earnest gaze boring into hers. It felt like the room had shrunk, the weight of his question pressing down on her. Her first instinct was to deflect, to steer the conversation away, but something in Ben’s face stopped her.   

He deserved honesty—he always had.

Even if it terrified her.

She let out a shaky breath, her hands gripping the edge of the countertop as she steadied herself. Her voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper.  

“Yes,” she whispered, her eyes softening as she looked at him. “I do.”

The words had barely left her mouth before Lenora’s nerves betrayed her. Suddenly, she was pacing in front of the counter like an over-caffeinated TED Talk speaker, her thoughts tumbling out faster than she could corral them.

“I know it’s a lot, buddy,” she rushed out, hands gesturing wildly. “And maybe confusing, or weird, or—”

“Mom,” Ben said calmly, trying to interrupt.

“I know it’s fast,” she continued, bulldozing right over him, “and you probably have questions, or feelings, or big emotions—whatever they’re calling it in parenting blogs now—”

“Mom,” Ben said again, louder this time.

“And I get it, it’s different,” she went on, flailing for the right phrasing. “Your mom being with another woman—”

She winced.

Awkward.

“Mom,” Ben said, firmer now.

“And I just want you to know,” she pressed on, placing a dramatic hand to her chest like she was accepting an Oscar, “you can talk to me about anything. Seriously. Feelings, concerns, questions—”

“MOM!”

Lenora jolted and finally stopped, her hands falling to her sides.

“Yes, sweetheart?” she asked tentatively, preparing for the fallout.

Ben just gave her a pointed look, then casually lifted one finger and pointed behind her.

“The toast is burning.”

Lenora froze. Confusion held her still for a beat—until the unmistakable smell hit her.

“Shit,” she hissed, whipping around and yanking the toaster lever up. A thick plume of smoke rose from the two tragic slices of toast, now blackened into something resembling roof shingles.

Behind her, Ben snickered.

She turned just in time to see him smirking around a bite of his slightly less burnt toast, utterly unfazed by both the conversation and the rising smoke level.

She opened her mouth, half ready to make a sarcastic remark, when Sol strolled in, freshly showered, hair still damp, dressed for work, and looking far too good to really appreciate given the current situation.

Sol stopped short of the kitchen, crinkling her nose.

“What is burning?”

Ben grinned.

“Mom burned your toast.”

Then, he added.

“And then she said you’re her girlfriend and she loves you.”

Lenora choked on air as her head snapped toward Ben like maybe—maybe—he hadn’t actually said what she just heard.

But no.

Ben just sat there calmly spooning cereal into his mouth, unfazed, like he hadn’t just outed her entire emotional landscape. Like he hadn’t casually thrown out a label she and Sol hadn’t technically discussed. Like he hadn’t just ratted her out on the L-word, which—yes, okay, she did love Sol, but not in a say-it-out-loud kind of way. It was more of a keep-it-under-lock-and-key-and-bury-it-in-the-backyard-so-deep-even-a-cadaver-dog-couldn't-find-it kind of way.

Her kid was going to literally be the death of her.

She reluctantly turned to Sol, bracing herself for impact. Sol was watching her, eyes wide, expression unreadable, as the two of them locked in a silent stare-off that lasted just long enough for Lenora’s internal DEFCON level to go up.

Then, mercifully, Sol cracked first.

She stepped into the kitchen, her expression shifting from stunned to infuriatingly amused.

“Cool,” she said, as casually as if Ben had announced something as mundane as the weather. “Is there coffee? Or did you manage to burn a liquid, too?”

Ben snickered behind his spoon.

Sol’s grin stretched wider.

It was infuriating.

And—despite everything?

It was kind of perfect.

14

Signed, Sealed, and strategized

The day flew by in a blur of emails, case reviews, and three back-to-back calls that absolutely should’ve been emails.

Then there was a late lunch with a very angry senator—an event Lenora was both begrudgingly looking forward to and actively regretting.  The kind of meeting that felt less like diplomacy and more like stepping into the Colosseum, fully aware your opponent was just as sharp, just as ruthless, and just as hungry for blood as you were.

And Amelia Bolden did not disappoint.

She arrived precisely on time, her presence shifting the air in the restaurant like a drop in barometric pressure. Heads turned as if sensing someone important had entered the room.

Amelia’s short-cropped black hair was streaked tastefully with gray and styled to perfection. She wore a burgundy designer suit, likely selected by a team of professionals who knew how to run enough focus groups to toe the line between luxury without losing the middle-class vote. And a small American flag pin gleamed from her lapel.

Her face was built for politics.  She was striking, but not distractingly beautiful.  She was commanding, but not cold. She was the kind of woman who could tear into a Senate committee by morning and charm a room of donors by lunch. Severe when she needed to be, and approachable when it served her.

There was a reason she was a four-term senator with deep roots in both New York and Washington.

Amelia Bolden was powerful.

And she was, unsurprisingly, pissed.

Lenora had fired her nephew, and Amelia made her displeasure abundantly clear the moment she sat down, folding herself into the chair like it was a throne, spine straight and lips pressed into a line that no doubt made her Botox work overtime to hide her frown lines.

But Lenora didn’t rattle easily.

Politics was a game, and she played it with the finesse of someone who only bet when the deck was rigged in her favor.

Dwayne, of course, hadn’t told his aunt the whole story. He’d gone running to Amelia, all wounded pride and selective truths, painting himself as the poor, innocent victim of Lenora’s infamous wrath. 

Lenora thankfully planned for it, and Dwayne’s cowardice played right into her hand.  She let Amelia tear into her for five whole minutes. That was all she got—not because it was earned, but because Lenora wanted her to think she had the upper hand.

Let her believe she had control.

Let her build her little mountain of indignation.

Because it made the fall that much sweeter.

Amelia was mid-rant, a thinly veiled threat no doubt locked and loaded, her mouth parting to fire it off at both Lenora and her firm, when Lenora decided she’d heard enough.

“Honestly, Amelia,” she interrupted, her voice honeyed and smooth as poison, “the only reason your nephew wasn’t escorted out by security, blacklisted across every firm in the city, and sued into a debt so deep his great-grandchildren would be paying interest, was because I did you a favor.”

Amelia raised a brow.

“A favor?  Firing my nephew was doing me a favor?”

Lenora nodded, lips curling into a polite smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Amelia might be good at this game, but she’d walked into it behind the eight ball—half the story, none of the leverage. Meanwhile, Lenora was already playing five moves ahead.

“Yes.  One, I’m now cashing in right now,” she said, reaching into her purse. She pulled out a flash drive and slid it across the white linen tablecloth like it was a business card.

“On that drive, you will find a video of your nephew breaking into the HR office, copying protected, confidential documents, and then distributing them around the office in a desperate attempt to take down a woman he couldn’t outshine. A Hispanic woman, by the way, who just so happens to be a lawyer. And a lesbian.”

She let that hang in the air, watching the flicker of recognition spark behind Amelia’s eyes.

“I imagine, considering your political platform of championing women’s rights, the speech you gave on workplace equality last month, and the fact that you were Grand Marshal at last year’s Pride Parade... a video of your nephew spearheading a smear campaign against a queer woman of color because he couldn’t handle her success might, shall we say... clash with your brand.”

Amelia stared at the flash drive. Then at Lenora. The tight smile on her face didn’t budge, but her eyes turned cold and calculating in that particular way powerful women got when the ground shifted beneath them and they didn’t like it.

Then, slowly, her gaze dropped back to the drive. Her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Is this the only copy?”

Lenora tilted her head, giving her a flat, unimpressed look.

“Would you believe me if I said yes?”

Amelia’s lip curled, not quite a smile.

“No,” she said through clenched teeth.

Then she sighed, her posture softening just enough to betray the slightest crack in her armor. She met Lenora’s eyes again.

“Is it the only copy?” she asked again, quieter now. There was a delicate uptick in her tone—subtle, but there. If you knew how to listen for it, it might even be mistaken for...pleading.

Fortunately for Amelia, Lenora did know how to listen. Her ears were fine-tuned to power shifts and small cracks. And that sound? That subtle, quiet ask from a woman who never begged?

Music to her ears.

Lenora reached forward and nudged the flash drive across the table until it stopped in front of Amelia.

“It is,” she said simply.

And she meant it. It was the only copy. Because while Lenora might enjoy making people sweat, she wasn’t reckless. Blackmailing a U.S. Senator—especially one as connected as Amelia Bolden—wasn’t a game you played unless you had a death wish or a bunker.

But that didn’t mean she couldn’t remind Amelia what she was capable of. She didn’t need a thousand copies. She just needed her to imagine what would have happened if there had been.

“I’m not blackmailing you, Amelia,” Lenora said coolly. “I’m doing you a favor. And in my world—and yours—favors are reciprocal.”

Amelia snatched the flash drive off the table with the reflexes of someone fully aware the offer could be rescinded. She held it for a long moment, fingers tight around it, then lifted her gaze back to Lenora with narrowed eyes.

Her mouth tightened.

“What do you want, Lenora?”

Lenora didn’t answer right away. Instead, she calmly reached into her bag and pulled out a manila folder—thicker than it looked—and slid it across the table with the same slow, deliberate motion as before.

“I want everything on him,” she said.

Her voice didn’t raise, but it carried weight.

“Not the stuff my investigator can Google. I want the real file. The dirty file. Even the classified ones.”

Amelia looked at the contents in the folder, then slowly back at Lenora.

“I can do that,” she said, snapping it shut and sliding it into her handbag with the quiet finality of a gavel. “But then we’re even.”

Lenora nodded once.

“Of course.”

And she should have stopped there.

A clean win.

But she had never fully grasped the concept of leaving well enough alone.

“Unless,” she added casually, “you’d be open to another...transaction.”

Amelia’s lips thinned.

“Planning to leverage something else against me?”

Lenora gave a faint smile.

“I didn’t leverage. I helped you,” she corrected.  “And you helped me. Isn’t that what women like us do?”

Her voice softened slightly.

“We help each other. Because while we’re busy cutting paths, we’ve got men lining up to take our heads. It’s nice to have someone watching our back now and again, yes?”

Amelia was quiet in thought before she finally spoke.

“What do you need?”

Lenora reached into her bag for the last thing and pulled out another flash drive—this one red. A fitting color for what it contained.

“It’s no secret in Washington that I’m coming for Vanguard.”

Amelia tensed, her spine stiffening just slightly.

“Yes,” she said slowly. “I always knew you had balls, Lenora. But going after them? Yours must be made of steel.”

Lenora grinned.

“I keep them in a glass case in my office,” she deadpanned.

Then she nodded toward the flash drive.

“That’s everything I have. The dirty deeds. The whistleblower memos. The rot under the shine.”

Amelia glanced at it, then back at her.

“And I want this because?”

Lenora leaned back in her chair, folding one leg over the other.

“It’s an election year, isn’t it?”

Amelia’s expression tightened, jaw flexing.

“Yes.”

“And for the first time in your career, you’re behind in the polls.”

Lenora’s voice was calm and matter-of-fact, but there was weight behind every word.

“People want change. They think you’ve gotten too comfortable. Too cozy with the elite. You’re losing the confidence of the working class and the young voters—the people who voted you in.”

“I fight for them just as hard,” Amelia snapped, clearly tired of hearing that rhetoric. 

“But you haven’t pushed back against the powers that impact their retirement and their livelihood,” Lenora countered. “Not really. Not publicly. You play the game like the rest of them, and your voters are starting to notice.”

Amelia’s eyes narrowed.

“What’s your point, Lenora?”

Lenora leaned forward again, resting her elbows on the table.

“My case against Vanguard can go three ways. I’m prepared for two of them. The third one...I need help with.”

She tapped the flash drive once.

“If I call you, I want you to take what’s on that drive and open a special investigation into Vanguard. Federal. Loud. With teeth.”

Amelia stared at the flash drive, her fingers just hovering above it.

And Lenora knew she was considering it.

Weighing every angle.

Every consequence.

Every headline.

Lenora leaned in, voice dropping to a velvet whisper.

“Can you imagine it, Amelia? The power that comes with taking them down. The spotlight. The national attention. The redemption arc practically writes itself. You claw back the working class and the young vote. You become the woman who reminded the country that billionaires aren’t above the law.”

She paused.

“To everyone else, it’ll look like you stood up and did the right thing.”

She smiled sharply.

“But you and I?” she said smoothly, gesturing between them with a flick of her hand, “we’ll both know the truth. You did it to win. So, did I. We’re not the heroes in this story, Amelia—we’re just the ones smart enough to survive it.”

She leaned back, folding her arms with an easy confidence, her eyes never leaving Amelia’s.

“So,” she said, a slow smile tugging at her lips, “you in?

Amelia took the flash drive without a word, slipping it into her bag.

She didn’t need to say anything.

The act alone was answer enough.

“I think we’re done here,” she said, standing with the fluid grace of someone used to commanding rooms and walking away from explosions unscathed.

“I’d stay longer, but I don’t want you getting any more ideas.”

Lenora rose with a smile that bared just enough teeth to be unsettling.

“Always a pleasure doing business with you, Amelia.”

Amelia shook her head as she accepted Lenora’s outstretched hand.

“Yes, well,” she said dryly, “I suppose I should thank you for the restraint you showed with my nephew. Given your reputation, I admit I’m a little surprised you didn’t have his body dumped in the East River.”

Lenora laughed, low and smooth, then leaned in slightly and tightened her grip—just a touch harder than necessary.

It wasn’t a handshake.

It was a performance.

A reminder.

“Come now, Amelia,” she purred. “Everyone knows salt water slows decomposition. Now, the Hudson…”

Amelia barked a laugh, but there was wariness to it, like she wasn’t entirely sure whether they were still joking.

She let go of Lenora’s hand abruptly.

“Right,” she said, smoothing her blazer again, or wiping her hands of Lenora. “Let’s never have lunch again.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and walked out, leaving behind nothing but the scent of expensive perfume and the faint chill of someone who’d just made a deal with the devil.

Lenora sat back down, picked up her coffee, and smiled to herself.

One favor paid.

Another was waiting in her pocket.

And the clock was ticking on Vanguard.

_____________

Lenora rode the high from the meeting for the rest of the day. She was in a good mood—a rare, almost suspiciously light feeling that even Ben picked up on the moment she walked through the door.

They laughed. They teased. And for once, she didn’t just hover nearby, busying herself with the final work items of the day as he played.  No, she actually played with him.  She was all in—sat on the floor playing with stuffed animals, superhero capes, and a complicated set of rules that changed every five minutes.

It wasn’t just presence.

It was engagement.

And it wasn’t lost on her how rare that was for her, and by association, Ben.  It was something that gnawed at her most nights.  When the house was quiet, and the guilt came creeping in like a draft around an old window. The endless loop of questions that would haunt her:

Was she doing enough?

Was she giving him enough?

Should she be giving more of herself?

Tonight, though, the doubt would be quieter.  Because today, for once, she wasn’t just a good lawyer. Or a good strategist. Or someone playing power games with senators and coming out the victor.

She got to be a good mom, too.

And that?

That felt like the biggest win of all.

After playtime, they had dinner—still riding the wave and yet, even in the warm glow of that rare peace, Lenora didn’t miss it.

The flicker in Ben’s eyes.

The one in her own.

Both drifting, almost involuntarily, to the empty chair at the dining room table.

Sol’s chair.

When did it become Sol’s chair?

The thought made her chest tighten in that now-familiar, irritatingly emotional way. Her heart did a complicated little dance—part warmth and part anxiety. The two feelings tangled inside her like dancers fighting for the lead—tripping, stepping on toes, and pulling each other off balance.

Because she was having a rare day—a good day.

A happy day.

And aside from Ben, the only person she’d instinctively wanted to share it with was...Sol.

But Sol wasn’t here

She was across town, buried in that medical deposition Imani had roped her into.  A deposition that was running terribly late.

Lenora had gotten the text an hour ago, and just thinking about that text had her eyes flickering to the chair again, lips thinning.

It was just a chair.

An empty chair Lenora had stared at for years, through hundreds of meals, and yet never really seen. It had always been something she looked past, or through, like a window with no view. Her brain simply never registered it.

Because it was just a chair.

Until suddenly…it wasn’t.

Now, its emptiness carried weight.

Now, it meant something.

Now, it ached.

She felt Sol’s absence like a pressure in the room.

A pull.

A weight.

A presence made only louder by the fact that it wasn’t there.

Which was strange.

Because emptiness, by definition, shouldn’t feel like anything.

It wasn’t presence.

It wasn’t mass.

And yet—there she was. 

Sitting across from it. 

Feeling it.

An empty chair. And it shouldn’t have mattered. It shouldn’t have meant anything. But now it did. Somehow, it had transformed—quietly, insidiously—from background noise into something that throbbed with absence. 

And the worst part? It made her stomach turn.

How had she gotten here? How had she become someone who couldn’t even enjoy a simple dinner without Sol? The high from earlier—still fresh and well-earned—should’ve carried her through the evening. She should have been basking in the victory, savoring the way the pieces were finally falling into place. But instead, she was sitting at the table, staring at a fucking chair. 

Was this what love was? 

This constant need.

This gnawing ache.

This awareness of someone else’s absence like a splinter under the skin you couldn’t quite reach? Was love not about passion and poetry but instead about missing someone so deeply it disrupted the very chemistry of your being?

Why the hell did people romanticize this?

There was nothing beautiful about it.

Nothing gentle.

This wasn’t butterflies.

This was a jagged, restless thing living just beneath her ribs. It pulsed with discomfort. It stole her focus. It made her feel less like herself.  And it felt like a betrayal of the woman she’d worked so hard to become.

She had built herself from the ground up—layer by layer, in reinforced steel and razor wire—a fortress of control, discipline, and self-reliance.

And now?

Now she was sitting at her own dinner table, poking halfheartedly at her food, eyes drifting up—again and again—to the empty seat across from her like it held the key to her appetite.

What was next?

Was she going to forget how to fucking breathe without Sol? 

Before she could chase the thought away, Ben’s small voice cut through the quiet.

“I miss Sol,” he murmured, slumped forward in his seat, his fork making lazy circles through a pool of uneaten sauce.

The words hit harder than they should have. Lenora blinked, momentarily caught off guard by how easily he’d said it. How plainly he’d voiced the thing she’d been trying to not feel all evening.

Her instinct was to deflect, to reframe, to say something light that would move them both past the ache in the room. But when she opened her mouth, what came out surprised even her.

“Me too,” she said softly.

The words lingered between them. Ben didn’t say anything in response, he just nodded, eyes still fixed on the empty chair like he was waiting for it to fill itself.

Lenora set her fork down and exhaled, the sigh heavy with something she didn’t want to name.

This couldn’t continue.

Not like this.

Sol’s presence in their home was supposed to be temporary. She was a guest. A disruption to routine, not the start of a new one. And while Lenora hoped for something more permanent in the relationship, given her track record, that was still a long shot.

Permanence in her home, though?

That was something else entirely.

That was dangerous.

Dangerous for Ben, who had too much heart and too little guardrail.

And dangerous for her—for the traitorous, foolish thing inside her chest that was already trying to rewrite the rules of their arrangement, already imagining Sunday mornings and school drop-offs, the other half of her bed always being warm, and a toothbrush that stayed in the bathroom drawer.

They needed to get on the same page before that empty chair stopped being just a chair and became something neither of them knew how to live without.

Lenora opened her mouth to say something, to start the conversation she’d been avoiding, but her phone rang, buzzing against the table like a reprieve-or a cruel twist of timing.

She glanced down.

Sol.

Her name flashed across the screen, and Lenora hesitated for half a second before answering.

“Yes?” she said, a little too sharply.

She could’ve been gentler, sure—but she was riding a wave of frustration and confusion, and frankly, Sol was at the center of all of it.

There was a pause on the other end. Then the sound of someone clearing their throat.

“We’re just wrapping up here,” Sol said carefully, her voice tired but calm.

Lenora glanced at Ben, who was now absentmindedly pushing peas around his plate more than eating them.

“Good,” she replied, checking the time and doing quick math. Sol had put in nearly twelve hours, thanks to Imani. “Make sure to bill her for every second.”

Sol chuckled softly.

“It’s your firm too. So wouldn’t I be billing you?”

Lenora pursed her lips, ready with a comeback, but was cut off by a voice on the other end, unmistakably Imani.

“Who are you talking to?

A pause.

“Ew...is that Lenora? Tell her no personal calls on company time.”

Lenora rolled her eyes. Imani was being irritating on purpose—like always. But still, the bait was too tempting.

She glanced at Ben, who was clearly listening far too closely, and gave him a sweet smile before standing up and walking into the kitchen. Once she was far enough away, she pressed the phone closer to her mouth.

“Tell Imani to go fuck herself,” she hissed.

There was a pause.

Then Sol’s voice, dry with amusement came over the line.

“Yeah, I’m not saying that to my boss.”

Lenora could hear the rustling of movement on the other end—bags being packed, chairs being pushed back.

“We’re heading out now,” Sol added. “I should be home in thirty.”

Home.

The word knocked the breath from her lungs.

It wasn’t said with ceremony or weight. Sol had slipped it into the conversation like it was the most natural thing in the world.

No emphasis.

No hesitation.

Just home.

And yet for Lenora, it landed hard. 

She hadn’t expected to feel it like this.  She stood there in her kitchen, clutching the phone like it might anchor her, and realized just how much that word undid her.

Lenora swallowed hard, her throat tightening.  And then, without thinking, she opened her mouth.

The words were right there.

I love you.

They were right there.

But what came out instead was smaller, softer, and somehow heavier.

“See you soon.”

Three words, but not the ones she meant.

There was a pause on the other end, like Sol could hear the shadow of the words unsaid.

And then, just as softly, Sol repeated them.

“See you soon.”

The line didn’t click off right away. For a moment, neither of them moved to end the call, as if those three words were fragile, suspended in the space between them. And then—quietly, almost reluctantly—the connection cut.

Lenora lowered the phone slowly, her hand trembling without explanation. She stared at the screen as it faded to black, as though the words might still be etched there, lingering in the pixels. She told herself to move, to breathe, but the moment refused to pass.

It hovered.

It sank its teeth into the soft space behind her ribs and settled there.

“Was that Sol?”

Lenora turned at the sound of Ben’s voice and found him watching her from the table, spoon still in his hand, eyes wide and hopeful.

“Yes,” she said, giving a small nod as she crossed the room back toward him. “She’s on her way.”

Ben’s face lit up instantly.

“Can I stay up a little later? We were supposed to watch the new Planet Earth episode. And tomorrow’s the weekend.”

Lenora gave him a look—a classic, mom-coded, I’m not a pushover kind of look—but the excitement dancing in his eyes made it impossible to hold. There was something about the way his smile mirrored the flutter still echoing in her own chest that disarmed her completely.

“Thirty minutes,” she relented, pointing a finger at him. “And no late-night negotiations once the clock hits.”

Ben tilted his head, clearly debating whether to test her boundaries, then thought better of it.

“Deal,” he said, then grinned. “So… since I’m staying up later, does that mean I can have juice? Technically, it’s a special night.”

Lenora narrowed her eyes at him, torn between exasperation and admiration. He hadn’t tried to argue the bedtime, but he’d expertly slipped through the no-juice-after-seven rule like a future litigator.

Smart.

Too smart.

She shook her head with a huff and turned toward the kitchen. Behind her, she could feel his smug little grin follow her like a shadow. She reached up into the cupboard, pulled down a cup, and just as she opened the fridge, her phone began to ring again. She glanced at the screen.

Imani.

Lenora rolled her eyes.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered.

She tucked the phone between her shoulder and ear as she grabbed the juice from the fridge and started pouring, already preparing to shut down whatever new drama was waiting on the other end.

“Imani, I am not in the mood—”

“Lenora.”

Her name cut through the line, sharp and urgent. Not with the usual snark or frustration. Just her name—bare and brimming with something else entirely.

Lenora froze mid-pour, the orange liquid rising dangerously close to the rim.

“What?” she asked, voice dropping into something clipped and cold. But there was a tremor underneath.

A crack was forming.

Silence.

And then, from the background, a sound. The rising, unmistakable wail of sirens.

The glass slipped in her hand.

“Fuck—Lenora.”

Imani’s voice fractured and panicked, so unlike her that Lenora barely recognized it at first.

“You need to get to Mount Sinai. Now.”

The sirens roared louder, tearing through the fragile quiet of the kitchen, drowning everything else.

“It’s Sol.”

The words sliced her open.

Lenora didn’t feel the glass slip from her hand. She didn’t hear it shatter against the floor, didn’t register the sticky splash of juice erupting across the tile. Her body simply recoiled—jerked back as her heart lurched painfully against her ribs and her stomach twisted, folding in on itself.

It’s Sol.

The words crashed through her mind in a relentless loop, a siren she couldn’t silence.

Over and over.

It’s Sol.

It’s Sol.

With each repetition, her lungs tightened, burning with the effort to draw in air that refused to come. Her throat constricted. The kitchen tilted. The light bent at the edges of her vision.

It’s Sol.

And Lenora—

She forgot how to breathe.

15

Ex Parte Emergency

There is this phenomenon—a mental glitch that happens when you’re driving, and your brain just...checks out. Lenora had experienced it a couple of times, that weird moment that one second, you’re at the gas station, and the next, you’re pulling into your driveway, staring at the garage door like it appeared out of thin air. 

It was like her body went on autopilot and her mind took a break—quietly slipping into the background, letting muscle memory do the work while it floated off somewhere else.

That’s exactly what it felt like, now.

Lenora blinked in her kitchen, opened her eyes, and suddenly she was in the lobby of Mount Sinai.

“Ma’am?”

The voice cut through the static in her ears.

She turned her head slowly, as if underwater, trying to piece together how she had gotten here. The tile under her feet, the smell of antiseptic, the chaos of too many voices overlapping in fluorescent light—it all registered at once.

The woman standing in front of her wore pink Hello Kitty scrubs, a sour expression, and thick, round glasses that made her resemble the slug secretary from Monsters, Inc.

Lenora blinked again.

Her brain scrambled for order. A timeline. Something concrete.

Had she parked?

Had she given her name?

What route had she taken to get here?

Her fingers were clenched around her phone. Her mouth was dry. Her heart was beating so loudly she felt it pulse in her temple.

“Ma’am,” the woman repeated, louder this time, arms crossed with the kind of bored concern that only came from someone paid to care for a living.

Before Lenora could speak, she felt it—a tug on the sleeve of her coat.

She looked down.

Ben stood at her side, his fingers tight in the fabric of her jacket. His brows were pinched, and worry was written across every inch of his face.

“Mom?” he asked quietly.

And just like that, the fog snapped.

She looked down, searching his face like she’d forgotten he was even there, forgotten everything except the last words Imani had said:  It’s Sol.

Ben blinked at her, wide-eyed and scared.

Lenora didn’t have the answer.

Not yet.

But she was going to get it.

She turned slowly, forcing the air back into her lungs, bracing herself with the steadiness she was known for in courtrooms, boardrooms, and war rooms. Her fingers tightened around Ben’s hand as she turned back to the reception desk.

“I’m here for Sol Ruiz,” she said, her voice shockingly level given that her world was tilting sideways at the moment. “She was just brought in.”

The woman behind the desk raised a brow.

“You’ll need to get in line,” she replied flatly, gesturing vaguely to the seating area. “We’ll call you when—”

Lenora’s patience snapped like a bone under pressure.

“No,” she said, her voice dropping into something cold, dark, and downright feral. “You’re going to tell me where she is right now—or I will sue this hospital until I fucking own it and you will be the first person I fire.”

“Ma’am,” she said, her tone syrupy with that maddening brand of placation, “I need you to take a breath and—”

Bang.

Lenora’s hand came down hard on the desk, the sound sharp and echoing through the waiting room like a gavel slamming in a courtroom.

“Don’t tell me to breathe,” she snapped, voice low and dangerous, shaking with fury that had nowhere to go but out.

Her eyes burned, her jaw clenched, every muscle in her body taut.

“Sol Ruiz,” she ground out, each word razor-edged. “Where. Is. She?”

Then—

“Lenora!”

She spun around, heart lurching violently in her chest.

Imani stood ten feet away, her usual composed elegance still mostly intact—heels, pressed slacks, perfectly sculpted braid. But her coat told another story entirely.

A tan wool trench, open and wrinkled, speckled with dark, wet splatters.

Blood.

Lenora’s stomach dropped so fast she could feel the air leave her lungs. Her breath caught in her throat, sharp and strangled, as her eyes locked on the stains. They were messy and abstract, like a goddamn Jackson Pollock painting.

“Ben,” she whispered, her voice cracking as she blindly reached for him, fingers finding the small curve of his shoulder.

Her eyes never left Imani.

“Go sit down.”

“But—Mom…”

He started to protest, voice trembling, but Lenora turned to look down at him—and in that moment, the line she had spent years perfecting, the invisible boundary that kept Mom Lenora separate from the Wraith of Wall Street, snapped clean in two.

“Ben. Go sit down.”

The command came out too sharp, too cold—cracking through the moment like a whip. And the instant it left her mouth, Lenora wanted to snatch it out of the air, to rewind time and soften it.

But she couldn’t.

All she could do was watch it land.

Ben’s lower lip trembled. His eyes, already glassy with worry, filled instantly with tears. Not the dramatic kind she was used to.  No, this was the rare quiet kind.

The kind that broke her.

God, she hadn’t meant to sound like that. Panic surged inside her, twisting with guilt, sharp and bitter.

Lenora dropped to her knees in front of him, her hands bracketing his small arms.

“I’m sorry,” she said, breathless, the words catching in her throat. “I didn’t mean to snap. I just…”

Her voice cracked again, and she swallowed it down.

“I just need you to sit down, okay? Please. I’ll come get you as soon as I know anything.”

Ben blinked up at her, his lashes damp with tears, his little face twisted in a way that nearly undid her. He nodded—slow, hesitant—as if trying to summon courage from a place he hadn’t needed to reach yet in his young life.

And whatever was left of Lenora’s heart after the five-car pileup that was this day…

Just ignited.

Burned alive in her chest.

Because she watched it happen—watched her brave, tender-hearted boy sniff hard, square his small shoulders like he was carrying something much heavier than his age should allow, and walk toward the chairs that lined the wall just to the right.

His steps dragged, his head dipped, and his body folded in on itself like he was trying to take up less space in a world that suddenly felt too big, too bright, and too cruel.

He climbed into one of the chairs along the wall, feet swinging above the floor, and looked back at her one last time before looking down at his feet.

He looked so small there.

So impossibly alone.

It took every ounce of the fragile control Lenora had in her body to turn back to Imani.  Her feet carried her forward.  Each step was deliberate, mechanical, as if her body was moving ahead of her mind. She stopped just a few feet away from her colleague, her friend, her enemy, depending on the day—and for a long moment, all she could do was stare.

The blood.

It wasn’t just splattered—it was patterned, deliberate in its horror, traced in sharp, crimson streaks that slid from Imani’s shoulder down the length of her coat. The flow broke at the forearm, catching Lenora’s eye as the pattern twisted oddly.

And that’s when Lenora saw it.

The unmistakable shape of a handprint, fingers splayed, clutching, warping the fabric like someone had held on for dear life.

Lenora’s stomach twisted, and her throat closed. The panic surged so violently inside her that it felt like she was drowning on dry land.

Her voice, when it finally emerged, was nothing more than a hoarse rasp—frayed and raw, as though her own body was trying to strangle the words before they could leave her lips. Like her fear wanted to keep them locked inside, where they couldn’t become real.

Because if she asked—

If she asked—

Then someone would answer.

“Imani,” she choked, the name breaking as it left her. “Is she…”

The rest of the sentence disintegrated, strangled by the sob that tore up her throat without permission.

Fuck.

The sound caught her off guard, sharp and ugly, and she slapped a hand over her mouth as if she could shove it back inside.

“Sorry,” she whispered, blinking too fast, too hard. She couldn’t tell if she was apologizing to Imani, or to herself—for the crack, for the slip, for not holding it together when she needed to most.

She looked up, eyes brimming with tears.

“Tell me.”

Imani stepped forward, closing the distance and gripping Lenora by the arms. Her eyes met Lenora’s, with a kind meant to slice through panic and drag someone back to earth.

“She’s hurt,” Imani said, her voice low but solid. “But she’s going to be okay.”

Relief crashed into Lenora so fast it nearly knocked her off balance. Her knees wobbled, her chest hitched, and she let out a sound—half-laugh, half-sob—that startled even her. Her hands came up to Imani’s forearms, gripping tight like she needed to feel the steadiness of another person just to stay upright.

“She’s okay,” she breathed, over and over like a prayer. “Okay. Okay.”

The pressure in her chest loosened, releasing something sharp and unbearable that had been lodged there since the call. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath until it came out in one long, shaking exhale.

Her vision blurred again, but this time it wasn’t fear. It was relief—sharp, staggering, and so complete it made her dizzy. Not because everything was fine—because it wasn’t—but because she wasn’t going to have to survive the unthinkable.

Sol was hurt.

But she was going to be okay.

Lenora clung to the words like a life raft, letting them wash over her, sink into her skin, down into her bones, into the tense muscles that had locked into fight-or-flight since she answered the phone. She let the truth reshape her insides, soothe the raw places that had braced for loss. Every clenched part of her began to release, fraction by fraction, the panic bleeding out of her body in slow, trembling exhales.

And then—

Like a sparkler in a drought, that moment of calm ignited into a fucking inferno.

Lenora straightened, her eyes snapping to Imani.

“What the fuck happened?” she lashed out.

Imani held her gaze for a moment, and the flicker of relief in her eyes was unmistakable—palpable, even. Because this Lenora—the furious, sharp-edged, fire-breathing version—was familiar.

Predictable.

Manageable.

This Lenora was a constant in Imani’s world.

The crying, gasping Lenora from thirty seconds ago?

Now, that was rare.

Like a total eclipse—rare, breathtaking, and not meant to be stared at unless you were ready to go blind.

Imani shook her head, as if she couldn’t believe the words even as they lined up in her mouth.

“Someone tried to mug me,” she said, her voice laced with disbelief and likely lingering shock. “One second, we were walking out of VitaCore headquarters, and the next, this guy comes out of nowhere and grabs for my Prada bag. Sol stepped in, there was a scuffle, and then…”

Her voice caught. Her eyes flicked away, and then came back to Lenora.

“Then there was a gunshot.”

The air left Lenora’s lungs in a rush.

“Wait,” she rasped, the panic surging back through her bloodstream, hardening in her joints like quick-drying cement.  Her eyes dropped to the coat again—the streaks, the handprint, the violence—and then back up to Imani, searching and desperate.

“She was shot?”

The words left Lenora’s mouth like glass—fragile and already shattering.

Imani nodded, jaw set tight, arms folding across her chest like she was trying to hold herself together.

“In the shoulder,” she said quickly, the words tumbling out with urgency, like she knew Lenora was teetering—knew that one wrong word might send her spiraling back into the wreckage she’d only just crawled out of.

“It just grazed her. The bullet missed everything vital. The doctors said she’s going to be okay.”

She paused and gave Lenora a worried look.

“But… she took a nasty hit to the head during the scuffle. That’s what they’re more concerned about now.”

But Lenora barely heard it.

Sol was shot.

Sol was hurt.

Sol could’ve died.

The thoughts looped inside her skull, echoing louder, faster, more frenzied with every pass. Her breathing turned jagged, shallow—her chest rising and falling like it was being crushed under a barbell she hadn’t prepared to lift.

“I—” she tried, but the word cracked in her throat, snagged on all the terror she couldn’t voice.

Nothing came.

Not at first.

But then—rage.

Rage surged up and filled the hollow space where breath had failed her.  And with inhuman effort, she shoved that weight off her chest.

Not gracefully.

Not cleanly.

But she pushed until she not only could speak but she could fight.

“Where the hell was security?!” she snapped. “How the fuck did this even happen?”

Imani flinched.

Barely.

Just a twitch.

But Lenora caught it—and in that moment, she couldn’t bring herself to care.

Later, maybe.

Later, she’d have room for compassion.

Right now, all she had was fury.

“They were there,” Imani said, her voice worn and low. “It happened so fast. One second he was grabbing my bag, and the next…”

Her jaw locked.

“Chaos.”

She paused, staring past Lenora like the memory was still playing behind her eyes, frame by frame.

“They’re the reason Sol and I are still alive,” she added, voice softening with relief. “They tackled him just as he raised the gun. They stopped him... but not before the shot went off.”

Lenora went still.

Her pulse thundered in her ears.

“And the shooter?” she asked.

Imani’s expression faltered. A flicker of guilt—or maybe shame—passed through her features before she squared her shoulders.

“He got away.”

Lenora didn’t move.

She didn’t breathe.

“He got away?”

The words came out so quiet, so precise, they might as well have been carved from steel. The kind of fury that didn’t explode—but burrowed. A sniper’s shot, not a grenade.

“You’re telling me the man who shot Sol is still out there?”

Imani winced.

“Lenora, it happened so fast—”

“I don’t give a fuck how fast it happened!” Lenora snapped, her voice rising. “How does someone just walk away from this?”

Imani didn’t back down. She held Lenora’s gaze with all the steadiness she could muster.

“Security prioritized getting us out,” Imani responded, trying to explain, though her voice was worn thin. “It all happened so fast. People were screaming, running. By the time they got Sol and me to safety... he was gone.”

Lenora absorbed the words, but they landed crooked. Her fingers twitched restlessly at her sides, like they were searching for something to break. The image of the shooter still out there—walking free, breathing the same air as her—twisted inside her. Her breath came in tight, shallow bursts as she fought to stay grounded, to keep the blinding rage from swallowing her whole.

And then, with a clarity that cut through the chaos like lightning through darkness, Lenora knew exactly what she needed.

The only thing that had ever cut through the chaos, through the noise, through her—reaching her in the places nothing else could.

“I need to see her.”

The demand echoed, but even as it did, something inside her shifted. The fury cracked—just a little—just enough, and desperation slipped through the fracture.

“I need to see her,” she said again, quieter this time. The words trembled at the edges. There was no armor left in them—only need. The kind that stripped her down to the bone.

Imani’s expression shifted, the edges of her composure softening as her gaze swept over Lenora’s face—really seeing her.

Not the partner.

Not the frenemy.

Not the powerhouse.

Just the woman beneath it all, cracked open and holding on by threads.

“Okay,” Imani murmured gently, almost a whisper. “Okay.”

She reached out, her hand squeezing Lenora’s arm, brief but steady.

“I’ll find a doctor,” she promised. “I’ll be right back.”

She turned toward the front desk, her stride carrying her through the bustling chaos of the emergency room. 

Lenora watched her go for a beat, then turned to check on Ben.

He was curled in a chair too big for him, legs dangling, fingers playing with the zipper of his coat.

And that’s when it hit her.

The sterile bite of antiseptic in the air.

The too-bright lights.

The speaker calling out codes.

The flash of blue scrubs and white doctors’ coats.

She hadn’t set a foot in a hospital since Ben’s last chemo appointment.

God, she fucking hated hospitals.

Her mind slammed backward, to the ten months of sterile walls and machines that never stopped beeping.  Ten months of sitting beside Ben while he withstood round after round of chemo. Then the surgeries. The hours she sat in the waiting rooms, hands clasped, pleading to a God she wasn’t even sure she believed in.

He’d come so close to dying.

So, fucking close.

And now—here she was again.

Sol.

Another person she loved came close to dying.

How did this keep happening?

What cruel cosmic algorithm had decided that the only two people she'd ever let herself truly love had to bleed for it?

Why them?

Why her?

The thought barely formed before an old voice slithered through her mind.

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe God is punishing you?”

Irene’s words, cold and cruel, echoed like a shadow she could never truly outrun. Lenora shook her head sharply, as if she could rattle the venom loose, but it clung to her like rot. 

Just like Irene always said it would.

“Rot has a way of spreading, doesn’t it?”

"Lenora!”

The shout landed like a pair of hands grabbing her by the shoulders and yanking her out of a nightmare. It took her a beat to locate the voice, her eyes blinking into focus just in time to see Viviene and Mei rushing toward her, panic etched into their faces.

She didn’t even have time to blink before Viviene’s arms were around her, pulling her in tightly.

“We came as soon as we heard,” Viviene murmured, her grip tightening.

Every instinct in Lenora screamed to push her away. She didn’t do hugs. She didn’t do comfort. Physical closeness always made her skin crawl. 

Her hands started to rise, ready to shrug Viviene off—

—but they didn’t.

Instead, they wrapped around her.

It threw Lenora completely off.

And judging by the surprised little “oh,” Viviene gasped, she wasn’t the only one caught off guard by this turn of events.

It was probably something Lenora would have to unpack in therapy one day—file it neatly under: things her body understood before her mind caught up, right beneath the growing stack already covered in Sol’s terrible handwriting.

Because being held by Viviene exposed a hollow space she’d always known was there, like the way you know the Grand Canyon exists without ever needing to stand at the edge and look down.

Before, it had been enough just to know it was there.  She could point it out on a map, acknowledge it existed, and accept that it was deep as hell.

It had been enough to pretend that the hollow space inside her was just part of the landscape—something she didn’t need to fill.

Until Viviene’s arms wrapped around her.

And suddenly the feeling of being held—of being safe and cared for—threw Lenora so completely off balance that she didn’t know which way was up anymore.

Because it was the closest she had ever come to understanding what a mother’s love might have felt like.

Not the kind you imagined.

Not the kind you lied to yourself about.

But the real, devastatingly beautiful thing.

And fuck—

The tears that had been hammering against the glass walls behind her eyes since the moment she got the call finally broke through. The glass shattered, and the tears fell—hot, fast, and unstoppable.

Her fingers, almost without her permission, curled into Viviene’s jacket.

Gripping.

Holding.

Anchoring.

Viviene said nothing. She just tightened her arms around Lenora, steady as a lighthouse against the storm raging inside her. For a long moment, Lenora let herself sag into it—the warmth, the steadiness, and the awful, unbearable tenderness of it.

She wasn’t okay.

Sol wasn’t okay.

Nothing about this was okay.

But for the first time in hours, the weight of it wasn’t crushing her alone.

Finally, after what felt like hours but was likely only seconds, Lenora pulled back.

Viviene loosened her arms immediately, and the second the embrace broke, the walls slammed back into place like steel doors.

Lenora wiped hastily at her face, her movements sharp, almost frantic, as if she scrubbed away the tears fast enough, she could erase what had just happened. Pretend she hadn’t just broken down in the middle of a hospital waiting room on her co-worker’s shoulder.

But it wasn’t just about pride.

Her mind went to Ben.

And Lenora knew, she couldn’t let him see her cry.

Only when she was certain the tear tracks were wiped clean, and her makeup was only slightly smudged instead of disastrous, did Lenora dare to look over at him.

The relief that coursed through her was dizzying—different from being held by Viviene, but just as vital.

Because Mei was there now, sitting beside Ben.

And Ben—thank God—wasn’t looking at her. He wasn’t watching her fall apart, or studying her like something fragile he didn’t understand.

He was smiling.

Grinning down at Mei’s phone, his shoulders finally relaxed for the first time since they arrived. And judging by the way Mei was grinning too, they were probably looking at pictures of her rescue animals—something Lenora knew far too much about thanks to Mei’s endless, enthusiastic oversharing.

And for the first time all day, because of the women she normally kept at arm’s length—co-workers, not friends, never friends—Lenora could finally breathe without it hurting.

But before she could decide whether to appreciate it or shove it down like everything else, she felt a shift in the air and recognized it instantly.

Lenora was practically fine-tuned to the feeling of Imani’s approach by now, an instinct born from years of avoiding her or not getting caught doing something “frowned upon.”

It was like her brain had rewired itself to detect her—picking up the cadence of sharp heels, the faintest whiff of lavender, and that distinct gravitational pull that Imani Hayes seemed to carry into every goddamn room she entered.

She turned just in time to see Imani striding toward them, giving her a look Lenora recognized immediately—the "behave" look.

The same look Imani usually shot across hallways or conference tables when she knew damn well Lenora wasn’t going to.

It threw Lenora off for a second, until her eyes shifted just past Imani.

Imani stepped forward and gestured behind her.

“This is Dr. Thomas,” she said, giving Lenora another pointed look.

Dr. Thomas took a nervous step closer, flashing a smile that was far too shaky to be reassuring.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Thomas...I’m treating Ms. Ruiz,” he said, his voice stammering like this whole experience was still new and terrifying to him, which immediately set off alarm bells in Lenora’s mind.

“Are you Lenora Graves?” he asked, shifting awkwardly on his feet.

Lenora’s every instinct screamed at her to rip into him and demand someone who looked like they’d at least graduated puberty before providing medical treatment to a person she loved.  But lucky for the doctor, the gnawing, desperate need to know about Sol won out.

She forced herself to nod, her eyes never leaving his baby face.

“Yes,” she answered quickly. “I’m Lenora Graves. Is she okay?”

Dr. Thomas nodded quickly, but his nervousness was painfully obvious.

“Yes—yes, she’s stable. But... I can’t release any medical information because...”

He trailed off, glancing around awkwardly, as if hoping one of his supervisors would swoop in and save him.

“You’re not listed as family.”

Lenora’s lips pulled back, her teeth bared in something that wasn’t quite a snarl—but close. She was halfway to ripping him open with words when he rushed to finish, his voice stumbling over itself.

“But—she’s asking for you.”

He paused, sending her a pleading look that might’ve been more convincing if the roles weren’t so hilariously reversed. He was the doctor, after all, and she was the panicked wreck.

“Actually…” he continued, words flowing fast.  “She’s refusing further treatment until she sees you. So, if you could please come with me?”

Lenora didn’t hesitate. She moved instantly, taking three fast steps toward him, her body operating on instinct, her brain already reaching for Sol like a compass finding north.

But something tugged at her, like an invisible thread pulling taut. She stopped short as that all-too-familiar force anchored her in place.

Ben.

And just like that, motherhood reasserted itself like gravity.  She turned, eyes landing on where he sat.  Her mind already began doing the mental gymnastics through fire hoops, trying to calculate what to do with him, how to explain, who to trust—

Then she felt a hand on her arm. 

She turned—and found Imani standing beside her.

“Go,” Imani said, her voice quiet but certain.

Lenora watched as Imani’s eyes flickered briefly to where Viviene and Mei had settled next to Ben, then back to Lenora.

“We got him.”

It took Lenora a second to move. Not because she didn’t trust them—she did, more than she should—but because something in her chest twisted painfully at the sight.

These women.

This was the second time in a matter of weeks they had shown up for her—really shown up.

Not out of professional courtesy or obligation.

But because they wanted to.

Because they chose to.

And that scared the hell out of her.

Because if she wasn’t careful, if she didn’t start reinforcing those emotional walls she’d worked so hard to build, these women—these persistent, infuriating, kind women—were going to slip through the cracks.

They were getting dangerously close to making themselves at home in her life.

Dangerously close to becoming something that looked an awful lot like...family.

Lenora swallowed the lump rising in her throat, gave Imani a curt nod—more out of habit than necessity—and turned without another word.

And this time, she didn’t stop walking.

Because on the other side of that hallway—was Sol.

At just the thought, her pace quickened. The too-young doctor had to break into a half-jog to stay ahead, casting anxious glances over his shoulder as he tried to maintain the illusion that he was leading her, not the other way around.

The antiseptic hit harder in the back of the hospital—sharper, more clinical. Beneath it lingered the faint metallic tang of blood, subtle but impossible to ignore. It twisted in Lenora’s gut, threatening to rise.

The ER hallways were a maze of motion. Nurses wove through narrow corridors, voices low but urgent. Somewhere nearby, a patient groaned, long and low. And in the distance, the sharp, high-pitched wail of a child broke through it all.

Lenora stiffened as her shoulders locked up.

The cry clawed at something buried deep—memories she knew she would never escape. But she couldn’t afford to get lost in them now. 

So, she focused.

On the doctor’s white coat.

On the corridor ahead.

With every step, she could feel herself drawing closer to Sol.

“This way,” the doctor said, voice tight as he gestured toward a door at the end of the corridor.

He stopped in front of it and turned to face her, his nerves on full display, still clinging to his smile.

“She’s inside,” he murmured, stepping aside to clear a path.

Lenora’s hand hovered over the handle. Her breath caught—just for a second—as a swirl of emotions crashed through her: relief, dread, disbelief, the desperate, aching need to see her.

She inhaled once, sharp and steady, then turned the knob and pushed the door open.

Inside, the first thing she heard was Sol’s voice—clipped, forceful, and vibrating with righteous irritation.

“I told you, I’m not letting another person touch me until I see Lenora Graves!”

Lenora’s heart cracked open at the sound.

Sol was awake.

Sol was still Sol.

Sol was fighting.

And fuck—it was the best thing she’d ever heard.

Sol’s pacing was relentless, back and forth across the cramped recovery room like a caged animal. She didn’t even glance at the door, her words clearly aimed at whoever had just stepped in. 

And suddenly, the doctors’ nerves made more sense.

Lenora stood frozen in the doorway as her eyes drank in the sight.

Sol was still wearing her black dress pants, now wrinkled and dirty in some places, she was down to her undershirt, a plain white tee—thin, and blood-streaked at the collar. Her hair was yanked back into a messy ponytail, strands sticking to her temple in sweat-damp curls.

When Sol pivoted sharply to pace the other direction, Lenora’s gaze landed on the shredded shoulder of the shirt—roughly cut away to reveal a thick white bandage strapped tight around her upper arm.

The sight sent a cold, sick pang straight through Lenora’s chest.  But it was nothing—nothing—compared to the jolt that followed when Sol turned fully into view.

A jagged gash split her brow, sealed shut with neat but brutal stitches, the skin around it swollen and flushed with angry shades of purple and blue.

Lenora’s stomach twisted hard.

It didn’t matter that Sol was upright.

Or speaking.

Or looking like she was ready to take someone’s head off.

Because seeing her like this—bruised, bloodied, stitched back together—hit harder than anything Lenora had braced for.

She’d been so focused on the relief, on the fact that Sol was alive, that the injuries had taken a backseat in her mind. But now it surged forward with brutal clarity, cutting through everything else and slamming into her chest so hard it knocked the air from her lungs.

The sharp hitch of breath that escaped her must’ve been louder than she realized, because Sol stopped mid-step, her head snapping toward the door—

And their eyes met.

“Lenora.”

Her name left Sol’s lips stripped of the anger and frustration that had filled her voice only moments before, was now soft and achingly gentle.

Lenora didn’t answer.

She couldn’t.

Her gaze swept over Sol—every bruise, every bandage, and smear of dried blood—and the pressure in her chest grew so tight it was a miracle she could still stand.

Neither of them moved.

Neither of them spoke.

They just looked.

And then, as if pulled by some invisible force between them, they moved at the same time.

Lenora stepped forward, her hand rising almost unconsciously. Fingers slid below Sol’s tangled ponytail and through her hair, gripping the back of her head and pulling her close. Her other arm wrapped around Sol’s back, locking them together like she couldn’t bear the thought of letting go.

Sol melted into her instantly. Her arms wrapped tight around Lenora’s waist, her fingers fisting the fabric of her coat with a quiet desperation. She buried her face into the curve of Lenora’s neck and breathed her in deeply, like Lenora was oxygen.

Lenora just held her tighter.

Because Sol was here.

Sol was alive.

Sol was back in her arms, where she belonged.

And Lenora wasn’t letting go.

Not now.

Maybe not ever.

16

statue of reassurance

Lenora closed her eyes, her breath hitching as she leaned in closer. Her fingers threaded gently through Sol’s hair, and she buried her face there, into strands that still carried the faint scent of pine but were now tainted with the sterile bite of antiseptic and the faint trace of blood. She inhaled deeply, as if breathing Sol in could somehow stitch together the jagged places inside her that had torn open at the thought of losing her.

Sol’s fingers tightened around the fabric of Lenora’s coat—a silent plea that said don’t go louder than words ever could.

Lenora answered with a silence of her own. Not because she didn’t want to speak—she couldn’t. She wasn’t sure she remembered how. Her hand shifted instead, sliding to the base of Sol’s neck, just holding her, grounding them both.

She held her like that until her heartbeat stopped crashing against her ribs, until she could finally breathe without it burning. Then, barely louder than the space between their breaths, she whispered.

“Let me see your face.”

Sol exhaled shakily into her neck, the warmth of it stealing Lenora’s breath all over again. But she nodded and slowly pulled back.

Lenora’s hands moved instinctively, rising to cradle Sol’s face, palms soft against the bruised heat of her skin. Her thumbs brushed gently over her cheekbones before she tilted Sol’s head toward the light—and felt the air leave her lungs once more.

The cut above Sol’s brow was deep and angry, stitched with black thread that looked too sharp against Sol’s skin. The bruising bloomed outward in sickly violets and marbled blue. Lenora’s jaw flexed at the thought of the pain Sol no doubt felt manifested in her body like something alive.

Her hand trembled as she reached up, tracing the edge of the wound with a feather-light touch. She needed to touch it, to believe it—and yet she hated herself for doing it.

A fresh ache cracked through her chest.

“God damn it, Sol,” she breathed. Her voice trembled—part fury, part grief, and part the unbearable weight of loving someone too deeply.

Sol let out a breath that was almost a laugh, soft and worn, barely reaching the surface. That familiar smirk tugged weakly at the corner of her mouth.

“I know,” she murmured, voice low, teasing. “I’m turning into one giant lesbian cliché.”

The words and smirk caught Lenora off guard. She blinked, stunned for a moment, and Sol’s smirk deepened slightly at her confusion.

“My eyebrow hair probably won’t grow back right,” Sol explained. “People are definitely going to think I gave myself a slit on purpose.”

The joke missed its mark entirely, and Lenora’s fingers tensed around her face, not harsh, but firm.

“Don’t make jokes right now.”

The smirk vanished immediately as Sol’s expression softened.  Her gaze swept over Lenora’s face, no doubt taking in the smeared makeup, the red-rimmed eyes, the exhaustion etched in the wrinkles that no doubt deepened due to this experience.

“Okay,” Sol whispered. Her own hand rose, gently cupping Lenora’s cheek, as her thumb brushed softly across skin that still felt too cold.

Like she was trying to erase the tears that had already fallen, or make sure Lenora didn’t cry again.

They breathed together—shaky, shallow, but shared.

“Lenora,” Sol whispered, and the way her voice trembled made Lenora’s heart seize.

“Yeah?”

Sol’s fingers slid to the back of Lenora’s neck, stroking gently.

“I want to go,” she said, her voice cracking like glass. “Please... take me home.”

Home.

Lenora swallowed hard, the lump in her throat threatening to choke her, and she nodded,

“Okay,” Lenora whispered, her voice barely holding together. “Let’s go home.”

But before she could even begin to work out how to get Sol out of there—before her mind could shift from grief to logistics—the door opened.

And Lenora moved on pure instinct.

She snapped her head toward the sound and stepped in front of Sol in one fluid motion, her body already braced, already shielding—like some part of her still believed the man with the gun was coming back to finish what he started.

But instead of danger, it was the doctor.

Or, at least, the boy in a white coat.  It was hard to tell if he was actually a medical professional or if it was Bring Your Child to Work Day and someone had let him wear the coat to “feel official.” Either way, he looked like he’d just walked out of AP Biology and directly into a trauma unit.

“I, uh,” he stammered, holding up a tablet like it might shield him. “I just came to take Ms. Ruiz to get her CT scan…”

CT scan.

The words dropped like lead in water.

“I don’t need a CT scan,” grumbled Sol behind her.

Lenora whirled around to face her, who, judging by the guilty tilt of her head, knew she was in trouble for that remark.

“Last time I checked,” Lenora snapped, “you went to law school, not med school.”

Sol was brilliant.

Possibly the sharpest mind Lenora had ever met.

Which was why Lenora wasn’t the least bit surprised when she went quiet at the tone in her voice, because Sol was smart enough to know she wouldn’t win this one.

Lenora turned her glare toward the doctor, jaw tight.

“Why does she need a CT scan?”

The man-child doctor fidgeted, glancing between them like he was stuck in a custody battle he hadn’t signed up for.

“Ms. Ruiz,” the doctor said carefully, “am I permitted to discuss your... medical details in front of Ms. Graves?”

And just like that, Lenora went still.

The question sliced through the room, landing in a place she hadn’t armored. A place she hadn’t let herself think too hard about.

Because what if Sol said no?

What if this love—this very new, very terrifying thing they were doing—wasn’t enough to earn her a seat at that table? It was one thing to share a bed, but this was something else entirely. This was different.

This was personal.

This was saying: you get to be in the room where it matters.

And it was a choice.

One Sol had every right to make.

“Of course,” she said, and the words rang out with a quiet certainty that cracked something open in Lenora’s chest.

Lenora blinked, her breath catching as a rush of warmth surged through her—relief, yes, but something else too. Something deeper. Not just gratitude, not just affection. But belonging.

Permission.

Trust.

The acknowledgment that Lenora was in this.

And that Sol had chosen her.

She didn’t say anything—couldn’t, even if she tried. Her throat cinched tight, strangling any words before they could form, and her eyes burned in that maddening, traitorous way they always did when something hit too deep and scraped against the feelings she kept locked down where no one could touch them.

No one but Sol.

The doctor gave a grateful little nod and glanced back at his tablet, relieved to be doing something clinical again.

“Ms. Ruiz took a very hard hit to the head,” he explained, his tone professional but not unkind. “She lost consciousness for a few moments. To be safe, I want to rule out any fractures or possible brain bleeds with a CT scan.”

Lenora stiffened, her gaze snapping to Sol again, the protectiveness roaring back into her veins like it had just been waiting for the light to turn green.

Before turning back to the doctor. 

“Are you a resident?” she demanded.

The poor kid’s eyes widened like he’d been caught sneaking into a bar with a fake ID.

“I—I am. Almost done with my first year.”

So, a child.

Fantastic.

Lenora’s jaw tightened.

“You’re not touching her.”

He blinked.

“I—I wasn’t going to—”

“You’re not ordering the scan. You’re not reading the results. You’re not making a single medical call on her. You’re barely old enough to rent a car, and I’m not letting you anywhere near her brain.”

The words came out harsh, but she wouldn’t apologize because she knew what brain injuries could do. She knew how bleeds could sneak in quietly and permanently. She knew how aneurysms could sit ticking inside someone’s skull, waiting for the worst moment to rupture. She knew the margins of error. She knew what happened when people didn’t catch the signs early enough.

She knew far more than most people outside the medical community should. Because, after all, she’d once been married to someone who made a living navigating the gray matter of the human brain.

And just like that, her stomach dropped.

Shit.

The realization hit like a sucker punch to the ribs.  Because as much as she hated it, there it was: the only other person she trusted with Sol… was the same person she trusted with Ben.

Henry.

Her ex-husband.

Lenora sighed and dug her phone out of her coat pocket, the weight of the decision already dragging at her limbs. Her fingers moved with practiced ease, navigating to her contacts even as her every instinct screamed at her to stop.

She scrolled until she found his name—Henry Callahan—the only contact in her phone she’d never be able to bring herself to delete. Not because of nostalgia or longing, but because logistics were a bitch when you work in a very demanding job and co-parent with a man who also has an equally demanding job.

She stared at his name for a beat too long. Then pressed call.

She knew he was working tonight—the shared custody calendar they both contributed to had Neurosurgery Shift slotted in bold red. He rarely checked his phone when he was working, and if luck were even slightly on her side, he wouldn’t answer, and this entire idiotic plan could die a quiet, painless death.

It rang once.

Twice.

Three times—

“Hey.  Everything okay?”

Of course, he answered.

Lenora's emotions were confused, stuck between relief and dread for a moment before she cleared her throat. 

“Not exactly,” she said instead, before glancing back at Sol, who was watching her with those dark eyes, before responding into the phone.

“I need a favor.”

_______________

It was, without a doubt, the most awkward thing Lenora had ever experienced.  And that included the time she’d run into her divorce attorney in a SoulCycle class. And the time she mistook a prospective client's husband for a cater waiter at the firm’s holiday party.

Because this?

This wasn’t just uncomfortable.

It was life or death.

Henry stood at the foot of the hospital bed, composed and clinical, every inch the Chief of Neurosurgery. She’d seen that look on his face before—on late nights when he took calls from residents, pacing their kitchen in socks and a wrinkled band T-shirt. But this wasn’t just another on-call consult. This time, the patient wasn’t a stranger.

It was Sol.

Lenora stood just feet away, arms folded tight across her chest, spine locked straight like a steel rod had been fused to it, while her jaw clenched so hard she was starting to give herself a headache.

Sol sat on the bed, the gauze on her arm freshly changed, and the cut above her brow dark and angry under the bright overhead lights. She was being calm and surprisingly compliant.

Of course, she was.

Because Sol, despite the fact that she'd been shot and concussed and dragged into Lenora’s history in the most excruciating way possible, was still being so painfully good about it.

Likely for Lenora’s benefit

And Henry—

Goddamn Henry.

He was being perfectly professional.

Also likely for Lenora’s benefit. 

Which somehow made this whole situation so much worse.

The resident stood to the side, looking like he was trying to become one with the wallpaper, watching Henry walk in and take over his case.

Something that Lenora would typically enjoy.

But she couldn’t.

Not even a smirk.

Because this wasn’t funny.

This was her...person... sitting on that bed.

And it was her ex-husband's hands checking her pupils.

The silence stretched as Henry ran through his exam. He asked Sol to follow his finger. He tested her reflexes. He examined the sutures on her forehead, then pulled up the CT images on a nearby monitor, scrolling through them silently for a moment before finally speaking.

“No skull fractures,” he said, mainly to Sol, but his eyes flicked briefly to Lenora. “No signs of bleeding or swelling. No aneurysms, no vessel irregularities. The scan’s clean.”

The breath that left Lenora’s lungs felt like it had been trapped in there for years.

Sol let out a quiet, “Told you,” in her direction.

Lenora glared.

And Henry smiled awkwardly, eyes flickering between them before stilling on Sol.

“You’re going to be sore. And tired. And cranky,” he added. “But you’re going to be fine. Just rest. Stay hydrated. No screens for a few days. Follow up with your primary.”

He took a step back from the bed, his tone all business.

“You’re cleared for discharge.”

His eyes shifted to the resident.

“Dr. Thomas, prepare Ms. Ruiz’s discharge paperwork.”

Henry waited to see if the resident actually followed his directive before turning back to Sol, reaching into the inside pocket of his white coat. He pulled out a card and handed it to her.

“If you feel dizzy, experience any vision loss, or lethargy that feels abnormal, don’t wait. Call me directly.”

Sol took the card.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, her voice softer now. Her eyes flicked toward Lenora for a half-second before returning to Henry.

That glance didn’t go unnoticed.

Henry turned, his gaze landing on Lenora across the room. He tilted his head toward the hallway.

“Can we talk?”

Lenora nodded, almost like her brain had reverted back to the time when they were married, and she just responded on autopilot.  Her body was already moving, halfway to the door, before she stopped and looked over her shoulder at Sol. 

“I’ll be right back.”

The words were unnecessary in their obviousness. Of course, she’d be back. There was nowhere else in the world she needed to be more than right here in this room.

But still… some part of her needed to say it.

And maybe some part of her needed Sol to hear it.

Sol swallowed, and then gave a faint nod and the barest curl of a smile, like she understood precisely what Lenora meant beneath the words.

And with that, Lenora stepped into the hallway.

Henry was waiting in the hallway, arms crossed over his chest, brow drawn tight.

“She was shot.”

His voice had changed. Gone was the measured, clinical cadence of a doctor. This was the voice Lenora remembered from another life. The one that filled her home for nearly 6 years.  

And the look he gave her?

She recognized that, too.

It was the same look he’d worn a lot near the end, when things between them had started to quietly unravel. The look that said, ‘I’m worried about you and I don’t know how to help anymore.’

“This have anything to do with that case you’re working on—the one you told me about?” he asked. “The one that had you adding security for you and Ben?”

Lenora’s spine went rigid, and her arms crossed before she could stop them, as her defenses rose. Because Henry had just prodded a bruise she hadn’t even realized ran deep.

Because his question...the truth... was, unfortunately, she didn’t know.  She didn’t know if the attack on Sol was some random mugging of two women in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Or if it was something else.

Something colder.

New York was a glorified shark tank. Everyone who lived here knew that. You could pretend otherwise, live your life like the ocean wasn’t full of teeth—but deep down, you always knew. There were risks the moment you stepped outside. A sliver of danger in every shadow. A one-in-a-million chance that the jaws would open, and you’d be the one they closed on.

And Sol… Sol had gotten bit.

But Lenora didn’t know if it was just a shark doing what sharks did—or if something far more dangerous was circling beneath the surface, watching and waiting.

And that uncertainty?

It was eating her alive.

Gnawing at the edges of her sanity, one jagged bite at a time.  She swallowed hard, feeling the tight movement in her throat, like the truth itself had lodged itself there.

“I—” she began, but the words caught mid-breath, and her jaw clenched, locking it down.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

The words tasted wrong in her mouth.

Sour.

Like failure.

Like fear.

Henry’s lips immediately pressed into a thin line. Because he was one of the very few people in the world who could read Lenora—or at least he tried to. He hadn’t slammed the book shut after a few confusing chapters like most. No, he’d gotten halfway through before he finally had to DNF it for his own sanity.

So, he knew her.

Or knew enough.

And he understood what her answer—I don’t know—really meant.

It meant she couldn’t rule it out.

Which meant there was a chance, however small, however razor-thin, that this wasn’t random.  And if Sol had been targeted once, what was stopping them from trying again? What was stopping them from coming for Lenora next?

Or worse—Ben.

The thought alone made her stomach churn.

“Henry,” she said, barely more than a whisper, her voice raw with something too close to panic. Her mind raced, calculating risks, weighing outcomes, trying to find the one move that gave her even the illusion of control.

And finally, when it landed—it landed hard.

“I think… I think Ben should go home with you tonight. Can you take him a couple of days early?”

Henry’s eyes widened in surprise before shifting into something far more serious. Because if there was one thing he knew with absolute certainty, it was that Lenora never—never—willingly gave up time with their son.

Henry nodded.

“I’m off shift in an hour,” he answered. “I can take him with me.”

Lenora gave a short nod, her eyes already drifting toward the room where Sol waited.  Then, quieter, almost like the question slipped past her defenses before she could catch it, she spoke.

“She’s really okay?”

Fuck.

Why did her voice sound so small when she said that?

Like it had army-crawled, bruised and bleeding, from the part of her chest that hadn’t stopped aching since the call.

Henry’s expression softened—not as a doctor, but as someone who still knew her.

“She’s okay,” he said gently. “Lucky, honestly. It could’ve been so much worse… “

His voice trailed off when he saw Lenora flinch at even the implication, he rushed out.

“But it wasn’t, and she’s fine.”

Lenora nodded, but it was barely a movement.

It was just enough to keep her standing—to keep her breathing.

“Okay,” she muttered, though the word barely scraped out. Her gaze stayed fixed on the door ahead, her fists curling and uncurling at her sides like her body was still trying to fight a threat that wasn’t there anymore.

Henry didn’t push. He never had, really. Not when it counted. He simply gave her a long, knowing look—the kind that said I see you, even when she wanted to disappear behind steel and sarcasm. And then, like always, he gave her space to walk away.

She turned to go.

But just before she did, Lenora paused, casting one final glance over her shoulder.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice quiet but sincere.

Henry just nodded.

And with that, Lenora turned back down the hallway, her steps quickening, her breath shallow.

She needed to find Ben, break the news to him, and get Sol out of this hospital and... home. 

17

Restitution and Recovery

Lenora twisted the door handle and stepped into the quiet of her home. The stillness she found inside was such a stark contrast to the chaos they'd just left behind.

Surprisingly, discharge was relatively painless—undoubtedly Henry’s doing. The paperwork was handled quickly, but Ben, exactly as Lenora had expected, had thrown a tantrum so epic it deserved a spot on a podium. She couldn’t even be mad about it. Honestly, the only reason she hadn’t thrown a meltdown of her own was the very thin, cracking wall of adult composure she was barely holding together.

But Ben was six. He didn’t have those walls yet, or the tools to navigate this. He didn’t understand that public breakdowns weren’t “appropriate,” or whatever meaningless adult rule that society attempted to follow. So, naturally, he cried and yelled because none of this made sense to him.

He should’ve been in bed, not dragged across town in the middle of the night, waiting in the hospital because his mom’s girlfriend and also his friend got hurt. And of course, he was scared. For Sol. For his mom. And just when Lenora finally got to tell him Sol was okay, he got hit with another whiplash: he was going home with his dad.

It was too much.

Of course, he crashed out.

Honestly? She wasn’t mad. 

If anything, she was jealous he got to.

Luckily, the moment Ben laid eyes on Sol, all the fight drained out of him. One second, he was mid-meltdown, and the next, he was running straight into her. Lenora didn’t know who looked more stunned—herself, Henry, or Sol, who stood frozen as Ben buried his face in her stomach and wrapped his arms around her.

Sol blinked, wide-eyed, then glanced up at Lenora. They stared at each other for a long, loaded moment.

Because here it was.

The collision.

Lenora’s two worlds smashing into each other.

Sol had always known about Ben. She knew that being with Lenora didn’t just mean getting her—it meant getting them both. The way she interacted with Ben said she understood that.

Accepted it, even.

But this?

This was different.

This was Ben physically clinging to her, seeking comfort not from his mother or his father, but from her. This was the test—the other shoe dropping. It was one thing to swap weird animal facts or help build a volcano for science class. It was something entirely different to be the safe place. To be the arms a child ran to when the world felt too loud.

Lenora sucked in her breath, and it was like the world held its breath with her, waiting to see how Sol would handle this.

Sol locked eyes with her one last time—and then her gaze dropped to Ben. Slowly, she brought her arms up and wrapped them around him.

No hesitation.

No awkward fumbling.

Just Sol being Sol.

And then she did what she always did with Lenora.

She made him feel safe.

Lenora felt the breath she’d been holding leave her all at once—and somewhere beneath it, the world, and her world, Ben, finally exhaled too.

And with that breath came a flood of questions, tumbling out of him all at once. About Sol’s injuries. If they hurt. How she got them. And, most importantly, who was going to help him finish his volcano project now?

To her credit, Sol didn’t miss a beat.

“Just a couple scrapes, buddy,” she said gently.

“They hurt a little, but the doctors helped. I’m okay now.”

She flicked her eyes up to Lenora, just for a second, before looking back down at Ben.

“I fell,” she added, with a wry smile. “Guess I need to pay better attention.”

Ben squinted up at her like he was trying to sniff out the truth. After a moment of careful consideration, he gave a solemn nod.

“Did you forget to tie your shoes? I do that sometimes too.”

Sol smiled, soft and crooked.

“Something like that.”

And just like that, the last of his hereditary storm had passed. His shoulders dropped. His grip loosened. The panic in his voice dissolved into curiosity, and the tears that had clung stubbornly to his lashes finally let go.

Lenora watched it all.

She watched Sol take this scary, vulnerable moment and smooth it into something gentle and safe. And in doing that, Sol made room for something Lenora hadn’t let herself hope for.

Something permanent.

They hadn’t said a word since they left the hospital.  Or on the trip up the elevator.  But the very second Sol crossed the threshold of her home, it clicked into place.

Sol was home.

In Lenora’s life.

In Ben’s life.

And it felt right. Not just in the way that love feels when it’s new and bright and buzzing—but in the way a missing puzzle piece finally snaps into place after you’ve turned it over a hundred times in your hand.

And she’d come so close to losing it.

All of it.

Standing there, watching Sol step into her home, tired, stitched up, and still somehow steady, Lenora felt the weight of it all. The sharp ache of how close she’d come to losing this.

To losing her.

And suddenly, it was so clear.

How much she had to lose.

And how much more she wanted to hold on.

Once Sol was fully inside, Lenora eased the door shut behind them. The soft click of the lock echoed through the hallway—a hallway that, on any other day, would’ve been filled with the thud of small feet and bursts of laughter.

Now, it felt still.

They walked the hallway in silence, the weight of the day folding itself into the hush between them. Lenora slipped off her shoes with muscle memory alone, tucking them to the side. Sol hesitated, one hand bracing against the wall as she started to bend, only to stop when Lenora’s hand pressed gently but firmly against her shoulder.

Sol blinked, caught off guard.

“I’ve got it,” Lenora said, already crouching.

“Lenora,” Sol exhaled, a hint of protest in her voice. “I can take off my own shoes.”

Lenora’s eyes flicked up.

“Not tonight, you don’t.”

It wasn’t about the shoes.

Sol didn’t say a word as Lenora gently slipped off each of her black dress shoes, placing them side by side before standing. She met Sol’s eyes as she toed off her own heels, letting them fall with a soft thud. And when her bare feet touched the floor, the familiar height difference between them—something Lenora usually both resented and secretly adored—suddenly gave her a new, unwelcome angle on Sol’s head wound.

It was like an optical illusion. From this vantage point, it somehow looked worse.

Angrier.

Deeper.

The sight of it stole Lenora’s breath. Her hand rose instinctively, fingers hovering just above Sol’s cheek, brushing lightly up her temple and skimming the edge of the bruise—close enough to feel the heat of it, but careful not to press.

Sol exhaled as her eyes drifted shut as she leaned into the touch, trusting and completely unguarded.

They stood like that for what could’ve been seconds or hours as Lenora’s fingers traced the bruise like the world’s cruelest Etch A Sketch, trying to memorize damage she wished she could erase. 

Then, slowly, Sol’s eyes opened.

And just like that, Lenora was caught in their pull, drawn into the quiet intensity of those dark, unblinking eyes that always seemed to reach straight through her.

The moment hovered between them, delicate and still, like one wrong move might shatter it, and then—

"Hi,” Sol whispered, hand coming up to cup Lenora’s face.

Hi.

The word didn’t fit the moment, not really. It was too small, too ordinary for something that felt this big. But somehow, it was perfect. Like they were just two strangers locking eyes across a coffee shop, and everything before this had only been the prelude.

And just like that, Lenora’s heart fluttered, light and stupid and achingly alive in her chest.

“Hi,” she whispered back.

For a moment, they just stood there, staring at each other, until Sol’s eyes flicked downward in that familiar way that always gave her away, right before she leaned in.

The kiss was achingly soft.

Nothing like their usual chaotic, can’t-keep-our-hands-off-each-other kind of kiss.

No heat.

No teeth.

No tugging at clothes like they were racing against a clock.

No—this was different.

This was gentle and unhurried.

It was a kiss that didn’t ask for anything but somehow gave everything.

Two more followed, slow and tender, before Sol finally pulled back.  Her breath was unsteady, like they had just made out against a wall instead of exchanging a few pecks.

Lenora blinked, lips tingling and breath just as shaky.  She swallowed hard, reluctant to let the moment go, but also painfully aware they couldn’t just loiter in the hallway. Sol needed to be off her feet, and Lenora needed to lie down before her body gave out on her entirely. The kiss had been like a jolt of smelling salts, but adrenaline only bought you so much time before the crash hit.

Then Lenora gave a gentle tug, guiding Sol down the hallway. She passed the guest room without pause, pulling her toward her own instead.

Sol didn’t question it.

She just followed.

Once inside, they stopped, still holding hands in the middle of the room like they hadn’t figured out the next step yet. The silence between them stretched, comfortable, yet still a little awkward. Then Sol’s thumb brushed softly across the back of Lenora’s knuckles.

“I’m gonna get cleaned up before crawling into bed,” she said, voice low. “Get the hospital smell off me.”

Lenora swallowed.

And the dried blood.

But she didn’t say it aloud. Her eyes flicked to the smear of rusting blood still clinging to Sol’s hairline.  It was hidden mostly enough, but Lenora still caught it and hated it.

She nodded, wanting it gone just as much as Sol likely did.  

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Sol gave her hand a soft squeeze before letting go, turning toward the bathroom. Halfway there, she glanced over her shoulder.

“Do you mind grabbing me something to wear from the spare room? I put all my comfy stuff in the dresser.”

Lenora nodded again.

Sol’s lips twitched into a small, tired smile and then without another word, she slipped into the bathroom.

Lenora stood there for a beat, her hands restless at her side—twitching with nervous energy she couldn’t quite shake. Finally, she exhaled, long and slow, but just enough to make herself move.

She padded down the hall toward the spare bedroom, opening the door as the faint glow from the hallway filled the dark space around her. Inside, everything felt undisturbed, like Sol hadn’t been living here for nearly a week.

She moved to the dresser and opened the top drawer. It didn’t take long to find a clean pair of underwear and soft, well-worn sleep shorts. Her hands moved on instinct until they landed on a familiar gray T-shirt, the fabric thin and faded with age.

She unfolded it and held it up. Texas University Soccer was printed across the front in peeling block letters. She flipped it over.

RUIZ.

The number 9 below it, in an orange that was now cracked and faded by time.

It looked like it had survived a decade of brutal laundry cycles and a lifetime of meaning. The kind of shirt you didn’t just wear, you kept. Lenora had a couple of those herself, tucked beneath her neat rows of designer blouses. Old, stretched Harvard tees she hadn’t worn in years but couldn’t bring herself to throw away. Not because of the school. Because of who she’d been when she wore them.

Her fingers lingered on the cracked orange letters, the raised texture catching beneath her touch.

It was such a small thing.

A shirt.

A memory.

A thread from a life Sol had lived long before them.

And yet, it made Lenora’s heart ache with the weight of the thing she still hadn’t said. The thing she’d almost lost the chance to say at all.

She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly, willing back the tears.

She couldn’t afford it right now. 

Later, maybe—later she could break down in the shower, and let her tears get lost under the water, her cries fade into the hum of the bathroom fan, and behind a locked door.

But right now, Sol needed clean clothes.

And Lenora could do that.

She could at least do something.

Gently, as if the fabric were couture and not a cheap polyester blend, she folded the shirt and held it tight against her chest. The walk back to her room felt longer than it should have, each step amplified by the silence.

She set the folded clothes on the edge of the bed and sat beside them, careful, like the mattress might shift wrong beneath her. Her posture was rigid and unnatural, like she was a guest in someone else’s house instead of her own room.

And somehow, that made it worse.

The anxiety buzzed beneath her skin, rising in waves she couldn’t smooth out. Her fingers clenched and unclenched at her sides, restless and useless. She hated feeling like she was tethered to the moment and powerless to escape it.

Her eyes drifted around the room, searching for something to anchor herself to, and landed on the hospital bag slouched against the floorboards, right by her feet.  The sight of it hit her like a jolt. It was the bag Sol had been clutching with her good arm. The one Lenora had nearly forgotten in the whirlwind of everything.

Without much thought and needing the distraction, she reached for it, curling her fingers around the handles and pulling it into her lap.

She just wanted to help.

Toss the clothes in the wash and pretend like something in this day could be normal.  But the moment she reached inside and pulled out the first item, everything stopped.

Sol’s white collared shirt.

The one she’d worn this morning now lay limp in her hands, looking like something torn straight from a homicide. The collar was crusty and stiff with dried blood. The front was soaked through, a macabre pattern of smudges and splatters. One sleeve was ripped clean through, the jagged tear surrounded by rust-colored blotches that made Lenora’s stomach twist as she was able to connect the dots and see the exact spot the bullet tore through the fabric.

Her breath caught.

The sight of it knocked the air from her lungs and sent a wave of nausea rolling through her. Her fingers trembled as they clutched the fabric, eyes locked on the stains that screamed just how close it had been.

Too close.

The chaos.

The gunshot.

Sol crying out

She had come so close to losing Sol.

At just the thought, the tears came harder. She didn’t bother to wipe them away.

What was the point?

They slid down her cheeks, steady and stubborn, landing on the bloodstained shirt in her lap. Her anguish seeped into the fabric like it belonged there, soaking into the dried remnants of Sol’s blood. The whole thing felt absurdly poetic—like her grief was trying to wash away the remnants of Sol’s pain. 

Somewhere in the background, she heard the click of the bathroom door opening. Her head turned slowly, like she was underwater.

And there stood Sol—wrapped in a towel, steam curling around her like some soft-focus halo.

Which, honestly, was not the comparison Lenora’s rapidly deteriorating emotional state needed. The last thing she could handle was Sol looking like an actual angel, especially when she’d come terrifyingly close to meeting her maker.

Sol’s gaze found her instantly. Her eyes widened slightly—undoubtedly clocking the tear-streaked disaster that was Lenora's face—before they dropped to the bloodstained shirt clutched in her hands.

The culprit.

The trigger.

The thing that had cracked her wide open.

“Lenora.”

The way Sol said her name carried that maddeningly specific tone—equal parts why are you doing this to yourself? and I’m sorry I put you through this. A quiet mix of guilt and concern that made Lenora’s throat tighten and her eyes sting even more.

Sol stepped forward without a word and sank to her knees in front of Lenora, eyes locked on hers the entire way. Her hands, still warm and damp from the shower, wrapped gently around Lenora’s trembling ones.

She didn’t speak—not at first.

She just held her. 

Then, with a patience that made Lenora want to break down all over again, Sol began to carefully ease her fingers open, prying them away from the bloodstained shirt like she was disarming a bomb. When Lenora finally let go, the fabric slid from her lap and fell to the floor with a soft, final thud.

Lenora’s gaze snapped downward, instinctively tracking it like it still had a hold on her.

But then Sol’s fingers threaded through hers, squeezing tightly.

“Hey,” she said firmly.  “Eyes on me.”

Lenora’s gaze snapped up like she’d been pulled by an invisible string—like Sol had meticulously, almost surgically, hardwired her to respond to her voice.

Especially here.

In this room.

And in this bed.

The moment her eyes met Sol’s, the fear that had been gnawing at her all day surged to the surface, ripping its way out before she could stop it.

“I almost lost you.”

The words came out exactly as they felt, like they flung themselves through glass just to escape her throat.

Sol’s expression shifted the moment the words left Lenora’s lips.  Her eyes softened, but there was a flicker of pain there too, like hearing it out loud made it real in a way the stitches and bruises hadn’t.

She didn’t speak right away. She just looked at her like she wanted to reach into Lenora’s chest and soothe the ache herself.

“But you didn’t,” she said gently, her voice low but sure, as she reached up and cupped Lenora’s face, wiping away the tears. “I’m right here, my love.”

My love.

She said it to comfort, to stitch Lenora back together.

But it had the opposite effect.

The words landed like a knife slipped between Lenora’s ribs—not because they weren’t true, but because they were. Because Sol was here, warm and alive and saying everything Lenora had longed to hear… and all Lenora could feel was how close she’d come to never hearing it again.

The tears came harder, unstoppable now, and the sob that broke free from her lips startled them both—sharp and raw and louder than it should’ve been.

And that was it.

Game over.

The last shred of composure Lenora had been clinging to gave up and walked off the job. The sobs hit her hard, loud, messy, and entirely out of her control. Tears streamed down her face, accompanied by an unfortunate chorus of gasps and broken sounds that sounded more like a wounded animal than a grown woman with a law degree.

Sol held her through all of it.

No flinching.

No awkward pats.

She was just this quiet, steady presence wrapped around Lenora like a weighted blanket.

Eventually, the storm passed, and the sobs slowed.  And with that, the silence crept back in—and that’s when it hit Lenora.

She’d just completely fallen apart in Sol’s arms.

The realization hit her like a bucket of cold water. She pulled back quickly, stiff, embarrassed, and borderline horrified, wiping at her face with both hands like she could physically scrub away the last five minutes of emotional carnage.

“Fuck,” she muttered. “I’m sorry.”

Sol gave her a look. One of those calm, unbothered, try-again looks.

“Don’t apologize—you didn’t do anything wrong,”

Lenora didn’t buy it.

Not entirely.

The last thing Sol should’ve been doing—after the hellscape of a day she’d had—was comforting her. If anything, Sol should’ve been the one sobbing and clinging and falling apart, and Lenora should’ve been the composed one.

The silence slipped back in, thick and awkward, until Sol broke it with a small smile and a soft nudge with her shoulder.

“Let’s get dressed and go to bed,” Sol murmured, offering Lenora a soft, teasing smile. “You can hold me all night. How’s that sound?”

More tears threatened at that—because God, that was all she wanted. But Lenora blinked them back fast, refusing to dissolve again.

“Okay,” she said with a slight nod, trying to summon whatever was left of the composed, capable woman she’d been before she turned into a puddle of feelings.

Sol’s smile softened even more as she stood, but not before brushing her thumbs gently across Lenora’s cheeks—one last swipe at the tear tracks, like she was wiping away the evidence without judgment.

Then she reached past her and picked up the folded clothes Lenora had grabbed. Her eyes lit up when she spotted the T-shirt.

“My favorite,” she said, holding it up with a crooked grin.

Lenora managed a half-smile, a flicker of her old self rising to the surface—along with the familiar spark of sarcasm.

“Yeah, well… figured you’d want something soft and sentimental to cry into later when the adrenaline wears off.”

Sol chuckled, dropping the towel and giving Lenora a smirk. 

“That’s what you’re for,” she said with a wink.

Lenora’s heart gave an involuntary flutter—partly because of the words, and partly because, well… Sol was still very much naked.

She tried to play it cool, but her eyes had a mind of their own.

Sol turned away slightly to start putting on her clothes, and Lenora caught a full view of the smooth curve of her back, the subtle lines of muscle that flexed with each movement. It was ridiculous how effortlessly gorgeous she looked, even post-trauma.

Lenora tried to focus on that—on the beauty, the strength, the bare skin she ached to touch.

Not the angry red stitches near her side.

Not the new bruises she saw scattered like shadows across her ribs.

Not the faint hitch in Sol’s movement when she reached too far, too fast.

It was hard.

Not to notice.

And not to flinch at the sight.

That was the real challenge—pretending like the bruises didn’t make her stomach twist, like the stitches didn’t look out of place on skin she’d kissed a hundred times.

She felt the emotion creeping back up her throat like it was gearing up for round two, so she stood abruptly and headed for the bathroom—because one full-scale breakdown per night felt like more than enough.

Her routine was quick and half-hearted.  She skipped the serum, the flossing, and the spiraling.

That last one really put up a fight.

By the time she came back, the hospital bag—and the bloodstained shirt—were gone.

She didn’t ask.

She didn’t need to.

If Sol had turned it into ash with her mind, fine. If she’d thrown it out the window and let the city take it, also fine. Lenora trusted that whatever happened to it, it was gone.

Out of sight.

Out of this room.

Out of their life.

Sol was already under the covers, waiting. She looked smaller than usual, tucked into the sheets.

Lenora crossed the room in silence and slid into bed, the mattress dipping beneath her with familiar weight.

The moment her head hit the pillow, she reached for Sol, and Sol moved without hesitation, curling into her like muscle memory—like she belonged there.

Which, to be fair, she did. Sol always ended up in Lenora’s arms every time they slept together.

Lenora wrapped her arms around her—maybe too tightly, but Sol didn’t complain. And Lenora didn’t loosen her grip, not even a little.

“See?” Sol whispered, her voice soft and steady in the dark. “You’ve got me.”

Lenora’s throat tightened again. Of course, that was the moment her tear ducts staged a comeback. She buried her face in Sol’s neck, inhaling deeply—searching for something to hold on to, something that felt real and warm and hers.

“Yeah,” she whispered, her voice thick. “I do.”

They lay there, still and quiet, the steady rise and fall of Sol’s breathing like a lullaby against Lenora’s chest. It should’ve been comforting.

But the ache in her chest didn’t ease.

Not really.

Because there were words sitting heavy on her tongue.

I love you.

The unsaid pressing against her ribs like a secret trying to claw its way out of her chest and burrow itself into Sol.  Her grip tightened.

“Sol,” she breathed.

“Yeah?” Sol murmured, voice drowsy and warm, already halfway to sleep.

“I—”

The word caught in her throat like a splinter.

Lenora blinked hard and stared at the wall. Just say it. You almost lost her. Say it, you coward.

“I—” she tried again, but the words snagged, thick and tangled, like they were stuck somewhere behind her lungs.

Then Sol’s hand reached down, brushing lightly against hers before pulling it tighter around her waist. Their fingers threaded together with that same practiced ease they always had.

“I know,” Sol whispered. “I know you do.”

Silence settled again—but this time, it felt like grace.

“Go to sleep, Lenny,” Sol murmured, soft and sure, like she always knew exactly how to end a moment without breaking it.

Lenora let out a long, shaky breath. Her eyes fluttered shut.

The weight of the day hadn’t disappeared—but Sol was alive, warm in her arms, and somehow still hers.

She could live with that.

For tonight, that was enough.

Tomorrow, she'd find the words.

Tonight, she’d just hold on.

18

Mutually Binding Agreement

Lenora woke slowly, drifting upward from the depths of a sleep so heavy it felt almost drugged. Her warm body sank deep into the mattress, and she knew immediately, without even opening her eyes, that she’d slept in.

Slept hard.

And honestly, after yesterday, who could blame her?  But the moment the thought of yesterday formed, it all came rushing back.

The phone call.

The blood.

The hospital.

The breakdown.

Sol.

Her eyes snapped open.

And there she was.

Sol was still there, curled against her, tucked into the curve of Lenora’s body and still wrapped in her arms, like they hadn’t moved an inch since they fell asleep the night before.

Just the sight of her made Lenora tighten her grip reflexively, like she had to convince herself it wasn’t a dream.

Apparently, the movement was enough to stir Sol.

Sol let out a low, sleepy grumble—a sound halfway between a sigh and a protest—and shifted slightly in her arms.

Then Lenora felt Sol’s hand reach down, fingers brushing lightly over the back of her arm where it was still locked around her middle.

“Morning,” Sol murmured, voice rough and heavy with sleep, like the word itself was still half-draped in blankets.

Lenora swallowed, her throat dry—maybe from sleep or maybe from the emotional hangover clawing its way back up her throat.

“Morning,” she managed, her voice low and a little scratchy.

And then, before her brain had a chance to weigh in, her body acted on instinct, leaning in to press a kiss to the back of Sol’s neck.

Then another.

And another.

Like her lips had entered some kind of autopilot protocol: Reassure, confirm existence, and do not let go.

God, Sol was soft.

And warm.

And alive.

Lenora let herself sink into that fact, her lips pressing once more to the curve of Sol’s neck like it might anchor her to the present.

Sol let out a soft exhale, somewhere between a sigh and a hum, and Lenora felt the subtle shiver ripple down her spine in response.

“If you keep doing that,” Sol murmured, voice still thick with sleep, “I’m going to start thinking this whole ‘near-death experience’ thing was a great idea.”

Lenora huffed against her neck—equal parts amusement and mild cardiac arrest. Her heart hated the reminder. Her dark sense of humor, unfortunately, did not.

“Let’s not make it a recurring strategy,” she muttered, placing one last kiss before pulling back and began the slow, reluctant process of detangling herself from Sol.  She carefully peeled her arm from around Sol’s waist, ignoring the flutter in her heart when Sol let out little noises of protest, before reaching blindly for her phone on the nightstand.  She grabbed it and held it up, squinting against the screen’s aggressive brightness.

Her eyes shot wide.

10:07 AM.

She blinked.

Jesus Christ.

She hadn’t slept past seven since…college? Law school finals? The week she got the flu and still tried to take depositions from bed?

She quickly unlocked her phone and grimaced. 

Six missed calls.

Fifty-two emails.

She scrolled faster, hoping most of it was spam.

It wasn’t.

Sure, it was Saturday—a day off for most people. But when you were a partner at one of the most prestigious law firms in New York, arguably on the entire East Coast, days off were more of a suggestion than a reality. Weekends were just weekdays with less yelling.

Her thumb paused over a thread of emails from Imani and the other partners, the subject line chillingly direct: NYPD—follow-up on attack.

She grimaced, thumb hovering over the email for a moment before finally tapping it open.

Her eyes scanned the message at warp speed, skimming past pleasantries and headers to get to the part that mattered. With every line, her grimace deepened into a full-fledged frown.

There were still no leads on the perpetrator.

No useful security footage.

No witness statements with more than shaky descriptions.

Just… nothing.

A violent attack in one of the most surveilled parts of the city, and somehow, all evidence had vanished into thin air.

Warning bells started to ring in her mind, but before her brain could take the leap, the bed dipped behind her, and Sol’s arms wrapped around her waist. The panic eased instantly, like someone had hit the emergency brake on her nervous system.

Lenora let herself melt back into the embrace, exhaling as the hammering in her chest slowed.

She felt Sol’s lips brush against her neck, then her shoulder.  She might’ve relaxed entirely…if her eyes hadn’t landed on the next notification.

Two missed calls from Alan Fieldstone—a longtime client, bottomless wallet, and professional pain in the ass.

Fuck.

Lenora let out a groan.

Behind her, she felt Sol stir, shifting until she was propped up on one elbow.

“Fieldstone,” Sol read, clearly catching a glimpse of the screen. “As in the Fieldstone Group? Doesn’t he own, like, half of New York?”

Lenora let her head fall back against Sol’s shoulder with another groan.

“Last I checked? About 20.5 million square feet in the city and another 150 million across the globe.”

Sol gave a low, impressed whistle.

“Wow. That’s not a real estate portfolio, that’s an empire.”

“Mm-hmm,” Lenora muttered, already dreading whatever emergency he was dealing with.

Lenora turned toward Sol as she spoke.

“And he manages to make every square foot my prob—”

The sentence died in her throat the moment her eyes landed on Sol’s face—and, by association, the wound on her head.

She didn’t think it was possible, but somehow it looked worse, like it had spent the night evolving into something crueler. 

Lenora stared at it, her stomach twisting.

It was one thing to remember it.

It was another thing entirely to see it.

The stitches cutting through her eyebrow were harsh and uneven. The swelling around them hadn’t gone down—in fact, it looked worse in the morning light.

Puffy.

Inflamed.

And behind it all, a deep purple bruise had bloomed like some cruel accent wall, highlighting every detail in the worst possible way.

Lenora reached up and cupped Sol’s face, as Alan Fieldstone was forced to the very back of her mental line.

“How are you feeling?” she asked. “Are you in pain?”

Sol’s expression softened. She leaned into Lenora’s palm, lips parting to answer, but Lenora cut in before she could get a single word out.

“And don’t lie,” Lenora added, eyes narrowing. “I don’t need the brave act. I want the truth.”

Sol gave her a look—half exasperation, half affection—and smiled softly.

“I feel okay,” she said, voice quiet. “A little sore, like after a hard workout, but mostly fine. I promise.”

Lenora studied her, eyes scanning for any sign of forced calm or buried pain. After a beat, she gave a slight nod, accepting it, for now.

She opened her mouth to respond, but her phone buzzed sharply on the bed. She glanced down.

Fieldstone calling—again.

She sighed and looked back at Sol, reluctant.

“I have to take this,” she said, clearly wishing she didn’t.

Sol nodded, all understanding.

“I get it,” she said easily, her gaze flicking to the phone. “Let me know if you need backup.”

Lenora huffed, already swinging her legs out of bed and grabbing the phone.

“You’re not getting out of bed today, let alone acting as my paralegal. You need to rest.  You are to stay horizontal for the rest of the day.”

Sol let out a dramatic huff, and Lenora turned on her instantly with a glare and one sharply arched brow—her universal sign for don’t even think about it.

Sol met her gaze, and Lenora could see it—that flicker in her dark eyes to push back.  But then, finally, with a resigned little sigh, she settled back against the pillows.

“Fine,” Sol muttered, clearly not thrilled but conceding.

Lenora smirked, victory sweet on her tongue.

“Good girl.”

Sol’s eyes widened, and her jaw tensed—a flicker of heat flashing across her face that Lenora caught and savored like the last sip of good bourbon. She smiled, unapologetic, fully aware of what she’d done.

Without missing a beat, she winked and answered the call.

“Yes, Alan?” she said, voice switching into professional mode as she turned away, feeling Sol’s gaze burning into her back the entire way.

19

Joint Venture

Lenora had walked into her office when the sun was still on its rise, and now here she was, sitting at her desk as the sun was now dipping below the horizon in that burnt-orange way New York only managed to have for fifteen minutes a day.

To Alan’s credit—and Lenora's utter contempt—he was, in fact, dealing with an actual disaster.

He was midway through developing a luxury resort in California, complete with spa villas, oceanfront access, and more infinity pools than should legally exist. Everything had been greenlit, fast-tracked, and blessed by a lineup of permits that could probably paper the entire Empire State Building.

Until now.

One of Fieldstone’s competitors had made some very intentional noise with the local zoning committee. And now, the committee, suddenly and suspiciously diligent, was claiming Fieldstone was in violation of Section 10.4 of the Coastal Zoning Code, which prohibited “non-essential commercial expansion within protected shoreline overlay zones.”

In English?

They thought he was building too close to the waterline.

And because it was California and water was as sacred as air, that meant a stop-work order, potential litigation, and fines that made even Fieldstone baulk, and millions hemorrhaging by the hour.

Lenora was juggling five statutes, three agencies, and two timelines—all with conflicting definitions of "essential," "commercial," and "expansion."   Her desk was a battlefield. Case law, statutes, zoning maps, and half-empty coffee mugs were scattered like war debris. And still, the bleeding hadn’t stopped.

Fieldstone’s empire was hemorrhaging cash, and Lenora was doing what she did best—performing legal triage at a speed that would make most people cry or spontaneously combust. 

Normally, she could handle it. 

Thrive in it, even. 

But today?

Today, she wasn’t just drowning in Fieldstone’s crisis.  She was also working on taking care of Sol. And that was the one thing she couldn’t compartmentalize, no matter how hard she tried.

Her relationship with the NYPD—especially the Police Chief—was, to put it diplomatically, strained since the “go eat a bag of dicks” incident.  

Who knew?

Still, Lenora had been clawing her way back into their good graces, one strategic chess move at a time. A few heftier-than-usual donations to police foundations. Some pro bono counsel on union-related civil suits, with the explicit caveat that she retained the right to walk if she smelled even a hint of corruption. 

She could justify defending shady bankers, ethically-flexible hedge fund managers, even the occasional CEO with a God complex and offshore accounts in places no one could pronounce. 

But dirty cops?

No.

That was where the line stopped.

Unfortunately, even with her carefully mended ties to the NYPD, it still wasn’t enough to get Sol’s case moving.

She’d spoken to the detective assigned, then the sergeant, and then the lieutenant. Each conversation had been a slightly different variation of the same infuriating tune: We’re doing everything we can, but there are no leads at this time.

Which, naturally, royally pissed Lenora off.

Unfortunate timing, then, for her next call to the private security firm they’d hired to protect Sol.

That conversation had been…legendary.

Lenora had spent a full twenty minutes on the phone with the head of operations, delivering a verbal beatdown so thorough it should be presented at her company’s annual continued learning seminar.  

Her tone had been cold, while every word was sharpened to a point. A reminder of just how badly they’d fucked up. A mugger had gotten close enough to Sol to pull a weapon. Close enough to almost ki—

She didn’t finish that thought.  

Their excuse—

“We were trying not to interfere with her daily routine—”

and

“Our method is designed to maintain a respectful distance—”

It was laughable.

But Lenora hadn’t laughed.

“That changes now,” she’d said, her voice like a hammer striking hot iron—measured, deliberate, and built to shape even the most unforgiving metal. “From the moment she walks out my door, I want someone glued to her side. A shadow. Someone who doesn’t even breathe without knowing where Sol is. And if I so much as suspect you’ve let your guard down again, I will personally dismantle your entire company. Are we clear?”

They were clear.

Lenora had made damn sure of it before she ended the call.

And on top of everything else, she still checked on Sol every two hours like clockwork. Part protective instinct, part power trip, and part making sure the stubborn little shit didn’t try to pull some ridiculous stunt like—God forbid—standing up.

Honestly, those check-ins were the only highlight of her day.

Sol, true to form, kept her promise. Lenora always found her either stretched out on the couch or tucked into bed, looking absolutely bored out of her mind. One hour she was scrolling through TikTok, the next watching one of those nerdy documentaries.

Every time, Lenora would do her due diligence—ask how she was feeling, check for signs of rebellion—and every time, Sol would give her a long-suffering look and say, “I’m fine,” with the air of someone being held hostage.

Then came the best part of her day.

Lenora would step in, cup her cheek, press a single kiss to her lips, pull back, pat her gently on the face, and purr—

“Good girl.”

And every time, without fail, Sol’s pupils would blow wide, like she’d just taken a bump of cocaine and remembered what joy felt like.

Lenora, a corporate lawyer forged in the glorious chaos of the late ‘90s, recognized the look instantly. Doing cocaine was practically a rite of passage for associates back then.  She knew exactly what kind of chemical cocktail surged through the human body to make eyes dilate like that—euphoria, adrenaline, the intoxicating thrill of power or pleasure.

She’d seen it in boardrooms, back rooms, and bathrooms.

But seeing it because of her?

Well.

That was addictive in its own right.

Lenora glanced at the clock and shifted in her seat—ten more minutes until 6:00 PM and her next “check-in.” Which, let’s be honest, was less about monitoring Sol’s vitals and more about getting her next fix of wide eyes and flushed cheeks.

She looked down at her laptop, debating whether she could knock out a couple of emails she’d been avoiding and frame the next Sol break as a reward—a little carrot at the end of a very long corporate stick.

With a sigh, Lenora opened the top message and skimmed the subject line—another so-called crisis from a client with more money than sense and a gift for turning minor inconveniences into full-blown legal emergencies.

She was halfway through a response when her office door opened.

Lenora jumped, eyes snapping up, not expecting company—and certainly not expecting Sol.

“Are you okay?” she blurted before her brain could catch up, heart already kicking into worst-case-scenario gear.

Sol didn’t answer right away. She shuffled in with a dramatic drag of her feet, like a teenager sentenced to summer school, and practically collapsed onto the office couch with a theatrical sigh.

“I’m bored,” she announced flatly.

Lenora’s pulse returned to semi-human levels as she narrowed her eyes at her, unimpressed.

Sol met the look with a smirk and gestured lazily down the length of her own body. 

“I’m horizontal like you asked. Following orders. Model patient behavior.”

Lenora pursed her lips at that, dragging her eyes back to her screen with the kind of dramatic restraint only Sol could pull out of her. She typed in silence for a moment, pretending to be unmoved by Sol’s shameless attempt to hijack her focus.

She finished the two emails in silence, out of sheer spite. And then, just to make a point, she opened a third, pausing only to reach for her glasses and slide them on.

If Sol was going to play dirty, then so was she. 

She didn’t need to look to know the second Sol shifted on the couch. She could hear the shift in the air like static, and the hitch in Sol’s breath.

Lenora smirked to herself and kept typing.

She was halfway through her reply when Sol’s voice rang across the office, sweet and smug:

“It’s 6:00.”

Lenora’s eyes flicked to the corner of her screen. 6:00 on the dot.

“Congratulations,” she deadpanned. “You can tell time. A true milestone.”

Silence.

For a beat.

Then, with all the faux innocence of a cat who’d just knocked over a glass of red wine—

“Aren’t you going to check on me?”

Lenora stilled.

Of course, Sol recognized the 2-hour check-in pattern.  Being caught was one thing, but the tone was another thing entirely.   

A tone she recognized immediately.

Lenora bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from looking up—refusing, on principle, to give Sol the satisfaction.

“Are you okay?” she asked, fingers still flying over the keyboard, though what she was typing was pure gibberish at this point.

Something resembling English, maybe.

But barely.

"I'm fine," came Sol’s voice again, this time airier.

Lighter.

She wasn’t even trying to fake innocence anymore.

Lenora swallowed.

“Good,” she replied tightly, still staring at the screen, still pretending to be very, very busy.

Silence followed.

A long, pointed kind.

Lenora’s fingers finally stopped. She looked at what she’d written, winced, and deleted the whole email before she accidentally hit send and informed a client that their contract had been “interpleader estoppel applicable therefoer nullafied.”

Then—

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Sol’s voice again.

Teasing.

Wicked.

Almost sing-song.

It took Lenora a full three seconds to process what Sol was saying—three seconds too long, because by the time it clicked, she was pretty sure she’d bitten through the inside of her cheek.

Oh.

Oh, the little shit.

She wanted Lenora to say it.

Wanted her to say, “good girl.”

Sol had flipped her own move on her. Turned her own power play against her.

Lenora wanted to be annoyed.

She really did.

But instead, she found herself…impressed.

And, unfortunately, wildly and deeply turned on.

Lenora looked up, fully intending to say it—own it, purr it out, take the power back that came with it.

“Good gi—”

But the words caught. 

Froze.

Died.

Because Sol wasn’t looking at her.

Her head was tilted back, neck arched ever so slightly, lips parted around a trembling exhale. Eyes closed. Face tilted toward the ceiling like she was basking in something far more divine than the fading daylight.

And then Lenora’s gaze dropped.

To the movement.

To Sol’s hand.

Down her pants.

Moving.

Lenora let out a startled gasp, sharp and involuntary, before she managed to locate her spine again.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

It was meant to come out with authority, crisp, and condemning.

Instead, it limped out as a breathless whisper.

Sol turned her head slowly and finally looked at her.

Her pupils were blown wide, swallowing almost all the color in her eyes. Her lips were still parted. And that smug, infuriating, perfect little smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“Finding a new way to pass the time,” she moaned out breathlessly. 

Lenora froze. Everything from her fingers on the keyboard, to her breath, to the rational part of her brain—it just…stopped.

Her eyes dragged over Sol, who was exquisitely reclined on the couch like a Renaissance painting gone rogue. The soft arch of her neck. The rise and fall of her chest. The way she could see Sol’s hand move beneath the band of her gray sweatpants.

Lenora's body responded before her brain had a chance to veto. Heat surged low in her stomach, short-circuiting the part of her that was supposed to be screaming bed rest, stitches, trauma—you know, the reasonable part. The part that remembered the doctor’s discharge orders. Orders given by—

Henry.

Henry.

Her ex-husband.

Which only made this entire situation feel more sacrilegious.

She groaned and slammed her laptop shut.

“Sol,” she growled, a last-ditch attempt at a warning.

It did not work.

Because the little sex demon actually whimpered at it. 

Lenora's mouth dropped open slightly.

“Did you just—”

“Lenny,” Sol interrupted with a breathless plea.

Lenora stood abruptly, the chair scraping back with a harsh sound that did nothing to cut through the heat thickening in the room.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” she snapped, voice far too low to be mistaken for authority. She crossed the room in slow, controlled steps that betrayed how not-in-control she felt.

“I’m resting,” she said sweetly, all faux-innocence. “Horizontal. Following orders. Just…multitasking.”

Lenora exhaled hard through her nose, her gaze flicking down right to where Sol’s hand was still moving beneath the waistband of her joggers like it had no plans of stopping.

“This is not what the doctor meant by ‘light activity,’” she muttered.

Lenora was hovering now, caught watching the rhythmic motion, before forcing herself to drag her eyes up and meet Sol’s again.

“And the doctor, need I remind you,” she said, voice dry as sandpaper, “is my ex-husband.”

Sol’s lips curved into something so wicked it should’ve come with a warning label.

“Then it’s practically family-approved.”

Lenora’s mouth dropped open, genuinely scandalized for a full beat, before the indignation short-circuited, and twisting into a reluctant, horrified laugh.

“You are demented.”

Sol only grinned wider, like it was a compliment.

“Come on, Lenora,” she breathed, her voice hitching perfectly in sync with the subtle shift of her hips, arching up into her own hand, dragging Lenora’s eyes back down like a magnet.

“I’ve been a good girl all day. That’s what you said, right?”

Lenora exhaled sharply, dragging her gaze back up to meet Sol’s.

And then—God help her—Sol bit her lip for a second before releasing it.

“Don’t you think I deserve a reward?”

Lenora’s restraint buckled. Her hands twitched, halfway to grabbing Sol—ready to pin her down and show her exactly how much she agreed—but then she froze.

Like a punch to the chest, the memory hit.

Blood-soaked fabric.

The stitches carving a line through Sol’s brow.

That goddamn bruise across her temple.

The bandage on her arm peeking out from under the sleeve like a warning label.

And behind all of it was the sharp agonizing truth: she came very close to losing her.

Her breath caught.

The room tilted.

And when her eyes snapped back to Sol, the shift was immediate.

Sol stilled, reading the change in her before Lenora could form words. Her hand went still, her teasing edge softening as her brow creased.

“Lenora?” she asked quietly, the concern slipping into her voice immediately.

Lenora’s chest rose and fell unevenly. Her mouth worked around the words before they finally made it out.

“Are you sure?” she asked, barely audible. It sounded small and broken in a way she hadn’t meant to let slip. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Sol’s smirk was gone. In its place, something gentler bloomed. She propped herself up a bit, balancing carefully on her good arm, her gaze never leaving Lenora’s.

“Baby,” she said, warm and certain, and Lenora felt the word sink straight into her ribs.

“I’m okay,” Sol murmured again, the words not just reassuring, but an invitation. “I promise.”

She slid her hand from her waistband, fingers slick and trembling, and reached for Lenora’s.

Her touch was featherlight, wet fingertips brushing against Lenora’s before grabbing her hand and pulling her gently forward.

Lenora followed without resistance, like gravity itself had shifted. She let Sol guide her until she was sitting at the edge of the couch, hip to hip, knees grazing the cushion.

And then Sol did something that stole the air right out of Lenora’s lungs—she brought their joined hands lower, slipping Lenora’s hand beneath the waistband of her pants.

Of course she wasn’t wearing underwear.

Lenora’s fingers met heat—slick, soft, and overwhelming—and her breath caught, sharp and audible. Her gaze flicked up just in time to see Sol’s eyes flutter closed, lashes sweeping down as a deep, guttural moan escaped her parted lips.

Then Sol’s eyes snapped open, locking with hers.

“Fuck—I missed you.”

And that was it.

Whatever thread of restraint Lenora had been clinging to completely snapped in two. She surged forward, kissing Sol once, twice, before crashing into a deeper third one.

Sol responded instantly, her mouth hungry, her hands pulling at Lenora’s waist like she couldn’t stand even an inch of distance. There was an urgency in it—a desperate, silent plea that made Lenora’s pulse throb in her throat.

But it still wasn’t enough.

Lenora broke the kiss, barely, her lips ghosting against Sol’s as she whispered, low and reverent:

“I need my mouth on you.”

Sol’s eyes flew open, wide and dark. She barely managed a breathy—

“God—yes.”

And that was all Lenora needed.

She kissed Sol once more, hard and possessive, before tearing herself away and sliding down her body in one fluid, hungry motion. Her hands curled around the waistband of Sol’s pants, tugging them down in one swift move before tossing them aside.

Lenora paused, letting her gaze drag up the length of Sol’s body—so open, so flushed, so wrecked already—and let a wicked smirk bloom across her lips at the look of anticipation painted on Sol’s face.

“Don’t move,” Lenora murmured, voice low and rough as her hands spread Sol’s thighs.

She hadn’t expected this to be something she would want.

Crave.

But Sol was different.

Lenora had always been strategic and methodical.  But This?  Going down on a woman was a special kind of chaos she welcomed. It was a fire that she stepped into willingly.

The first time, she’d hesitated.

Now?

She devoured.

She dove in, her tongue finding Sol with practiced ease.  Lenora worked her like a case she was determined to win—studying the details, hitting every pressure point, every spot that made Sol keen and arch and curse like she was breaking apart.

“Fuck—Lenora,” Sol gasped, her voice already strained, fingers tangling in Lenora’s hair like she was scared Lenora was going to tease her and try and pull away.

Lenora pressed one hand to Sol’s pelvis, pinning her down, controlling her writhing hips as she worked her tongue in deep, knowing circles.

“Don’t stop,” Sol begged, her voice high and uneven. “Lenny—God—please—don’t stop.”

As if Lenora could.

Not when Sol said her name like that.

She flattened her tongue and licked up—slow, then faster. Sol’s breath hitched, and her thighs started to tremble.

And Lenora knew.

She doubled down, her grip tightening, her tongue relentless. Sol cried out, hips bucking, and then it hit—hard. Her whole body arched, and her voice cracked as she cried Lenora’s name like it was the only word she remembered.

Lenora stayed with her through it, guiding her down with softer strokes, gentle licks, reverent kisses to the inside of her thighs until Sol sagged back into the couch, thoroughly wrecked.

Only then did Lenora sit back on her heels, wiping her mouth slowly, her eyes dark and gleaming with satisfaction.

Sol cracked open one eye, cheeks flushed, chest heaving. She groaned, one hand flopping over her eyes.

“You’re too damn good at that.”

Lenora’s grin was feral.

“I had a very motivated teacher.”

Sol let out a breathless laugh, dragging her hand away from her face.

“Too motivated. There’s a chance I’ll never walk again.”

Lenora leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Sol’s knee, all mock sympathy.

“Guess that means you’ll be horizontal for a little longer, then.”

Sol shot her a look, half-hearted and wholly amused.

“Manipulative.”

Lenora just smirked.

“That’s just another word for ‘lawyer,’ darling.”

A moment of quiet passed between them, heavy with heat, but softened now, as they basked in it. Then Sol let out a disbelieving laugh.

“God, I needed that. For a second there, I thought we were on track to be early victims of lesbian bed death.”

Lenora blinked at her, brow furrowed.

“Is this another lesbian joke where I’m the unwitting punchline?”

Sol grinned lazily.

“Not a joke, unfortunately. It’s a very real, very tragic thing where two women spend so much time together that they start feeling more like roommates than lovers. The sex just… vanishes.”

Lenora’s eyes widened at the sheer stupidity of the statement before she found her voice.

“Sol, I need you to hear me very clearly.”

Sol’s gaze snapped to hers, the teasing ease replaced with focused attention.

“If there ever comes a day I don’t want to have sex with you,” Lenora continued, “I’ve either suffered a traumatic brain injury, or someone has taken over my body. Either way—put me down. Mercy kill. Bullet to the head. Whatever’s fastest.”

Sol burst out laughing, the sound bright and shameless as her grin spread wide. Her dark eyes sparkled with something wicked before eyeing Lenora up.

“Okay, well let’s test that, shall we?” she drawled, licking her lips slowly, deliberately, “because I can think of one way, I could get you off… while staying horizontal and only moving one part of my body.”

Lenora’s brows lifted, breath catching as Sol’s tongue flicked out again, trailing lazily over her bottom lip as her gaze dropped with an aching slowness to Lenora’s thighs before snapping back up to meet her eyes.

“Come here, my love,” Sol murmured, soft but commanding.

Lenora didn’t stand a chance.

Her breath hitched.

Her heart kicked against her ribs.

And in one smooth motion, she stood, stripped, and stepped forward, her body moving on instinct—drawn to Sol like gravity. Sol’s hands found her waist, fingers curling against her skin as she pulled her in and guided her up.

And then—

Lenora let out a ragged gasp as she straddled Sol’s face, her knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side. The moment Sol’s mouth met her, Lenora’s head fell back as a guttural moan caught in her throat.

The rest of the world?

Gone.

Wiped clean in one breathless second.

And somewhere, in the blur of pleasure and sharp, stunning want, one thought cut through the haze with crystalline clarity:

God, she fucking loved this woman.

20

Bad Faith Argument

Lenora had reluctantly allowed Sol to be vertical the next day, which, by extension, meant she also let her help with the Fieldstone account.

And much to Lenora’s horror—and begrudging respect—Sol apparently knew an alarming amount about California zoning codes. Something about visiting an aunt in San Diego who worked at City Hall and, at age twelve, being so bored she started reading whatever municipal paperwork was lying around.

Who the hell reads zoning regulations at twelve?

It was absurd.

And yet…it was also precisely the foothold Lenora needed to start scaling the bureaucratic hellscape Fieldstone had dumped in her lap. With Sol’s still weirdly encyclopedic knowledge and Lenora’s own legal firepower, they managed to double-time their way through the mess. By day’s end, every form was reviewed, cross-referenced, and submitted, ready for the commission to find on Monday morning.

Come hell or high water, construction would resume.

Fieldstone was—unsurprisingly—thrilled.

Lenora even threw Sol a bone, mentioning her by name during the debrief call.

“Sol Ruiz, a first-year associate at the firm, was instrumental,” she’d said casually, watching the way Sol’s eyes lit up across the room like someone had just handed her the moon. Lenora wasn’t sure if she was making up for Sol getting yanked off Vanguard…or if this was her emotional side of her taking a stance.

Either way, it was worth it for the smile Sol sent her.

Sol had been right during their argument earlier this week.

Lenora’s name was already on the wall. Sol was still carving hers into the stone.

And getting one of the wealthiest men in America to say, “Sol Ruiz.  I’ll remember that name,” was a hell of a place to start.

Naturally, they celebrated the win with takeout from a high-end restaurant, and Sol somehow managed to coax a few war stories out of her from her early associate days.

It was... nice.

Comfortable.

Easy in a way that still surprised Lenora, even now.

The sex that night?

Even nicer.

Lenora figured she had a better shot at contracting smallpox than falling victim to lesbian bed death—that was for damn sure.

It was, frankly, the exact weekend she needed something to anchor her after the whiplash of almost losing Sol.

A breath.

A recalibration.

A moment of quiet before the shift.

Because when Lenora woke Monday morning, long before the alarm, and long before the sun had even begun to flirt with the skyline, every nerve in her body lit up like a switchboard. That sharp, electric awareness that made it clear that this wasn’t just another Monday.

Today was the start of the biggest trial of her career.

She lay still for a moment in the dark, letting the weight of that truth settle in her bones. Then, slowly, carefully, she began to detangle herself from the limbs and warmth beside her.

Sol murmured in her sleep, soft and gibberish, but didn’t wake as Lenora slipped free.

Lenora moved soundlessly through the apartment, the quiet stretching around her like a held breath. She flicked on the bathroom light and squinted as it shattered the darkness, flooding the mirror with harsh, unforgiving truth.

She stared at her reflection—really stared. The faint lines at the corners of her mouth, the dark shadows still clinging to her eyes, the freckles scattered along the edges of her silk sleep top.

She looked vulnerable.

Mortal.

Human.

But not today.

Today, Lenora couldn’t afford warmth or softness or the quiet hum of domesticity still echoing from the weekend. Today, she had to be something sharper.

Harder.

She had to become the myth.

Forty-five minutes later, dressed in a black Saint Laurent suit that was tailored to perfection, The Wraith of Wall Street stepped out of the bedroom.

Ready for war.

By the time she stepped into the kitchen, the world outside was still hushed.

Sol had already slipped out of bed by the time Lenora emerged from the bathroom, and as she passed the guest room, she caught the distant sound of the shower running. That earned a slight lift of Lenora’s brow, but she didn’t linger on it.

Not this morning.

Instead, she followed the rich scent of coffee drifting through the air, her automatic brewer having come to life right on schedule.

She entered the kitchen and poured the coffee into her mug and travel tumbler.  Her mind was already turning and running through her opening statement. She’d memorized it last week. Hell, she’d probably rehearsed it in her sleep. But still, she went through it again. Not because she doubted herself, but because she needed to be perfect today.

She took a sip, eyes narrowing slightly as she adjusted a phrase in her head—not because it needed changing, but because she’d just found a better word.

Stronger.

Sharper.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulled her from mental editing.   

Lenora glanced up—and just like her damn coffee machine her heart lurched right on cue. 

Sol stepped into the hallway, fastening a black leather watch around her wrist. She wore a tailored gray suit over a black turtleneck, her hair falling in soft waves, makeup barely concealing the bruise and stitches above her eye.

She looked infuriatingly good.

Lenora froze, her brain struggling to reconcile the injured woman she’d ordered to take it easy with the one now dressed like she had somewhere to be.

Then it hit her.

Sol looked like she was going to work.

Which was absolutely fucking insane.

Lenora set her coffee down with a soft clink, her eyes narrowing. When she spoke, her voice was surprisingly calm.

“Why are you dressed like you’re going to the office?”

Sol fastened the last loop of her watch and looked up.

“Because I am,” she said simply.

Lenora blinked.

The audacity landed like a slap. For a second, she just stared. Then the disbelief burned off, replaced by a sharper emotion.

“Like hell you are,” she snapped, her voice cutting clean through the quiet of the kitchen.

Sol paused mid-step. For a second, she looked at Lenora in shock, and then her spine straightened as her gaze locked onto Lenora’s.  It was a stare that dared Lenora to try again.

“Lenora,” she warned.

“Sol,” Lenora returned, just as firm, not budging an inch.

She rounded the island, arms crossing tight across her chest. They stood like statues—two forces of will, colliding in silence.

It felt like a standoff.

One of them was going to break.

And it sure as hell wasn’t going to be Lenora.

Ironic, since she spoke first.

“You’re not going to work,” Lenora snapped. “You were just shot at. You have twelve stitches in your head, fifteen more in your arm, and a bruise that’s still showing through your concealer. Just because I let you help with Fieldstone yesterday doesn’t mean you’re cleared for a full return. You’re taking the week off. To heal.”

Sol’s jaw tensed, her eyes flashing.

“Lenora, I am cleared to work. There’s nothing in my discharge paperwork that says I can’t.”

Lenora knew this was going sideways fast, but she’d armored herself this morning for court, and now she couldn’t seem to switch it off.

“I’m sure I can get Henry on a call right now and correct that,” she fired back, already reaching for her phone.

Sol stepped forward, voice low with warning.

“Don’t. I let Henry examine me as a favor to you. But I’m not about to let you weaponize your ex-husband to keep me locked in your home like some prisoner.”

That stopped Lenora cold.

Her hand froze mid-reach.

“You feel like a prisoner here?”

Sol held her gaze, then looked away.

“Right now? Yeah, a little.”

Lenora had to visibly stop herself from flinching at that.

Sol exhaled, visibly reining herself in. When she looked back, her expression had softened into something almost pleading.

“Lenora,” Sol said softly, taking a step closer, “if I were anyone else at that firm, you’d expect me back today—no questions asked. You wouldn’t offer time off, let alone insist on it. Hell, if I didn’t show up, you’d probably say I wasn’t committed enough, that I didn’t want it badly enough—and write me off without blinking.”

Lenora instantly pushed back against the statement because she wasn’t anyone else.

She was Sol.

And that changed everything.

“It’s not the same,” Lenora argued back. “You’re not just another associate.”

Sol tilted her head, giving her a look that was equal parts tender and firm.

“I am, my love,” she said gently. “A first-year associate, same as the rest of the overworked and underpaid pack. The only difference is I happen to share your bed.”

She let that hang between them for a beat, soft but unflinching.

“That shouldn’t change the rules.”

The rational part of Lenora—the one trained to find order in chaos, to weigh facts over feelings—knew Sol was right. If this were anyone else, she’d expect them to show up, to push through, to prove they wanted it. Hell, even if their roles were reversed, Lenora would already be in the office.

But reason had no chance against the storm of protectiveness crashing inside her.

“I said no,” Lenora snapped, her voice rising. “Not today. Not after everything that’s happened. I won’t allow it.”

Sol’s body went still.

“You won’t allow it?” Sol repeated, her voice taking on a quality Lenora had never heard before.

Lenora’s stomach twisted. Her pulse pounded in her ears, but she didn’t back down.

She couldn’t.

“You heard me. You’re staying here—whether you like it or not.”

Sol’s eyes narrowed in warning. 

“I’m not a child, Lenora,” she snapped out, as she pointed down the hallway.  “I don’t need your permission to walk out the door.”

Lenora let out a sharp, bitter laugh, her hands gesturing wildly now, betraying every ounce of her fraying composure.

“Then stop acting like one!” she shouted.

The words rang through the apartment.

Sol didn’t flinch at them.  She just stood there looking at Lenora before shaking her head in disbelief. 

“What part of I need to work don’t you understand?” she said, quiet but insistent. “I can’t just sit here and do nothing. My mind doesn’t work that way. I need something to—”

And then Lenora snapped.

“If you walk out that door,” she said, voice splintering under the pressure of everything she refused to name, “don’t—don’t even bother coming back.”

The silence that followed wasn’t silence.

Time didn’t just pause.

It recoiled.

They didn’t hang, they flung, sharp-edged and toxic, and all Lenora could do was watch in horror as they landed.

Sol didn’t move.

But something in her face shifted.

Not fury.

Not indignation.

No spark of righteous anger to meet Lenora’s thunderstorm.

Just… hurt.

And god, it was worse than yelling. Worse than any screaming match. Lenora could have handled rage. Rage was familiar. Rage was something she could spar with and survive.

But this?

Sol looking at her like that.

It fucking annihilated her.

Her chest clenched so hard she thought for a moment she might be having a heart attack—which, frankly, would’ve been easier to deal with.

She opened her mouth and tried to say something.

Anything.

They caught in her throat like the stupid burrs from childhood, the kind that clung stubbornly to her pant legs after walking through overgrown fields. Each word felt barbed, snagged on fear and pride and too many years of silence when it mattered most.

Sol inhaled slowly, steadying herself—because one of them had to—and then, she did something Lenora wasn’t ready for.

She stepped back.

Just one step.

But to Lenora it felt like a thousand. Like a whole fucking mile cracking open between them. Because Sol always moved toward her. 

But this time, she stepped away.

And Lenora felt like the earth was shifting beneath her heels.

“You don’t get to do that,” Sol said, her voice cracking in a way that was so out of character. “You don’t get to use us as leverage. You don’t get to take what we have and twist it into one more thing you control. One more weapon in your arsenal.”

Lenora could feel the tears rising behind her eyes, but she didn’t dare let them fall.

Not yet.

Because Sol wasn’t done.

“You want to be scared? Fine. I’m scared too. But don’t weaponize your fear and call it love.”

She paused, her dark eyes locking onto Lenora’s, her expression a devastating mix of anger and heartbreak. 

“What you are to me, and what I am to you—that isn’t leverage. It’s not a bargaining chip. And if you think that’s what this is, then maybe you don’t love me like I thought you did.” 

The words hit like a gut punch.

Lenora flinched, physically flinched, her body reacting before her brain could catch up. Her breath caught as her hand flew back to brace herself on the counter, like it could keep her upright when the ground had just dropped out from under her.

Maybe you don’t love me like I thought you did.

The sentence rang out in her skull, loud and cruel and echoing, like someone had struck a gong inside her chest. Her mouth went dry, and her heart twisted violently in her chest.

Of course, I love you!

She wanted to scream it.

Reach out and shake it into her.

Carve it into the fucking walls if that’s what it took.

But all she managed was a strangled—

“Sol…”

It sounded like someone else had said it.

Someone small.

Weak.

Sol’s expression didn’t change. Her spine was straight and, her jaw locked. But her eyes were wide open, raw, waiting.

“Come on…don’t say that,” Lenora whispered, barely audible.

Her voice cracked like a damn porcelain cup.

“You know that’s not true.”

“Then say it,” Sol challenged instantly, calling her out.

Lenora opened her mouth.

And nothing came out.

She felt it—all of it—rising in her throat: the fear, the love, the fury, the need. But somewhere between her lungs and her lips, it jammed.

“I—”

She tried, but it just tapered off.

And with that, Sol’s shoulders dipped, barely. The shift was small, but it felt seismic.

Still, she waited—giving Lenora another opportunity.

Lenora’s heart pounded in her ears.

Say it.

Just fucking say it.

But she didn’t.

She couldn’t.

The silence between them turned thick and final.

And then Sol stepped back again, just one step but it felt like a verdict—one not in her favor.

“Right,” Sol said, her voice soft, but right there at the edge of breaking. She gave a small nod, not to Lenora, but to herself.

“I’m going to work.”

Then she turned and walked away.

Lenora didn’t move.

Couldn’t move.

Sol made it five steps before pausing at the edge of the hallway. Her back was still to her, her shoulders drawn tight, as if holding the weight of everything that had just happened.

Lenora’s breath caught because maybe—maybe—she’d turn around. Maybe she’d look back. Offer Lenora a lifeline, a second chance to fix it.

Say the right thing.

Do the right thing.

But Sol didn’t look back.

“I know you’ll be worried, so I’ll text when I get there,” she said, her voice devoid of warmth. A shell of the woman Lenora had spent the last week with. 

“Good luck at your trial,” Sol whispered.

And then she disappeared around the corner.

Still, Lenora stood there.

Like a statue.

Or a coward.

Mostly a coward.

Her legs wouldn’t work. Her mouth wouldn’t work. Her heart was working way too fucking hard—slamming against her ribs like it was trying to break itself out of her chest.

Say something.

Stop her.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she just stood there listening to the soft footfalls on hardwood.  To the creak of the closet door. To the whisper of fabric as Sol pulled on her coat.  Then came the unmistakable rattle of keys lifted from the bowl.

The jingle.

The slow turn of the lock.

The hinge groaning.

The door cracking open.

And Sol’s voice—God, that voice—low but still loud enough to crush Lenora’s lungs.

“I love you, Lenny.”

The words punched through the silence, carved through the air like they had weight.

Because Sol said it.

The thing Lenora couldn’t.

And now the words were just… there. Floating in the space where Sol should’ve been.

Then—click.

The door shut.

And that was it.

Sol was gone.

And Lenora?

Lenora was still standing in the middle of her goddamn kitchen, surrounded by silence, holding nothing but regret and the echo of a love she couldn’t bring herself to say out loud.

Goddamn it.

And then the tears fell.

21

Opening statements & Wounds

After fixing her makeup, the fight replayed in Lenora’s mind on a punishing, relentless loop. Every word she’d flung, every line Sol hadn’t crossed but should’ve, every moment where love could’ve softened her edges but didn’t. It all echoed back with cruel clarity.

Her chest ached and not in that poetic, abstract way, but in a tight, hollow, someone-kicked-a-hole-through-it kind of way.

She had been so fucking stupid.

Why couldn’t she just say it?

Why couldn’t she just tell Sol she loved her?

She knew the answer. Of course she did. It was a file she’d opened and closed too many times to pretend otherwise.

It wasn’t about Sol.

Not really.

It was about her.

About the disaster of a heart she’d kept in a box marked “Do Not Touch.” About the years she’d spent convincing herself that vulnerability was a trap, love was a liability, and the best way to stay safe was to put as much distance as possible between anything that could hurt her.

It was control.

It was always control.

That and the bone-deep fear that if she actually said it—if she gave Sol that truth—everything would come crashing down.

She needed to see her therapist.

Hell, she needed a lobotomy and a priest.

But what she really needed was—

Sol.

“Ms. Graves, are you ready?”

The voice came from far away, like someone shouting underwater. It barely registered.

Then—a sharp elbow to the ribs.

Lenora jolted, whipping her head to the side to see Vivienne staring at her like she had just grown a second head.

“Ms. Graves?” Judge Marks said again, his voice clipped with the strained patience of a man who did not like to repeat himself. “Are you ready to proceed?”

Shit.

Court.

She was in court.

And not just any court.  This was Brooke’s case.  The one that could put Vanguard’s entire foundation in a legal chokehold, and send Lenora’s to the fucking moon.

She swallowed hard, blinked fast, and anchored herself back in the moment.

Oak-paneled walls.

An American Flag.

The jury was watching her with curiosity.

Brooke’s grieving parents were in the front row.

She needed to get her shit together.

She straightened her spine, tugged her jacket into place like armor, and stood.

“Yes, Your Honor,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

She crossed the courtroom. Her body knew the choreography, but her brain?—well, that was another matter.

She stopped at the center.

Let the silence settle.

And then—

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” she began. “The case I will present against Vanguard is simple. They are responsible for the death of a young woman who had the courage to speak out. Brooke Sinclair.”

Her voice softened slightly as her eyes flicked toward Brooke’s parents.

“Brooke was raised in a small town in Ohio by two people who taught her to believe in justice, even when it was inconvenient. Even when it was dangerous.”

She let the words breathe, as she felt the jury lean in.

“She believed in doing what was right. And it cost her everything. It cost her, her life.”

Lenora paused for a beat and then turned.

“Vanguard must be held accountable.”

Simple.

Direct.

But no less powerful.

And then—bam—her brain betrayed her. Images of Sol flashed behind her eyes. That devastated look on her face—those final words.

What about you, Lenora?

What are you accountable for?

The question came like a punch to the sternum.

She reached for the lectern, gripping it tight to keep herself upright as the well-rehearsed opening statement suddenly went out the fucking window.

“Brooke Sinclair was brave,” she said, a little quieter now, finding the words as she spoke.  “She knew the risks of speaking out. She did it anyway. Because she believed the truth mattered more than fear.”

A tremor threatened her voice.

She bit it back.

“Fear,” she continued, “can make us hesitate. It can make us say things we don’t mean. It can make us choose silence when we should speak. But it doesn’t absolve us.”

Her eyes drifted to the floor, then back to the jury.

“We’re all responsible for what we do—even when we’re afraid. Especially when we’re afraid.”

And there it was.

The confession.

Not to them.

To herself.

“Vanguard’s fear of exposure, of losing power, led them to make decisions that killed Brooke Sinclair. And now, they must face the consequences. Because accountability is not optional.”

She took another breath before glancing back at Brooke’s parents.

“Justice is not about perfection. It’s about responsibility. It is about doing the right thing, even when it’s hard. Even when it hurts.”

Her voice gentled.

“And that’s what this case is about. Accountability. For Brooke. For what’s right. And for the kind of world, we all want to live in.”

She stepped back and let the silence take up space.

And when she turned to return to her seat, her stomach still knotted with guilt, she knew:  This trial wasn’t the only one that mattered.

Because when the verdict came in—in Lenora’s favor or not—Lenora Graves would still have to walk out of that courtroom, pick up the pieces of her own mess, and fight for the one thing she wasn’t sure she deserved.

Sol.

And this time, she’d have to find the words.
Even if it meant dragging them out of the bleeding edges of her own heart, one jagged syllable at a time.

22

Cross & Conquer

The rest of the day had unfolded exactly as Lenora predicted.  Kane and Grant were a well-oiled machine that started strong out of the gate. The defense trotted out a parade of high-profile witnesses: former generals, polished executives, congressmen, and senators. Each one sang Vanguard’s praises, painting the company as a champion of national security and global good.

Lenora hadn’t bothered trying to chip away at them. It wasn’t the time. Those witnesses were designed to be untouchable.  They were rehearsed, rehearsed again, and then wrapped in legal Kevlar.

She let them talk.

Let the jury bask in the façade.

Because she wasn’t here to poke holes.

She was here to shatter the foundation.

And she was saving her hammer for Brandon Vanguard.

The moment she was allowed to call her witnesses, she called out his name first. 

The courtroom immediately buzzed with anticipation. The jury sat up straighter. Even Kane looked momentarily uncertain, her usual arrogance slipping just enough for Lenora to catch the twitch in her jaw.

Because everyone thought Brandon was another powerhouse—another polished executive who’d help cement Vanguard’s golden halo.

But Lenora knew better.

Brandon Vanguard was the company’s Achilles’ heel, dressed in a thousand-dollar suit. And she was about to slide the knife clean through the tendon and watch the whole empire stumble.

As Brandon Vanguard took the stand and was sworn in, she approached him—building the foundation of her case. 

“Mr. Vanguard,” she began, her tone calm, “how would you describe your role in the company?” 

His answers were predictable, rehearsed. He talked about overseeing operations, maintaining relationships with key partners, and ironically, ensuring the company’s integrity.  

Lenora let him talk. 

She let him feel comfortable. 

Then she turned up the heat. 

“You’ve been arrested twice for DUIs and have one documented possession charge for cocaine,” Lenora pressed, her tone purposely sharper. “Would you say those incidents reflect the integrity you’ve mentioned?” 

Unsurprisingly, Kane sprang to her feet. 

“Objection, Your Honor. Relevance.” 

Lenora resisted the urge to roll her eyes, her control slipping just for a fraction of a second before she caught the warning look Judge Marks was sending her way over.

“Ms. Graves,” Judge Marks said with a look, “you’d better have a good reason for this.” 

Lenora masked her features with a practiced calm, turning to face the bench.  

“Your Honor, it’s relevant to establish a pattern of recklessness that extends beyond personal behavior,” she explained. “It speaks to his judgment as a leader within the company.” 

Her argument was clear and undeniably valid, but she knew it wouldn’t stop Kane from pushing back. 

As expected, Kane immediately asked to approach the bench. 

The sidebar was tense.  

Kane passionately defended Brandon and, by extension, Vanguard’s reputation. After all, his last name was the company’s name—a cornerstone of its brand. Allowing Lenora to tie him to any impropriety was dangerous. 

Lenora, in contrast, countered with precision, dismantling each of Kane’s points with her usual cutting but methodical approach. 

Judge Marks finally raised a hand, silencing them both. He glanced between the two attorneys, his lips pressing into a thin line.

And then his gaze settled on Lenora. 

That was all it took.  

One look, and she knew she had won. 

So did Kane, whose loud puff of frustration was impossible to miss as she stalked back to her table. 

“Answer the question, Mr. Vanguard,” Judge Marks ordered. 

Lenora didn’t suppress her smirk as she turned on her heel, heading back toward the center of the courtroom. Just for show—and because she couldn’t resist tweaking Kane and Grant—she shot them a quick, mocking wink. 

She didn’t need to see Kane’s reaction to know it landed. 

Turning her attention back to Brandon Vanguard, she tilted her head slightly, her smile faint but predatory, like a cat toying with a bird with a broken wing.  

“Do you need me to repeat the question, Mr. Vanguard?” she asked, her voice deceptively sweet. 

Her lips ticked upward just a fraction, as amusement flickered in her eyes as she watched him shift uncomfortably.  

The jury was watching.  

The gallery was watching.  

Everyone in the courtroom was waiting for Brandon’s response, and Lenora was going to make sure they remembered every second of it.

“I’ve made some mistakes in my past,” Brandon began, his voice humble, his eyes scanning the jurors as though addressing each one personally. “But those mistakes don’t define me, and they don’t define the work we do at Vanguard. I’ve grown, I’ve learned, and I’m proud of the strides I’ve made, both personally and professionally.” 

Lenora didn’t bother hiding the pointed glance she sent Kane’s way.  

Kane was perched in her seat, smiling like a proud parent, clearly pleased to see her rehearsed damage control coming to life on the stand. 

Lenora let out a slow breath and stepped forward towards Brandon.

“Would you agree,” she began, her tone careful, “that these incidents reflect poor judgment?” 

Brandon’s smile faltered, the confidence in his voice wavering slightly.  

“I’ve already acknowledged that those were mistakes,” he replied.  “Mistakes I deeply regret.” 

Lenora nodded, tilting her head as if she were about to let it slide. Then, she pivoted, her voice sharpening just enough to turn the room’s attention back to her. 

“Would you agree,” she pushed, “that these incidents also suggest a pattern of recklessness?” 

The creak of Kane’s chair as she stood was almost as loud as her sharp. 

“Objection, Your Honor! Counsel is badgering the witness and attempting to smear his character without establishing relevance to the case.” 

Lenora didn’t even flinch at her objection—she expected it. 

“Your Honor,” she argued back, fighting to keep her tone calm, “the witness’s pattern of behavior is directly relevant to this case. It speaks to his judgment and leadership, both of which are central to the actions of Vanguard and the events that led to Brooke Sinclair’s death.” 

Judge Marks leaned back slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line as he considered the argument. His gaze flickered to Brandon, who was clearly growing more uncomfortable by the second, before settling back on Kane and then Lenora. 

“I’ll allow it,” Judge Marks said finally. “But tread carefully, Ms. Graves.” 

Lenora inclined her head in acknowledgment.  

“Of course, Your Honor.” 

She turned back to Brandon, her gaze locking onto his. 

“Mr. Vanguard,” she said, her voice steady, “let’s circle back, shall we?”

She paused a moment before speaking.

“Would you agree that a leader’s decisions and personal behavior set the tone for the organization they lead?” 

Brandon’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.  

“Yes,” he answered slowly. 

“And would you agree,” Lenora continued, her tone hardening just slightly, “that a pattern of recklessness—whether personal or professional—can have consequences for the people who depend on that leader?” 

Brandon hesitated, his hands gripping the sides of the witness stand.  

“I… I suppose so,” he admitted, his earlier confidence now visibly waning. 

Lenora let the silence hang for a moment, then she stepped closer.

“Mr. Vanguard, let’s move on to your role at the company. As Vice President, you’ve signed off on numerous reports, correct?” 

“Yes,” Brandon responded with a nod.

Lenora returned to her desk, picking up the folder of documents Sol had prepared.  

“Specifically, this series of expense reports,” she said, holding them up for the court to see before sliding one to Brandon for him to look at. “These reports total millions of dollars over three years. Each one bears your signature, and yet the payments cannot be tied to any known accounts at your company or its affiliates. Can you explain that?” 

Brandon shifted in his seat.

“I—uh, I don’t typically handle accounting,” he answered. “Department heads usually manage that. I must have signed off without—” 

“Without knowing where millions of dollars were going?” Lenora interrupted, her tone incredulous. 

“I—”

“Do you typically sign off on payments, Mr. Vanguard?” 

“No,” he admitted, looking distinctly uncomfortable now. 

Lenora tilted her head, her expression a mixture of feigned confusion and disbelief.  

“Then please explain,” she said, stepping closer to the jury as she held up the stack of documents for them to see, “why your signature is on this same invoice account, every two weeks, for three years. Are you seriously telling this court you don’t know where this money is going?” 

Brandon’s face reddened, before his gaze darted toward Kane.  

Lenora noticed immediately and pounced. 

“Eyes on me, Mr. Vanguard,” she said sharply, her voice cutting through the tension as Brandon’s eyes shot to her, as did every other person in the courtroom. “Why are you looking at your counsel? Do you think they have the answers?  Are you not the Vice President of this company? Why don’t you have the answers?” 

“I—I don’t know,” Brandon stammered, his composure starting to unravel.

Lenora’s eyes narrowed, seeing the cracks starting to form.  She leaned forward slightly, her voice sharp and precise, each word landing like a hammer to those cracks. 

“Would you like to add perjury to your already extensive criminal history, Mr. Vanguard?” 

“Objection!” Kane’s voice cut through the courtroom as she snapped to her feet, her face flushed with barely contained anger. “Counsel is badgering the witness and making inflammatory statements. Move to strike!” 

Judge Marks raised his hand to silence her, and his expression turned stern as he looked at Lenora.  

“Ms. Graves, watch yourself. This is a court of law, not a theater. The objection is sustained, and the jury will disregard that last statement.” 

Lenora stepped back slightly, raising her hands in a gesture of mock surrender.  

“Of course, Your Honor. My apologies.” 

The judge’s eyes narrowed further.  

“Be careful, Ms. Graves. You’re already treading on thin ice.” 

Lenora nodded at that, but thin ice is where she thrived, and this is exactly where she wanted to be.   

She turned back to the jury and could feel the tension in the room, the way the jurors leaned forward, their attention fully captured. She knew that Brandon’s hesitation, his inability to answer, was already far more damning than anything she could say outright. 

She walked to the witness stand, placing the folder in front of him with a quiet thud, its contents splayed open to reveal stacks of documents bearing his signature. 

“Mr. Vanguard,” she began, gesturing toward the folder. “These payments—totaling,” she paused for effect, tapping her chin as if calculating, though the number was burned into her mind, “three hundred sixty-one million dollars over three years—bear your signature every two weeks. Are you seriously telling this court you have no idea where this money went or what it was for?” 

Brandon swallowed hard.  The movement was visible in the tightness of his throat.

“I—I don’t recall,” he said finally, his voice uneven, barely audible over the hush of the courtroom. 

Lenora arched an eyebrow, her skepticism practically dripping off her expression. She tilted her head slightly as if studying him, the pause amplifying the weight of his answer. 

“You don’t recall signing off on millions of dollars? Or you don’t recall where the money went? Or what was it used for?”

Her voice rose slightly as she leaned closer.

“What exactly don’t you recall, Mr. Vanguard?” 

“All of it,” Brandon muttered, his voice cracking. 

“All of it?” she repeated, her tone incredulous, turning the phrase into a weapon. She stepped closer, lowering her voice just enough to force the jury to lean in. “Or are you just saying that because you know the truth would be even worse?” 

“Objection!” Kane barked, practically leaping to her feet. 

“Withdrawn,” Lenora said quickly, raising her hands in a “don’t shoot” gesture before Judge Marks could admonish her.  

She cast a glance at Judge Marks, whose glare told her she was nearing his limit, and nodded with a brief, apologetic smile. But the faint curve of satisfaction at the corner of her mouth betrayed her real feelings. 

Turning slightly, she let her gaze sweep over the jury.  

Their faces told her everything.   

The seed of doubt was already blooming.  

Brandon’s polished facade was cracking, and the jury was beginning to see him for what he was. 

Lenora’s voice softened as she grabbed the documents from in front of them and held them in her hands.   

“Final question, Mr. Vanguard.  And I want to take you back to my earlier question. Now that we’ve established you authorized the transfer of three hundred sixty-one million dollars to an unknown entity, would you agree that this behavior aligns with what we could call a pattern of recklessness?” 

Brandon opened his mouth, but the words that came out were garbled, a disjointed mess. 

“I—I mean, no—you see—” 

Lenora let him flounder for a moment before offering him a placating smile that barely masked her disdain.  

“Question withdrawn,” she said smoothly, giving him an out while simultaneously underscoring his incompetence. 

The damage was already done.  

As she turned back to her table, she allowed herself a brief glance at Kane, whose tight-lipped expression spoke volumes. 

And Lenora knew she was finally on the board. 

“No further questions, Your Honor,” Lenora said, her tone final as she walked back to her seat. 

Kane— of course, wasted no time, standing immediately for redirect.

She clawed back what she could, framing Brandon as a high-level executive inundated with documents, signing hundreds of reports daily for a company worth 60 billion dollars. She argued that three hundred sixty-one million, while significant, wasn’t unusual in the scale of their operations. She added that Vanguard’s nature as a government contractor meant security clearances could restrict even the VP from knowing specific details. And lastly, the money might not appear in standard accounts because it was tied to classified work. 

Lenora frowned as she listened.  

Kane was good—very good.  

She knew how to spin the narrative and patch the holes. But as Lenora watched the jury, she could see it. 

The doubt still lingered. 

It was subtle, but it was there, and that was all she needed.  Doubt was her opening, and she would widen it even further tomorrow. 

Finally, Kane returned to her table, shooting Lenora a look that was equal parts frustration and warning. 

Judge Marks nodded curtly.  

“The witness is excused.” 

Brandon stepped down stiffly, his once-confident swagger replaced with rigid movements. The charm he’d exuded earlier was nowhere to be found. 

Lenora watched him retreat, a faint smile playing on her lips.  

Judge Marks adjusted his glasses, his expression unreadable as he surveyed the courtroom. With a quick glance at the time, he tapped his gavel once. 

“We’ll reconvene tomorrow at 9 a.m.,” he announced, his tone final. “Court is adjourned.” 

The courtroom buzzed to life almost immediately. Lawyers shuffled papers, the jury began filing out, and the spectators broke into quiet conversations.

Lenora exhaled a controlled breath, straightening her posture as she gathered her notes into a neat stack. 

Beside her, Vivienne was already packing up the case files.  

“Well,” she muttered under her breath, glancing at Lenora, “that was... something.” 

Lenora smirked faintly but didn’t reply. She slid her folder into her briefcase, snapping it shut before nodding toward the door. Together, they rose from their seats, stepping into the steady stream of people filtering out of the courtroom. 

Before heading into the hallway, Lenora made her way over to Brooke Sinclair’s parents, who had been sitting quietly in the first row throughout the trial. Brooke’s mother stood as Lenora approached, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair,” Lenora greeted them. “I’m happy with how today went. We made progress, and tomorrow we’ll push even harder.” 

Mrs. Sinclair nodded, her lips trembling as she reached out to squeeze Lenora’s arm.  

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For fighting for Brooke. For giving her a voice.” 

Lenora’s throat tightened, but she managed a faint smile.  

“We’re not done yet. Rest tonight—we’ll keep fighting tomorrow.” 

The Sinclairs exchanged a grateful glance before Mrs. Sinclair said,

“We’re heading back to the hotel for the night. But we’ll be here first thing in the morning.” 

Lenora nodded.

“Take care of yourselves. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

With a final squeeze of her arm, they left, their steps slow and heavy as they disappeared into the crowd. 

The corridor was crowded, a mass of lawyers, reporters, and onlookers bustling about. Lenora and Vivienne maneuvered their way through the throng. The hum of conversations surrounded them, as snippets of whispered speculation about the trial and Brandon’s testimony. 

“Lenora,” Vivienne said, her voice low and laced with amusement as they maneuvered through the bustling corridor, “I had forgotten how absolutely entertaining it is to watch you in court.” 

Lenora smirked, the compliment pulling her momentarily from her thoughts.  

“Entertaining, huh?”

Vivienne chuckled, shaking her head.  

“Oh, don’t be modest. You know exactly what you’re doing in there. Watching you dismantle Brandon Vanguard piece by piece? That was art.” 

Lenora’s smirk widened slightly as the memory surfaced, but it wasn’t just the thrill of today’s performance that lingered. It was the history between them, the way their paths had first crossed.  

Over a decade ago, they had been on opposite sides of the courtroom—a true David versus Goliath matchup. Vivienne had been Goliath, leading a powerhouse firm with resources Lenora couldn’t dream of at the time. But David—Lenora—had come out on top, not only winning the case but also earning Vivienne’s respect. 

That victory had led to the most surprising turn of her career.  Vivienne offering her a spot on the partnership track at her firm. Lenora had taken the opportunity without hesitation, and the rest, as they say, was history. 

But as Vivienne continued to praise her courtroom theatrics, Lenora’s mind drifted to a different battle, one she wasn’t sure how to win. 

Sol.

Even though she still felt the high of finally making headway in the Vanguard case, the nagging ache in her chest reminded her that she was behind— way behind—when it came to Sol. 

Work was easy.  

She understood how to read a courtroom, anticipate a move, counter a play. It was practically second nature. 

But bridging the gap she had caused in her relationship with Sol?  

That was foreign terrain.  

And unlike the law, there were no precedents in her arsenal to lean on because, simply, she never had a relationship like she had with Sol.  She never loved someone as much as she loved Sol.  

The thought of groveling—a necessity, she knew—made her stomach churn.  

And emotional conversations? That was a minefield she had spent her entire life avoiding.  

The thought of laying herself bare or voicing the words she had always kept locked away sent a ripple of anxiety coursing through her. Vulnerability was not her strength, and the prospect of confronting her own fears felt like voluntarily stepping into a pit of her worst nightmares. 

But she had, for all intents and purposes, royally fucked up this morning.  

And now, she needed to do whatever it took to make it right.  

To un-fuck what she had so spectacularly fucked up. 

Vivienne’s voice brought her back.  

“You’re quiet. That’s not like you after a win.” 

Lenora glanced at her, forcing a small smile.  

“Just thinking about tomorrow,” she lied smoothly. 

Vivienne’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she let it go.  

“Well, if tomorrow is anything like today, Madeline better be on her toes.” 

Lenora opened her mouth to respond, but before a single word could leave her lips, a body crashed into her.  Someone’s shoulder slammed into hers with enough force to send her stumbling.  

The impact knocked the air from her lungs, and she fought for balance. Of course, today had to be the day she chose to wear her highest heels—a statement piece for court that also doubled as a torture device. They were difficult enough to walk in on a good day, let alone when she was literally thrown off her feet. 

She staggered, arms flailing slightly, but before she could hit the ground, a hand gripped her arm, yanking her upright with surprising strength. 

“Jesus, Lenora, are you okay?” Vivienne’s voice was sharp, cutting through the commotion with genuine concern. 

Lenora barely registered her words as another voice, low and venomous, was speaking directly into her ear. 

“Sorry about your girlfriend’s face,” the voice said, low and slick with malice. The words sliced into her like a slowly dragged blade across skin.

Then a hand came around her arm, squeezing it—hard.

“She is a real beauty,” he went on. “Next time, I’ll tell my guys to aim lower. Make it an open-casket kind of goodbye.”

Lenora froze.

Not the kind of metaphorical way, but the real thing. 

Limbs locked.

Pulse deafening.

Every cell in her body was trying to play dead while her brain lit itself on fire.

Her eyes tracked slowly toward the voice, her rage pushing through the shock like heat melting through ice.

It was James Hughes.

Vanguard’s Head of Security.

He stood there so fucking cocky, a smirk tugging at his lips. His eyes gleamed with such smug satisfaction, and his posture was completely relaxed as though this was just another day for him.

Lenora’s mind raced.

This man was unhinged.

Not just bold—fucking insane.

He had confessed to Lenora.

Right here in public, in the middle of a courthouse hallway.

It wasn’t a mugging.

It had been a hit.

And now, the bastard was promising to finish the job.

Her stomach twisted as Sol’s bruised face flashed in her mind—blood, stitches, that look in her eyes when she tried to smile through the pain.

Rage rose in Lenora’s throat like bile.

She didn’t just want to bury Hughes in court.

She wanted to bury him six feet under the fucking ground.

James released her arm and began to turn away, his smirk widening as if he’d already claimed victory. 

And then it snapped. 

The rage boiled over, feral and uncontrollable, as a guttural sound tore from Lenora’s throat.

James paused mid-step, his smirk faltering as he turned back at the sound, amusement still flickering in his eyes.

Wrong move, asshole.

Lenora’s fist connected with his face in a blur. A sickening crunch rang out, loud and satisfying. The pain in her hand was instant and blinding, shooting up her arm like a flare.

“LENORA!”

Vivienne’s voice sliced through the air, sharp and horrified.

But Lenora didn’t register it. The rest of the courthouse may as well have been on mute. Her entire focus zeroed in on James, who stumbled back with a howl, both hands flying to his face. Blood poured through his fingers, soaking his cuffs.

“You bitch!” James howled, blood dripping down his face. “You broke my goddamn nose!”

Before Lenora could fire back or land another hit, her security detail moved in. Two hulking men stepped between them like twin walls.

Pandemonium followed.

The corridor erupted into shouts and gasps, chaos crackling in the air like static. Court staff darted out of offices.

Lenora wasn’t silent either.

“You fucking coward!” she screamed, struggling against Vivienne’s grip and the firm hand on her shoulder. “You tried to kill her! You fucking tried to kill her!”

She was shaking now—rage, adrenaline, fear—it all boiled over at once. From the corner of her eye, she saw Kane and Grant sprinting toward the chaos. Grant veered to James’s side, barking something about medical attention. Kane's eyes were locked on Lenora, stunned.

“Lenora, have you lost your damn mind?” she shouted.

Lenora ignored her.

Her vision was tunneled on James.

James lunged forward like an idiot, but the security team shoved him back with force.

“Back off, Mr. Hughes,” one of them warned.

The fact that he was still coming for her—after everything—just lit the fuse again.

“You want to threaten someone?” Lenora snarled. “Come for me, you miserable piece of shit. You stay the fuck away from her, do you hear me?”

And then—

“Enough!”

The word hit like a gavel.

Everything stopped.

Heads whipped toward the voice. Silence collapsed over the hallway like a curtain dropping.

Judge Marks stood in the doorway of his chambers, his robe hanging askew, his face thunderous. He scanned the scene—James bleeding, held back by security. Lenora, wild-eyed, chest heaving, and her hand smeared with blood.

Marks’s gaze narrowed on her immediately. 

“Counsel,” he said, surprisingly calm. “In my chambers. Now.” 

23

Hostile Witness

The judge’s chambers practically vibrated with tension. Lenora stood there, spine straight, jaw locked, and hands clenched so tight she could feel the tremble in her bones.

Well—correction.

One hand was clenched.

The other felt like it had been run over by a truck. A truck named James Hughes’s Stupid Face.

“Fuck,” she hissed through gritted teeth as a bolt of pain shot up her arm. Vivienne hovered next to her, gripping her wrist with infuriating gentleness as she prodded at the knuckles.

“I think you broke your hand,” Vivienne said, her voice tinged with concern.

Lenora clenched her jaw tighter.

“I’m fine,” she snapped, snatching her hand back, though the throbbing begged to differ.

She breathed through her nose hard to keep herself from crying out.

Before Vivienne could argue, the door slammed shut behind them with the kind of finality usually reserved for prison cells.

Everyone jumped.

Judge Marks stood by the door, his expression one of fury and disbelief.  His robes flared slightly as he crossed the room like Severus Snape about to descend on a group of first-year Gryffindors.

“Does anyone want to explain,” he thundered, eyes sweeping over them, “what the hell just happened out there?”

Lenora swallowed hard, the sharpness of his tone cutting through her lingering rage. She’d pissed off Judge Marks before—plenty of times—but she had never seen him this mad.

Suddenly, she felt like she was back in high school, standing in the principal’s office after she’d kneed the star quarterback in the balls for grabbing her ass. She’d gotten a week-long suspension for that one. 

But this wasn’t high school, and Judge Marks wasn’t a principal. He was the presiding authority over the most important case of her career, and she had just jeopardized it. 

“I’d like to know that myself,” Kane interjected, her voice tight with barely restrained anger. “Your Honor, my client’s head of security was assaulted in the hallway by opposing counsel. This is unacceptable—” 

“Your client’s head of security threatened me,” Lenora snapped, unable to hold back.

“Enough!” Judge Marks bellowed, his voice echoing off the wood-paneled walls, before he pointed to the chairs in front of his desk. 

“Both of you. Sit.”

Lenora pursed her lips, but dropped into the nearest leather chair, though dropped felt generous—she folded into it with all the grace of kicking a filing cabinet. Vivienne stayed standing behind her, one hand anchored firmly on Lenora’s shoulder to keep her in place.

Across the way, Kane folded herself more gracefully in the chair, while Grant hovered behind her like a human paperweight.

Judge Marks began to pace behind his desk, hands clasped tightly behind his back, likely to prevent himself from hurling the Rules of Professional Conduct book at Lenora. His jaw worked furiously as he muttered under his breath, clearly searching for the right combination of words.

“Okay—let me get this straight,” he said finally, eyes landing on Lenora. “Opposing counsel physically assaulted a prospective witness in the middle of my courthouse?”

He stopped pacing to glare directly at Lenora.

“Do you have any idea what this does to the credibility of my courtroom? Or this trial?  Or your continued ability to practice law in the future?”

Lenora opened her mouth but then promptly shut it when she felt Vivienne’s hand tighten slightly on her shoulder—a silent warning that screamed: let the grown-ups do the talking.

“Judge Marks,” Vivienne said smoothly, her tone a masterclass in crisis management, “last week, Ms. Graves received photographs from an unidentified source threatening her son and her partner. The images were taken in both public and private settings, clearly demonstrating the use of surveillance on them. Accompanying those photos was a note warning Ms. Graves to drop the Vanguard case or face the consequences.”

Marks’s eyes widened at that, the anger in his expression softening slightly as concern edged in. He straightened, and his tone was less biting as he addressed Vivienne. 

“Why wasn’t this reported?”

Vivienne’s mouth tightened into a flat line before she replied.

“We couldn’t verify that the threat came directly from Vanguard. So, instead of escalating, we took immediate precautions. We hired security to protect Ms. Graves’s family. However,” her voice dipped lower, “two days ago, Ms. Graves’s partner, Ms. Ruiz, was shot at. It was staged as an attempted mugging.”

Kane scoffed so hard it practically echoed.  She leaned forward, waving a dismissive hand like she was fanning away smoke.

“This isn’t a spy thriller, Vivienne. My client had nothing to do with this alleged mugging. Let’s not turn this courtroom into a Netflix drama.”

Lenora’s control buckled.

The growl that slipped from her throat was not entirely human.

“Tell that to James Hughes,” she snapped, her voice crackling with fury. “The man body-checked me in the hallway, admitted to orchestrating the shooting, and then had the audacity to threaten to shoot her again!”

Kane’s eyes flickered—just for a moment. A brief crack in the mask. Then she blinked, reset, and slid her expression back into its usual cocktail of disdain and plausible deniability.

"Did anyone else hear this alleged ‘confession,’ Lenora?" she retorted, her voice dripping with condescension. "Because I call hearsay. You’re just grasping at straws to win this case by spinning wild accusations." 

Lenora was on her feet before Vivienne could stop her. Her injured hand slammed onto the table—an act of pure rage and zero wisdom. Pain shot up her arm like the grand finale in a firework show, but she didn’t flinch.

“That son of a bitch threatened my family!”

“Enough!”

Judge Marks thundered.

“Ms. Graves, sit down. I am already fining you ten thousand dollars for your actions, warranted or not, I will not tolerate violence in my courthouse.”

Lenora scoffed, a bitter laugh slipping out before she could help it.

“Only ten thousand?” she said, gesturing toward the door with mock cheer. “Well, shit. Call him back and I’ll make it an even hundred.”

Vivienne sighed—loudly.

“For the love of God, Lenora, sit,” she snapped through gritted teeth, her hand clamped down on Lenora’s shoulder with all the force of a seasoned handler wrangling a feral cat. Then she shoved her back into the chair with zero ceremony and even less patience.

Judge Marks pressed his lips into a deadly line.

“That’s another ten thousand, Ms. Graves.”

Lenora opened her mouth, something gloriously unhinged locked and loaded, but before she could let it fly, Vivienne leaned over and flicked her ear—hard.

Lenora blinked in shock, turning on her.

“Did you just—”

“A fine she will pay,” Vivienne interrupted smoothly

Lenora glared at her, but Vivienne didn’t so much as glance in her direction. Her focus was entirely on Judge Marks. 

The judge's eyes narrowed as he regarded Vivienne, the tension in the room thickening. There was a history between them—anyone could see it.

Mutual respect, yes, but also something else.

If Lenora didn’t know better, she’d suspect there had been a flicker of romance between them long ago. 

Judge Marks exhaled heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose as though willing himself to regain control. Finally, he shifted his attention to Kane, his expression darkening to something far more severe.

"And you, Ms. Kane," he said, a very real warning edging his tone, "if I find out your client’s people are involved in even half of what’s being alleged here, I will personally see to it that this trial doesn’t just sink your case—it will destroy your career." 

Kane bristled, her jaw tightening, her fingers twitching against the arm of her chair, but she wisely kept her mouth shut. 

Judge Marks straightened behind his desk, looking as though the weight of the trial, and now this debacle, had aged him ten years in the span of five minutes. His eyes moved between the attorneys, heavy with exasperation, before he finally sat down in his chair. 

“Thankfully, the jury was deliberating at the time, so they did not witness any of this mess. From where I stand, the trial can continue as planned.” 

Kane’s head snapped up at that. 

“Your Honor,” she began, her voice smooth but tinged with barely concealed frustration, “this situation has irreparably compromised the proceedings. The actions of opposing counsel—physically assaulting my client’s employee in the courthouse, no less—are grounds for dismissal. How can we expect a fair trial under these circumstances?” 

Lenora scoffed audibly, her fury bubbling to the surface as she opened her mouth to retort. 

“Oh, please—”

But Vivienne cut in smoothly. 

“Your Honor, opposing counsel’s claim is absurd,” Vivienne said, her gaze fixed on Judge Marks, ignoring Lenora and Kane entirely. “Ms. Graves responded to a clear and imminent threat made against her family. While her response may not have been ideal, dismissing the case would reward the very intimidation tactics being used against her. That would set a dangerous precedent.” 

Silence descended over the room. 

Judge Marks leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing as he studied Vivienne, then Lenora, and finally Kane.  

“I agree with Mrs. Cross,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. 

Kane stiffened, her jaw tightening further, but she didn’t dare interrupt. 

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Judge Marks continued as he turned to Lenora.  “Your firm will provide me with all evidence regarding these threats by tomorrow morning. If you’re alleging someone admitted to a crime, I expect a formal report filed with courthouse security before you leave this building. Am I clear?” 

Lenora’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she nodded.  

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Marks’s gaze shifted to Kane, his tone turning colder.  

“And you, Ms. Kane—you will get your client’s people under control. If I hear even a whisper of harassment or intimidation from Vanguard or anyone associated with this case, I will not hesitate to issue sanctions that will cripple your defense.” 

The silence that followed was deafening. 

“And let me be very clear—if there’s another outburst like that, none of you will like how I handle it. Now get out.”

Vivienne was already moving, her hand landing firmly on Lenora’s arm like she was steering a loaded weapon away from a fresh target. Lenora let herself be guided, her body still buzzing with leftover fury, her hand throbbing like a bastard, and her jaw clenched so tight she was probably one grinding session away from dental reconstruction.

She didn’t say a word.

Not yet.

The door slammed behind her, and Lenora’s thoughts erupted like a pressure cooker.

Pain.

Rage.

Fear.

Repeat.

Her palm pulsed in time with her heartbeat, and every image of James Hughes’s smug, sociopathic face just threw gasoline on the fire in her chest.

Beside her, Vivienne was already on the phone, voice calm and commanding. Lenora caught the name "Imani" and groaned internally.

Oh, perfect. She told Imani. Which meant by lunchtime, the entire firm would know. 

She was mid-eyeroll when a familiar voice snapped her out of it.

“Vivienne! Lenora!”

Lenora turned to see Mei sprinting from the elevators, her eyes wide and locked on Lenora.

Vivienne clicked off her call.

“Yes, Imani—I’ll keep you posted,” she muttered before lowering the phone and shifting back into full war general mode.

“Are you done with your motion hearing?” Vivienne asked Mei, as if this were a normal Tuesday and not the aftermath of a courtroom brawl.

Mei nodded, eyes still on Lenora, cataloging the wreckage—her bloody knuckles, wild hair, and general “I’m going to burn this building to the ground” aesthetic.

“Good,” Vivienne said quickly before nodding to Lenora. “Take her to Mount Sinai. She’s broken her hand.”

Mei gasped.

“You what?”

“I’m not going to the hospital,” Lenora snapped, already turning toward the elevator like she could outrun common sense.

Vivienne stepped directly into Lenora’s path. She had to be at least four inches shorter—maybe more with the heels differential—but she wielded her authority like a crowbar.

“You will get your ass to the hospital right now,” she hissed, voice low, tight, and terrifyingly maternal. “Or I will drag you there by the ear.”

Lenora’s jaw dropped, outrage on the tip of her tongue.

But Viviene beat her to it and stepped closer, narrowing her gaze like a sniper lining up a shot.

“You want to test me, Lenora Graves? Try it. Let’s see how that unshakable reputation of yours holds up when I haul you down the courthouse steps by your ear like a disobedient toddler. Because I will do it.”

For a second, Lenora was too stunned to speak.

She could only stare as Vivienne reached for her ear like she meant it.

Lenora slapped the hand away with her uninjured one.

“Okay, Mom,” she snapped sarcastically. “Jesus. I said fine.”

Vivienne didn’t dignify it with a response. She simply crossed her arms and arched a brow, the smug air of someone who just won the argument and the moral high ground.

Mei snorted beside them, her worry softening into a smirk.

But then Vivienne turned her gaze on her, and just like that, Mei’s smirk vanished.

“Do you still have that contact at the FBI?” Vivienne asked.

Mei straightened immediately, her expression tightening. As a former DA, she had an impressive Rolodex of federal connections—one that the firm wasn’t shy about leveraging when needed.

“I do,” Mei said slowly, eyes flicking to Lenora, then back to Vivienne. “Why?”

“Good,” Vivienne responded. “Have them meet you at the hospital. We’re handing over everything we have on Vanguard. Today.”

That was enough to make Lenora’s blood run cold.

She turned sharply, voice hard.

“No—”

“It’s not up for debate,” Vivienne said, cutting her off. Her tone wasn’t loud, but it never had to be.

“Imani agrees,” she added, her stare never wavering. “A line was crossed today. This wasn’t a scare tactic. They tried to kill Sol. So, we’re done playing chess. This is war—and we’re calling in the cavalry.”

Lenora’s stomach twisted. Her instincts screamed against it. Turning it over now, in the middle of the trial, felt like flinging years of strategy into a black hole and hoping the Bureau wouldn’t misfile, misstep, or—worse—get bought.

And with Vanguard’s money?

That wasn’t paranoia.

That was statistics.

It was always the plan to involve the FBI afterward.

Never before.

But.

Vivienne was right.

This wasn’t about strategy anymore.

It was survival.

Lenora clenched her good fist, jaw tight. After a long, bitter pause, she gave a single, clipped nod.

“Fine.”

Mei exchanged a glance with Vivienne, her expression grim as she pulled out her phone.  

“I’ll make the call on the way to the hospital. They’ll likely meet us there.” 

Vivienne nodded curtly.  

“Good. I’ll stay behind to fill out the report for courthouse security and ensure Judge Marks gets all the documented threats he’s requested. We can’t afford to push him any further when he’s already on edge.” 

Lenora narrowed her eyes, crossing her arms as her hand throbbed painfully at the movement. 

“Speaking from personal experience, Vivienne?” she quipped, her tone biting. 

Vivienne arched an eyebrow, her lips twitching with the faintest hint of amusement.  

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she replied smoothly, moving her eyebrows suggestively. 

Lenora’s face twisted in mock disgust. The mental image that flashed in her head was like imagining her parents having sex—something she wanted to erase immediately.  

“Actually, no. Keep it to yourself,” she muttered, fake gagging for effect. 

Mei leaned closer, her grin wicked.  

“For the record—I absolutely want to know.”

Lenora let out an exaggerated sigh and rolled her eyes.

“Of course you do, you little freak,” she muttered, shaking her head. She flexed her hand, instantly regretting it as pain shot through her knuckles like a firecracker.

“Ugh. I can’t believe I’m saying this but get me to the damn hospital. My hand feels like it’s auditioning for a role on Grey’s Anatomy.”

Vivienne’s smirk vanished, replaced by sharp concern. She stepped back, already slipping into command mode again.

“Go. I’ll handle the mess.”

Mei and Lenora exchanged a brief nod before heading for the elevator. As they waited, Mei glanced down at Lenora’s hand, swollen, bruised, and streaked with drying blood.

Her eyebrows shot up.

“Jesus, what the hell did you do?”

The elevator dinged, the door opened, and they stepped inside. Mei hit the ground floor button, then turned, waiting for the answer.

Lenora leaned casually against the wall, not even looking her way as she spoke, her tone bone-dry.

“I punched Vanguard’s head of security in the face.”

Mei blinked.

“You did what?!”

And then the doors closed. 

24

Contusions and Conclusions

Lenora sat on the edge of the hospital bed in a private ER room, her hand wrapped in an ice pack and her patience wearing thinner than the paper gown they tried to get her to wear.

She stared at the doorway, watching as Mei was deep in conversation with two FBI agents. Lenora had already relived the courthouse chaos in excruciating detail—twice—and had zero interest in playing narrator again. She trusted Mei to handle it. Still, she was bored, so she might as well watch.

Until suddenly, another figure appeared at the edge of the hallway—Imani.

Lenora instinctively sat up straighter, like a kid who’d been caught red-handed and was already rehearsing her defense. Mei and Imani exchanged words too quiet to hear, and then Mei angled her head toward the room.

Imani turned in her direction, eyes locked on her.

Lenora didn’t flinch, but her internal organs braced for impact. The look Imani gave her was... layered.

Relief that Lenora was in one piece, yes.

But underneath that?

There was a very clear what the hell were you thinking energy that could peel paint.

Here it comes.

The scolding.

The dressing-down.

But Imani didn’t move—instead, she just lifted a brow, and—

Wait.

Why was she smirking?

And that’s when a figure stepped into the room, and Lenora’s breath caught.

Sol.

And she did not look happy.

Which, fine—she hadn’t exactly been radiating joy when she left this morning either. But this… this was different. This was focused.

Controlled.

Like the kind of calm that came right before a Category 5 hurricane..

Lenora opened her mouth to say something—anything—but her brain short-circuited.

Should she apologize?

For this morning?

For now?

For being a human disaster in general?

Or should she just shut up and thank Sol for showing up at all?

The silence dragged, thick and oppressive.

Sol didn’t look surprised by Lenora’s flailing. Instead, she let out a sigh, walked in, and closed the door behind her.  She moved to the edge of the bed and stood there, arms crossed, eyes scanning Lenora.

Her gaze lingered on Lenora’s face, then dropped to the bruised, swollen wreck of her hand.

A sharp exhale through the nose followed.

“You mangled my favorite part of your body,” she muttered.

Lenora’s heart clenched like a fist.

Sol had a thing for her hands.

Hell, the first time she touched her, she’d gone straight for them—fingertips massaging tendons like she was reading scripture in Braille. Even after that night, it never stopped. On the couch, in bed, halfway through a mind-numbing documentary, Sol’s hands always found hers.

And then there was Sol’s very vocal appreciation for what Lenora’s hands could do between her thighs. That had definitely earned them top billing.

But now?

Now, Lenora’s dominant hand looked less like a precision instrument and more like a childhood bike someone forgot in the driveway, only to be backed over by a truck.

Mangled.

Bent.

Completely unrideable.

Lenora swallowed the lump in her throat and forced her vocal cords to work.

“Well… good news—I came with a spare.”

She lifted her uninjured hand and gave a feeble little jazz hand.

“Limited range, but still functional.”

Sol didn’t laugh. Didn’t even smile. Her lips just pressed into a thin, unreadable line—and for a moment, Lenora braced for a scolding.

Instead, Sol reached out and took her uninjured hand with a startling gentleness, cradling it like something fragile. Her fingers moved slowly, tracing Lenora’s palm, gliding over the creases like she was trying to memorize them. Her thumb passed over each knuckle in a soft, grounding rhythm that made Lenora’s breath catch in her throat.

When Sol finally looked up, her dark eyes hit like a tangible force. 

Because there it was.

Worry.

Fury.

Tenderness.

And—

Love.

So much love it practically hummed between them, filling the space like static.

“Are you okay?” she asked, voice so low it was almost a whisper.

Lenora blinked hard.

Her throat tightened.

God, she wanted to lie.

To put on a brave face and deflect.

But instead, the truth slipped out.

“I’ve been better.”

Sol nodded, slow and unreadable, though her eyes softened—just a touch.

It wasn’t forgiveness, not yet.

But it was something.

Like a quiet acknowledgment that they’d both seen better days.

And Lenora knew exactly whose fault that was.

After a long beat, Sol finally spoke.

“Did you really punch someone at the courthouse?”

Her tone was half disbelief, half grudging curiosity—like she wasn’t sure whether to be furious or impressed.

Lenora winced, the corner of her mouth twitching into a dry smile.

“Imani didn’t already broadcast it to the group chat?” she asked. “I’m shocked. That’s so off-brand for her.”

Sol shook her head, brow arching.

“No. But it’s already echoing through the office like gospel. Imani said you were at Mount Sinai. So, she let me ride with her on the way here.”

She reached over and laced their fingers together, her grip firm.

“Lenora,” she said softly. “What happened?”

Lenora dropped her gaze to their hands, grateful for the anchor. Her voice came out low, edged with the exhaustion she hadn’t let herself feel until now.

“It was James Hughes.”

Sol’s expression sharpened instantly.

“Seriously?” she asked, alarm cutting through her calm exterior.

Lenora nodded.

“He shoulder-checked me outside the courtroom. Got right in my face.”

Her voice hitched.

“And then he admitted it. The mugging wasn’t random. He ordered it. You were the target.”

Sol stiffened, fingers tightening around Lenora’s hand.

“He said he’d come after you again,” Lenora added, the words catching like thorns in her throat. “Just… casually. Like he was so certain.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Lenora could feel it settle over them like a weighted blanket, too heavy to throw off. She matched Sol’s energy and squeezed her hand tighter, needing the contact, needing her to be there still.

Real.

Warm.

Breathing.

Sol’s gaze flicked to the doorway where Imani and Mei were still deep in conversation with the FBI. Her eyes narrowed with calculation before shifting back to Lenora.

Lenora cleared her throat, breaking the silence.

“And, uh… yeah. I may have lost my temper a bit.”

Lenora’s sheepishness lasted all of two seconds before a slow, unmistakable grin tugged at her mouth.

“Pretty sure I broke his nose,” she added, the pride in her voice doing a poor job of pretending to be remorseful. The memory hit her like a dopamine rush—James Hughes’s face frozen in shock, blood gushing like a cheap horror movie.

Honestly, she’d probably savor it forever.

Sol gave her a long look, equal parts disbelief and barely concealed amusement. Her mouth opened, but then she sighed instead and reached out, her fingers brushing against Lenora’s cheek.

The second Sol’s palm touched her cheek, something in Lenora finally gave way. Her whole body slackened like someone had cut the tension wire that was keeping her upright. She leaned into the touch without hesitation, eyes locking on Sol’s.

“Sol…about this morning—”

But of course, the universe had other plans.

The door swung open with all the subtlety of a marching band, and in walked the doctor, nose buried in his tablet.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Thomas—”

Lenora rolled her eyes so hard she nearly sprained something.

Of course, it was Dr. Man-Baby. In a hospital the size of a small country, she still managed to get stuck with Sol’s barely-legal resident from Friday’s ER visit.

What were the odds?

No, seriously—she wanted someone to run the numbers.

Dr. Thomas finally looked up, his gaze lifting from the screen and landing on her.

Then on Sol.

Then back to her.

Recognition hit him like a brick to the face.

Lenora didn’t move.

She didn’t have to.

The dead-eyed stare she leveled at him said everything.

His Adam’s apple bobbed.

“You know what,” he stammered, already taking a half-step back, “I’m just gonna…go get my attending.”

He pointed vaguely over his shoulder, turned, and fled.

Lenora watched him go, unimpressed but vaguely satisfied.

The door clicked shut behind Dr. Thomas, and Lenora was still smirking when Sol leveled a look at her.

“You enjoyed that way too much,” Sol said, half amused, half judgmental.

Lenora didn’t bother playing innocent.

“Oh, immensely.”

Sol huffed a laugh, shaking her head.

“He looked exactly like the other first-years when we saw you that first day.”

Lenora cocked a brow.

Sol just grinned.

“I remember the other associates spent hours debriefing after you left,” Sol said, amused. “Like shell-shocked survivors swapping war stories. Trying to figure out how they were supposed to survive a year under Lenora Graves.”

Lenora’s smirk deepened, but her mind replayed the memory of seeing Sol for the first time. Sol hadn’t flinched. Just stood there unfazed, gum in her mouth, watching Lenora like it was any other day.

“But I didn’t scare you,” Lenora said, barely above a whisper.

Sol met her gaze, something warm and steady in her expression. She reached out, fingers grazing Lenora’s cheek.

“I don’t scare easily, my love.”

Lenora let out a breath through her nose. No. No, she didn’t.

Which, in hindsight, explained a lot. Like why Sol was still standing here after Lenora’s full-scale meltdown that morning, after being steamrolled, guilt-tripped, and emotionally strong-armed. Most people either crumbled under Lenora’s pressure or ran in the opposite direction.

But Sol?

She pushed back.

And then came back for more.

“Sol…about this morning—” Lenora started, trying again.

Naturally, the universe picked that exact moment to interrupt her again.

The door creaked open, and Lenora had to physically restrain herself from groaning out loud. Of course. It was like the cosmos couldn’t tolerate her having a sincere emotional moment without some kind of divine sabotage.

A new doctor stepped into the room—this one, thankfully, looked old enough to legally rent a car.

“Hello, Ms. Graves. I’m Dr. Fredrickson.”

Trailing behind her, predictably, was Dr. Thomas—hovering just behind her like a sheepish intern trying to merge with her lab coat.

Dr. Fredrickson consulted her tablet, tapping briskly before turning it around and holding it up.

“Based on your X-rays, you’ve definitely fractured the metacarpals in your hand,” she said, pointing to a very clear break. “I’ll need to manually reset the bones to restore circulation before we cast it.”

Lenora let out a huff of frustration, casting a sidelong glance at Sol before nodding.

"Well that explains the pain,” deadpanned Lenora.

Dr. Fredrickson gave a faint smile.

“Do you want something for the pain?”

Lenora shook her head immediately, her answer firm. She wanted to stay clear-headed—for tonight, for whatever conversation the universe might finally stop interrupting.

“No,” she said, nodding toward her swollen hand. “Just get it over with.”

Dr. Fredrickson arched an eyebrow, a flicker of impressed respect crossing her face before she gave a nod and turned to a nearby tray, methodically beginning to arrange supplies. Gauze, splints, alcohol wipes, casting materials—it was like watching someone set up for a magic trick Lenora wanted no part of.

“Can I stay?” Sol asked, voice quiet but steady, her eyes watching the doctor.

Dr. Fredrickson didn’t miss a beat.

“As long as Ms. Graves is okay with it.”

Lenora nodded quickly and glanced at Sol, her expression screaming: please don’t leave.

The doctor finished organizing the tray, every movement efficient and practiced. Then she stepped beside the bed and held out her hand.

“Let me see it.”

Lenora reluctantly lifted her injured hand and offered it. Dr. Fredrickson took it gently, but even that light touch sent a bolt of fire up Lenora’s arm. She hissed through her teeth, biting down on a groan as the doctor prodded carefully, searching for the right angle to reset the break.

After a moment, the doctor paused and looked up, expression serious.

“This is going to hurt,” she said bluntly, then turned her gaze to Sol. “Do you want to hold your—”

She hesitated.

Lenora braced herself.

Please don’t say daughter.

Please don’t say daughter.

“—partner’s hand?” the doctor finished diplomatically.

Lenora let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

“She’s my girlfriend,” she said quietly.

Her eyes stayed on her own lap, like saying it too boldly might shatter something delicate between them. She’d called Sol ‘family’ earlier in front of Judge Marks, but that had been all adrenaline and instinct.

This wasn’t that.

This was… a still moment.

A choice.

Her eyes flickered up hesitantly to Sol, watching as Sol absorbed her words.

Sol blinked as something warm flickered in her eyes. She didn’t say anything—she didn’t have to.  She just reached out and took Lenora’s good hand in both of hers.

And didn’t let go.

“Okay,” the doctor said after a few moments, his fingers pausing on a particularly sensitive spot. He lingered there, his touch light but deliberate. “I need to reset the fracture. This is going to hurt.” 

Lenora exhaled sharply, her whole body tensing as she braced herself. The pain was already radiating up her arm felt horrible—how much worse could it really get?

Sol’s hand tightened around hers, steady and warm. The moment their fingers interlocked, something in Lenora settled. It didn’t dull the pain exactly, but it softened the edges of her panic, like a tether holding her to the surface.

“Just do it,” she muttered.

Dr. Fredrickson nodded, positioning her hand with clinical precision.

“I’ll count down,” she said gently, as if that made any damn difference.

“Three… two—one.”

And then she pressed.

White-hot pain shot through Lenora like a bolt of lightning.

“Motherfucker!”

25

Full Disclosure

Hours later, Lenora and Sol stepped through the front door. Lenora’s arm was wrapped in a cast up to the elbow, which felt like overkill for a few broken bones in her hand. For all the advances in modern medicine—robotic surgeries, gene editing—apparently no one had circled back to revise the medieval art of papier-mâché limb entombment.

She was going to Google it tonight. There had to be a better option out there.

With a groan, she reached for her heels, her feet practically screaming at her for not doing this hours ago, only to realize mid-motion that her dominant hand was out of commission. She paused, glared at her cast, and then awkwardly switched hands and bent down.

But before she could make it, Sol was already there, crouching in front of her, gently tugging off one heel and then the other.

Lenora stilled.

The last time this happened, the roles were reversed. Sol was hurt and exhausted, and Lenora had quietly knelt and taken care of her. And now—here Sol was, doing the same, unprompted, without hesitation.

Her heart gave an odd little jolt, and a slow warmth crept through her chest. It wasn’t the usual Sol-induced heat—the one that set her body on fire, or the electric buzz when they touched, or even the floaty tenderness when they curled up together in bed.

This was something else.

Something deeper.

Sol taking care of her made her feel…safe.

And that was terrifying.

And kind of—God help her—wonderful.

Sol helped her out of her heels and then her jacket, before they moved together through the quiet house, not speaking. The ride home had passed the same way—wordless. Just the two of them in the back of Lenora’s town car, hands intertwined.

Lenora had thought about saying something—an apology, an explanation, maybe even an attempt to bulldoze through the wall she’d so graciously erected that morning by being an unmitigated asshole. But every time the words surfaced, they withered on her tongue.

But maybe that was okay.

Maybe the silence was the conversation.

Holding Sol’s hand in the silence felt like pouring a solid foundation, before daring to build anything more.

In the kitchen, Lenora veered toward the highest cupboard, Sol trailing behind her. She rose onto her toes, stretching awkwardly with her left hand toward the bourbon.

Today had been… a day.

A wildly successful first day of trial.

A felony assault, depending on who you asked.

And a painfully overdue conversation was still waiting for its moment.

She figured bourbon could take the edge off all three.

But reaching with her non-dominant hand was like trying to butter toast with a spoon. Her fingers fumbled at the bottle, frustration simmering beneath her ribs.

Then, she felt fingers, light against her lower back.

“Let me do it,” Sol murmured behind her

Lenora exhaled, tension slipping from her shoulders as she leaned back into the touch, just for a second. Then she stepped aside.

Sol reached up and retrieved the bourbon effortlessly, grabbing two glasses with the kind of ease that made Lenora’s throat tighten. She moved like she belonged here. Like she always had.

Without a word, Sol poured them both generous servings, like she recognized they would both need it.

Lenora took hers and backed up a few paces, needing the buffer. She brought the glass to her lips and drank. The bourbon burned, but it immediately took the edge off. 

She caught sight of Sol taking a sip from her own glass, her movements slower and more controlled. Sol nursed her drink, her dark eyes thoughtful as they lifted to meet Lenora’s. 

Their gazes locked, and neither of them looked away.  

And then finally, Lenora sighed because she had things she needed to say—things she needed to own up to.

“Sol,” Lenora said softly, her voice steady but strained as she made sure to look Sol in the eye. “I’m sorry about this morning.” 

Sol’s jaw tightened, the muscle flexing just slightly—a small but telling sign that the fight from this morning still lingered. 

Sol didn’t say anything.

No nod.

No, “it’s okay.”

No, “I forgive you.”

Just silence.

And that threw Lenora more than she cared to admit. Sure, she didn’t say sorry often, so she wasn’t entirely sure what the protocol was. But she was pretty sure people usually said something back?

It took her a beat too long to realize what the silence meant.

Sol wasn’t brushing past it.

She wasn’t going to give her a pass.

An apology wasn’t enough.

Not this time.

Lenora exhaled, slow and tight, her jaw working as the realization settled over her.

She needed to talk.

Really talk.

And she hated that.

But—damn it—she respected it, too.

Because Sol? Sol was the only person, besides the one she paid by the hour, who pushed her like this.

Lenora let out a slow breath, set her glass down on the counter, and leaned back against it. Her arms crossed—more defense mechanism than comfort—as she tried to figure out where the hell to start.

How did you explain something like this?

She stared at the floor for a beat, then lifted her gaze to meet Sol’s.

“Sol,” she said quietly, her voice rough at the edges, “you terrify me.”

The words landed like a weight in the room.

And honestly?

They surprised even her.

She wasn’t someone who confessed weakness. She didn’t hand out emotional leverage like breath mints. But this wasn’t about pride anymore.

It had taken her all weekend to stop seeing Sol bleeding out on the pavement every time she blinked.
But apparently it wasn’t gone.

Lenora drew in another breath, steadier this time.

“I came so close to losing you on Friday. And today, just the idea of you walking out in the world, where I couldn’t protect you…”

She trailed off, jaw clenched.

“That kind of helplessness—it reminds me of being a kid again. Powerless. And when I feel like that?”

She gave a humorless laugh.

“I don’t cry. I get angry.”

She met Sol’s eyes again, forcing herself to stay in them.

“And this morning? That wasn’t about you. That was me… coming undone.”

Sol’s expression softened as she slowly leaned back against the opposite side of the counter, mirroring Lenora’s stance. Her eyes didn’t leave hers, not at first.

“You know what,” she said, nodding, “I understand that.”

Lenora blinked. She hadn’t expected that. Not forgiveness, exactly—but grace. It caught her off guard more than a slap would have. Sol looked away, her mouth pressing into a thin line as if she was organizing something messy inside her head.

“When Imani told me you were in the hospital…” Sol’s voice dipped low, quieter than before. “The panic I felt… I haven’t felt anything like that since my parents died.”

That landed like a punch to the chest.

Lenora’s stomach twisted. Her breath caught somewhere between her lungs and her ribs. Because she remembered vividly Sol crying in the back of the town car as she told her how she lost her parents. 

Sol turned back to her, eyes darker now.

Not angry.

Just open.

Honest.

“I hated the thought of you hurt,” she said. “And yeah, now I understand your fear. It doesn’t excuse how it came out, obviously. But knowing where it came from…”

She gave a small shrug.

“It helps.”

Lenora’s throat went dry.

God, how did she do that? How did Sol manage to be kind and unyielding at the same time? Not letting her off the hook, but still meeting her where she was, not dismissing the damage but also refusing to let it define them.

Lenora stared at her, heart pounding like it was trying to outrun the moment. Her instincts begged her to deflect—to toss out a sarcastic remark, to make some joke about emotional vulnerability being worse than the broken hand. Anything to defuse the tension pressing in on her like a vice.

But then Sol spoke.

“Can I ask you something?”

Her voice was so incredibly soft, like she didn’t even want to say the words. 

Lenora swallowed hard.

That tone set off a quiet alarm in her chest. Whatever this question was, she had a sinking feeling she wasn’t going to like it.

But still, she nodded.

If Sol was brave enough to ask, the least she could do was try to be brave enough to hear it.

Sol took a long sip of her drink, long enough to make Lenora’s internal red flag wave a little higher, and then she set the glass down with deliberate calm.

“Why can’t you say it?”

The words were so soft, Lenora nearly missed them. But once she registered them, it felt like all the air had been sucked from the room.

Oh.

That.

It took a full second for her brain to catch up, to connect the dots Sol had laid gently in front of her. But when she did, it landed like a stone in her gut.

Why can’t you say you love me?

Not accusatory.

Not cruel.

Just… curious.

And somehow that made it worse.

“Do you… not—” Sol began, her voice catching on the last word, cracking in a way that shattered Lenora’s composure.

She moved before she even realized it, closing the space between them. Her hand came up, cradling Sol’s face, stopping her from turning away or finishing that absolutely idiotic thought.

“Hey,” she said sharply—more command than comfort.

Sol’s eyes flicked up, and Lenora didn’t blink.

“I do.”

She said it with no hesitation, no caveats, no qualifiers. She said it like the truth—because it was.

And when Sol’s breath hitched again, Lenora leaned in, her gaze locked on Sols.

“I do,” she repeated, doubling down.

Sol’s eyes searched hers, glassy and uncertain, and then came the quiet question.

“Then why can’t you say it?”

Lenora didn’t respond at first. Her face shifted, the words visibly hitting her with a physical force.

She dropped her hands from Sol’s face—but only to place them on her hips and hold her there. She needed the contact. Something real to tether her while her thoughts spun out.

Why couldn’t she say it?

The answer, she realized, was devastatingly simple.

She’d never really said it before and meant it.

Not truly.

She’d told Henry she loved him, sure. A handful of times—on special occasions. Their wedding day. The night Ben was born. Maybe when they bought their first house and he surprised her with a decent bottle of bourbon.

But now, standing here, her chest cracked open in front of Sol, she could admit it: she never really loved Henry.

She liked him.

He was safe.

He was kind.

He was easy.

He was a logical choice. A checklist kind of man.

And she had liked that—liked him.

But compared to Sol?

Compared to the hurricane of emotion Sol stirred in her with just a look, with her hands, her voice, the way she pushed Lenora to be better, to feel more—

Henry didn’t stand a chance.

“I think,” Lenora said finally, her voice rough, her hands still gripping Sol’s hips like she was afraid she might vanish, “I’ve never said it before and actually meant it.”

Sol blinked in stunned silence.

Lenora’s throat bobbed as she swallowed.

“I said it to Henry. A few times. Because I was supposed to. Because it was expected. But with you…”

She trailed off, exhaling like the truth hurt to say out loud.

“But with you, I’ll actually mean it and that scares the shit out me.”

Sol didn’t say anything right away. She just looked at her—really looked at her—the way she always did, like she saw every sharp edge and crack and still stayed anyway.

Then, gently, Sol reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind Lenora’s ear. The touch was featherlight—but it steadied something inside her that had been shaking all day.

“Okay,” Sol murmured.

Just that.

No grand declaration, no pressure. Just one word, soft and solid, like she’d taken all of Lenora’s anxiety and absorbed it into herself.

Lenora’s breath hitched, a quiet sound in the stillness between them.

“And for the record,” Sol added, her voice low and serious—but with the barest hint of a smirk playing at her lips, “I’ve only said ‘I love you’ to one other person. So I get the nerves.”

Lenora’s brows lifted at that, a flicker of something sharp and possessive flaring in her chest.

“Oh yeah?” she asked, trying to sound casual, but the edge in her voice gave her away. “An ex?”

Sol nodded, eyes sparkling with fondness.

Lenora did not like that smile on Sol’s face when it was there because of someone else.

Absolutely not.

Sol’s hands slid up to rest on Lenora’s shoulders, still grinning, her eyes dancing now.

“Michael Bennett,” she said solemnly. “Third grade. It was very serious. We held hands at recess, and he shared his Dunkaroos with me.”

Lenora blinked and then let out a soft, incredulous laugh, her head dropping to Sol’s shoulder as the tension bled out of her.

“I hate you a little right now,” she muttered, but she was smiling.

“No, you don’t.  You love me,” Sol whispered, pressing a kiss to the side of Lenora’s head. 

And she was right.

26

Terms of Surrender

Lenora pulled Sol into a kiss because—hell—she needed it. Because all day, the fear that she’d pushed Sol too far had gnawed at her like a rabid little thought-rodent. The idea that she might never get this again had nearly destroyed her.

But Sol was here.

Still here.

And the second their lips met, a breath of relief escaped Lenora’s lungs like her body had been holding it hostage.

This kiss wasn’t like their usual ones. It wasn’t frantic or cocky or laced with that dare-you energy they usually passed back and forth like a challenge coin.

No, this one was soft.

Careful.

So tender it almost hurt.

And of course, Lenora didn’t know what the hell to do with that. Her brain short-circuited for a moment, but Sol kept kissing her with this unbearable sweetness, that Lenora felt her chest crack open a little more with every pass of her lips.

It wasn’t forgiveness.

It wasn’t a peace treaty.

It was healing.

Sol kissed her like she was mending her with her mouth. And damn it if it wasn’t working.

But eventually, the warmth bled into heat, and the quiet kiss turned deeper.

Hungrier.

Lenora tilted her head, her good hand curling around Sol’s hip, yanking her closer until there wasn’t an inch of space left. She dug her fingers into the back of Sol's shirt, whispered “Please” into her mouth, and felt Sol’s whole body jolt at the word.

The kiss turned molten after that. Sol’s hands gripped tighter. Her teeth nipped, and her tongue soothed.

Fuck.

Lenora wanted her.

Everywhere.

Now.

And that need had Lenora mindlessly trying to slide her injured hand around Sol’s back—to pull her closer—but pain flared up her arm.

She winced, breath catching.

Sol pulled back instantly.

“What’s wrong?”

Lenora huffed.

“This,” she growled, holding up her ridiculous cast. “I didn’t regret breaking my hand on Hughes’s face for a second—but now?”

Sol’s mouth curled into a crooked grin.

“Second thoughts, Mayweather?”

Lenora narrowed her eyes, but she couldn’t help the twitch in the corner of her mouth that ticked upward. 

“Only that I now have to teach my left hand what my right hand just learned to do,” Lenora deadpanned.

Sol laughed low and rough, before she leaned in close enough for Lenora to feel the curl of her breath against her ear.

“You’re resourceful,” Sol whispered, her thumb brushing across Lenora’s bottom lip. “I’m sure you’ll manage.”

She said it not as encouragement but as a challenge.

Lenora’s eyes narrowed at the clear manipulation, but she fell for it anyway as she sank her teeth into the pad of Sol’s thumb. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to make a point. Her tongue followed, slow and taunting, dragging over pad of Sol's thumb in the same pattern she did with Sol’s clit.

Sol’s breath hitched.

And Lenora held her gaze.

The sound Sol made in response was somewhere between a growl and a groan—like she couldn’t decide whether she wanted to punish Lenora or thank her.

Then Sol yanked her thumb free and spun Lenora around so fast she barely registered it.  Sol kissed her like she was trying to shut her up—which, rude, but effective—and began backing her toward the hallway without breaking stride or lip contact.

It was urgent.

Commanding.

Consuming.

Lenora tried to keep up—honestly. But it wasn’t until the backs of her thighs bumped the bed that she realized they’d made it to the bedroom.

And before she could form a single coherent thought—bam—Sol pushed her down. Not hard, but with enough force that she had a moment of weightlessness before the mattress caught her

And then Sol was on her.

Literally on her.

She climbed into Lenora’s lap like it was her damn throne, straddling her without so much as a pause. Her fingers threaded into Lenora’s hair, and every pull sent a jolt of pleasure through Lenora.

And it seems she wasn’t the only one, because Sol’s hips began to move, rolling slowly into Lenora’s lap. Lenora groaned into Sol’s mouth, her good hand sliding down to grip the curve of her ass, fingers digging in possessively.

The contact earned her a moan from Sol, muffled against her lips but vibrating through her chest like a hum.

“Sol,” Lenora breathed, her voice ragged as Sol’s lips finally broke away to drag across her jaw. 

Her head tilted back instinctively, her fingers flexing against Sol’s body. 

“Fuck,” she groaned.

Sol placed a few kisses to the side of Lenora’s neck before pulling back just enough to look at her, her dark eyes hooded and wild. And just when Lenora prepared herself to be devoured again...surprisingly, Sol didn’t move.

Instead, Sol just stared at her.

Not blankly—no, this look had purpose. Then her eyes slowly drifted down, lingering on the way their bodies were tangled—her thighs snug against Lenora’s hips like she’d been engineered to fit there.

Then Sol looked up, met her eyes—and God help her, that look was lethal. There was something simmering behind it. Lenora felt it strike low in her stomach, a shiver rolling across her skin like static before a storm.

She watched Sol bite her bottom lip, like she was physically keeping words from escaping.

Lenora cleared her throat.

“What?” she asked, dryly. “Do I even want to know what’s going on in that head of yours?”

Sol’s smirk spread slowly.

Instead of answering, her fingers tangled in Lenora’s hair, nails dragging lightly against her scalp, just enough to tug. The sharp pressure pulled a gasp from Lenora’s throat.

Sol leaned in, close enough for her breath to curl hot against Lenora’s lips.

“Probably not,” she murmured,

Lenora’s throat went dry.

Yep.

She was definitely in trouble.

But thankfully, trouble always felt like home.

“Tell me anyway,” she whispered, because self-preservation with Sol was a skill she’d never quite mastered.

Sol didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she just looked at her for a moment before biting her lip, and then Sol pulled back.

The loss of her hands was jarring. Like someone had yanked the sun out of the sky. Before Lenora could react, Sol moved out of her lap and stood. 

Lenora blinked, confused, watching Sol straighten, get steady on her feet—and then walk out of the room.

No explanation.

No glance back.

Just… gone.

For a full beat, Lenora sat frozen on the edge of the bed in stunned silence. Her brain spun, trying to make sense of it. Then came the sound of a soft creak of hinges from down the hall.

Sol’s door.

Lenora’s stomach dropped so fast it could’ve passed through the floorboards.

Is she fucking kidding?

She hadn’t just kissed her like that, touched her like that, and then decided to bow out and go to bed.

Lenora’s jaw locked, hands curling into the comforter, ready to march down that hallway and demand to know what the hell that was about—

But then came another sound.

Footsteps—coming back.

Lenora sat up straighter as her eyes narrowed at the doorway.

Sol appeared in it, calm as ever, like she hadn’t just made Lenora question everything

And then Lenora saw it.

Her brain registered the faint smirk first, then the glint in Sol’s eyes, and finally—

That fucking backpack was dangling from Sol’s fingers.

Oh.

Oh.

Of course, the little shit hadn’t walked away.

She’d gone to get reinforcements.

Sol stood in the doorway, that infuriating, soul-wrecking smirk curving higher, like she could read every single dirty thought sprinting through Lenora’s brain and was thoroughly enjoying it.

Because Lenora didn’t hate the direction Sol wanted to take this night.

Not even a little.

But she wasn’t about to let Sol off the hook without a jab.

“So, just for clarification's sake,” Lenora remarked, lounging back on her good arm with forced nonchalance and a raised brow. “When you receive a death threat and get forced out of your home, your strap-on made the cut as a ‘critical item’?”

Sol’s grin went criminal.

“Packed it right next to my toothbrush,” she responded, deadpan.

Lenora snorted before she could stop herself. 

“Well,” Lenora said, her lips twitching into a smirk that didn’t quite hide the way her pulse picked up. “At least you’ve got your priorities straight.”

Sol smirked as she stepped forward, the backpack swinging lazily from her fingers as she closed the distance between them. The room felt smaller with every step she took—every step building something Lenora couldn’t name.

Anticipation.

Heat.

Or just fucking Sol. 

And when Sol finally reached the bed, she set the backpack down next to Lenora with an unhurried ease. But then, instead of saying a word, she reached forward and cupped Lenora’s face in both hands, tilting her chin up until their eyes met.

Lenora’s breath caught in her throat because Sol’s expression softened, melting from something teasing and predatory into something so full of love it made Lenora’s chest ache.

“With you… always, my love,” Sol murmured.

A shiver ran down Lenora’s spine, and suddenly, she wasn’t laughing anymore. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, the overwhelming tightness in her chest making it almost painful to breathe. She had to look away before she spontaneously combusted.

She dropped her gaze to the backpack resting against her hip on the bed.  Lenora played with the zipper for a few moments to steady herself before she found her words.

“What made you think I wouldn’t like this?” she asked, tone soft with just enough edge to tease. “I’m pretty sure the last time we did this, I was a solid ‘hell yes’ on the customer satisfaction survey.”

She glanced up, expecting Sol to match the banter. And she did—mostly. But there was something flickering behind the smile.

Something… quieter.

“Open it,” Sol said, her voice low.

It felt like déjà vu, except this time, Lenora wasn’t cracking the metaphorical lid on a live grenade. She thought she knew what was in the bag. Thought being the operative word.

Still, she looked to Sol once more—just to be sure—before reaching for the zipper with her good hand. It was clumsy, awkward, and frustrating, but eventually, she got it open.

And then she paused.

Her brows drew together as she peered inside.

Wait.

Her brain processed the contents faster than her mouth could catch up.

She looked up, confused. Sol stood steady as stone, giving nothing away.

Of course.

Lenora exhaled sharply through her nose, then reached in and pulled it out. The leather straps were familiar, but the dildo resting between them stopped her short.

Purple.

Smaller than the black one Sol had used on her that first time. This one looked—well—approachable.

“I got it for you,” Sol said simply.

Just that.

No flourish.

No smirk.

And that’s what made it land like a punch to the chest.

Lenora stilled.

Sol stepped closer, eyes locked on her.

“I got it for you…” she said again, softer this time, like the words cost something to say.

Then she paused—just long enough for Lenora’s pulse to spike.

“To wear. For me.”

Lenora’s breath caught, her mind tripping over itself as the full weight of Sol’s request settled in.

For her.

Her fingers tightened around the leather straps as heat unfurled low in her stomach. Sol’s gaze held her in place as Lenora’s brain scrambled for footing, and when all else failed, she did what she always did.

She deflected.

“Well,” she commented, voice thin with false bravado as she lifted the harness, “why is mine smaller? I feel like I’ve been shortchanged.”

Sol blinked.

Then her mouth curved into that maddening, knowing smirk.

“I thought size didn’t matter,” Sol murmured, tilting her head with faux innocence. “I’m sure you’ll make up for it.”

Lenora snorted, rolling her eyes, but her pulse betrayed her. This wasn’t what she’d expected. And of course, that was the point.

Sol loved putting Lenora on the edge, just to watch her squirm.

Lenora set the harness down carefully. Then, quieter, more honest, she spoke. 

“I don’t even know where to begin wearing this for—you.”

Sol stepped in close—so close Lenora could feel the warmth of her body.

“You don’t have to know,” Sol said, her voice a whisper. “I just need you to wear it.”

She leaned in, breath brushing Lenora’s ear.

“I’ll do the rest.”

Oh.

Lenora’s heart kicked into overdrive.

Sol watched the effect—saw the flicker of realization on Lenora’s face, and smiled like she was savoring it.

“What do you say?” she murmured, the words drawn out. “Will you put it on… and let me ride you? Let me fuck myself on you, Lenora?”

Lenora’s stomach dropped out like the floor had vanished beneath her.

She tightened her grip on the harness, as if leather straps were the only thing keeping her tethered to Earth. But gravity had already failed her. She was untethered—floating somewhere between panic and white-hot want.

She opened her mouth and tried to find something clever—some sarcastic deflection to mask how wrecked she already was.

But all she managed was breath.

Sol’s words hung between them, thick and hot in the air, crawling across her skin like fire.  And then came the images—uninvited, vivid, and goddamn ruinous.

Sol, straddling her.

Sol, moving above her, hands gripping Lenora’s shoulders like reins.

Sol, wrecking herself on Lenora’s body like she owned it.

Like she’d earned it.

Lenora’s thighs pressed together without her permission. Her voice, when it came, was a whisper.

“Fuck…”

Sol’s mouth curled in victory, taking that breathless whisper for the permission she was seeking.  She glanced down at the harness in Lenora’s lap, then stepped forward until her knees brushed Lenora’s, closing the final inch.

She leaned in, her lips just grazing Lenora’s.

“We’ll get to that,” she whispered mockingly, every syllable sliding down Lenora’s spine.

Then she pulled back, only enough to meet her eyes—pupils blown wide.

“But first… you’ve got to put it on.”

Lenora stared at her.

This fucking woman.

The words echoed in her skull, half exasperation, half awe, because only Sol could say something like that and leave Lenora feeling like she might actually combust.

She swallowed hard. Then Lenora reached up and curled her good hand around the back of Sol’s neck. Her fingers slipped into the dark strands at her nape, light enough to tease, firm enough to make Sol’s breath catch.

Her eyes searched Sol’s face, every line of it, every flicker of emotion, reading her like a brief she couldn’t afford to misinterpret. She leaned in slowly, letting the silence stretch, letting Sol sit in the tension she’d conjured.

And maybe—just maybe—buying herself a few more seconds to muster the nerve.

Then, with her lips ghosting against Sol’s, her voice barely more than a breath.

“Help me put it on.”

And God, the way Sol looked at her then, it was enough to get lost in.

Sol swallowed hard, then reached for her.

“Stand up for me,” she ordered gently.

Lenora let herself be guided upright, more out of instinct than clarity. Because, honestly, she didn’t know what the hell she was doing. This whole experience was demanding a level of trust that made her skin itch.

So she just…went with it.

She let Sol pull her to her feet.

She let Sol spin her around.

She let Sol unbutton her shirt, but didn’t miss the detail when Sol left it on, hanging open like a frame around her chest and stomach. That alone sent heat crawling up Lenora’s neck.

Then Sol sat down, claiming the spot Lenora had just vacated—quietly switching roles with the kind of seamless dominance that made Lenora’s pulse stutter.

Sitting at the edge of the bed now, Sol reached for her again. Her hands were firm, but careful, drawing Lenora closer like she was something breakable and burning at the same time.

Lenora’s skin prickled with awareness. Her entire body went stiff as Sol’s fingers found the waistband of her pants and, with zero fanfare, started sliding them down her hips.

“Jesus Christ,” Lenora muttered, half under her breath, her hands twitching awkwardly at her sides. She didn’t know whether to stop Sol or assist her.

Sol, of course, was completely unfazed.

She just kept moving with that maddening confident precision. Lenora’s pants hit the floor. Her underwear followed. And suddenly, she was standing there bare from the waist down while Sol reached for the harness with the kind of nonchalance that made it feel normal, like she was lacing up her boots.

But this was not normal.

This was emphatically not normal.

Lenora was halfway through wondering if she should offer to help or just quietly combust when Sol leaned in and kissed her hip.

Lenora’s breath caught in her throat.

It wasn’t deep or filthy—just warm. Barely there. A whisper of lips against bone. But it detonated something inside her. The nerves, the awkwardness, the spiraling—all of it melted under the simple heat of that kiss.

And then Sol kissed her again.

Lower.

Right along the curve of her hip, then across to the other side, like she was taking her time mapping a coastline. Her fingers were still moving—adjusting the harness with practiced ease—even as her mouth continued to leave kisses like landmines.

“This one goes here,” Sol murmured against her skin, slipping a strap into place and buckling it with a soft click.

Another kiss.

Just above her thigh.

“And this one makes sure everything stays right where it should.”

Lenora let out a shaky breath, her hand finding Sol’s hair like muscle memory, her fingers threading through the soft strands. Whether she was trying to anchor herself or pull Sol closer, she couldn’t say.

“Just so we’re clear,” Lenora managed, her voice rough and dry, “I’m not retaining a single damn thing you’re saying right now.”

Sol chuckled softly against her skin, the sound vibrating against Lenora’s hip and sending another sharp jolt of heat spiraling through her body.

“Noted,” Sol murmured, her lips brushing the curve of Lenora’s hip before her teeth grazed the sensitive skin. She bit down gently, enough to have Lenora hissing as her fingers tightened in Sol’s hair.

Sol soothed the sting with her tongue, a lazy swipe that dragged a full-body shiver out of Lenora. She buckled the final strap with maddening precision, then pulled back, hands and mouth gone all at once, leaving Lenora’s body buzzing from the sudden absence.

Sol’s gaze dropped to the harness now secured between Lenora’s thighs. Her pupils dilated. Her smirk deepened. And then, just as quickly, she stood and grabbed Lenora’s hips, flipping their positions with an easy, unspoken authority.

Lenora barely had time to blink before Sol was in front of her again, fingertips brushing down her arms, tugging at her open shirt like she’d just made an executive decision. She worked it past Lenora’s cast with careful tugs, then tossed it to the floor.

But when Sol looked back at her, the air shifted.
Something in her expression faltered.

Her brows drew together. Her eyes darkened—not with lust, but something closer to alarm.

Lenora followed her gaze and saw it.

The bruise.

The memory snapped back into focus—Hughes’s hand clamping around her arm in that courthouse hallway, his grip hard enough to make her wince. She hadn’t even noticed the bruise. At the time, she’d been too furious, too focused on the swing she landed and the pain that followed, too distracted by the break in her hand to register anything else.

Sol’s jaw clenched, her fingers ghosting over the mark.

“He did this.”

It wasn’t a question.

Lenora sighed, lifting her hand to gently touch Sol’s wrist, trying to ease the tension she felt rolling off her in waves.

“It’s nothing,” she said, out of habit more than belief.

Sol’s gaze snapped to hers. The bruise might’ve been on Lenora’s arm, but Sol looked like she had been hit.

“It’s not nothing,” Sol said, voice tight, yanking her hand from Lenora’s grip—not out of anger, but restraint. She reached back out anyway, her fingers dragging featherlight across Lenora’s skin, as if she could erase the mark through sheer fury and tenderness alone.

“He put his hands on you.”

“Sol…” Lenora’s voice dropped, meant to soothe, to pull her back from the brink—but it didn’t land.

Sol exhaled hard through her nose, her entire frame coiled tight. Her jaw flexed, and Lenora could hear the grind of her teeth like it was happening inside her own head.

She wasn’t speaking yet, but her silence was loud enough to rattle the walls.  When she finally did, her voice was too calm to be comforting.

“Do you have any idea how lucky he is that you got to him first?”

Lenora’s breath caught.

She opened her mouth to respond, to deflect, but Sol cut her off with a look that pinned her in place.

“Because if I’d seen it—if I’d been there when he touched you…”

Her voice cracked, just barely, as she trailed off. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, knuckles white.

“Sol.” Lenora tried again, soft now, urgent. She reached out and brushed her fingers along Sol’s forearm, hoping to ground her, to slow the storm.

It worked—just barely.

Sol let out a shaky breath, her fists slowly unclenching. Her eyes dropped to Lenora’s hand on her arm, then lifted—her gaze still intense, but softer now. Something in her had shifted. The fire was still there, but it had banked, revealing the woman beneath it. The one Lenora had come to trust more than anyone.

“I can’t stand the thought of someone doing this to you,” Sol said, voice low and raw. “Not ever.”

Lenora inhaled slowly, her chest tightening—not just from Sol’s words, but from the memories that answered them. The phone call. The hospital. The sick twist of fear and fury when James Hughes threatened Sol again. 

She understood what Sol was feeling.

Too well.

Her fingers lifted, brushing the healing stitches over Sol’s brow.

“Trust me, my love,” she murmured. “I know exactly how you’re feeling.”

Sol stilled. The anger didn’t vanish—it just shifted, redirected into something quieter. Fiercer. Her gaze held Lenora’s, heavy with something old and instinctive and deeply human.

Protection, sharpened to a point.

She reached up, placed her hand over Lenora’s, and held it there for a moment—anchoring them both. Then she gently pulled it away, her fingers lingering just a second too long.

Silence stretched, thick and humming with everything they weren’t saying.

Until finally, Lenora exhaled, her mouth tugging into a crooked smile that barely masked her awkwardness.

“Well,” she said, tone flat as ever, “can we please get back to the part where you fuck yourself on this ridiculous purple cock now secured to my lower?”

Sol blinked.

Then she laughed—hard.

A real, full-body laugh that cracked through the room like sunlight through storm clouds.

Still grinning, Sol stepped in close and pressed two fingers to Lenora’s sternum. It wasn’t rough, but it was confident enough to make a point.

Lenora arched a brow, but didn’t resist. Her legs hit the edge of the bed, and she let herself sink down, the mattress dipping beneath her as she looked up at Sol.

Sol didn’t hesitate.

She took a single step back and, in one smooth motion, peeled her shirt off and her bra. Lenora barely had time to catch her breath before Sol’s hands were at her own waistband, shoving her pants and her underwear down.

And then Sol was standing there—completely bare.

Lenora’s brain went static.

Jesus Christ.

She tried to play it cool, but the truth was, her mouth had gone dry. Her gaze drifted, greedy and slow, taking in every inch—every line, curve, freckle, scar.

And then Sol’s eyes locked onto Lenora’s with an intensity that had Lenora swallowing hard.

“Come here,” Lenora murmured, the words low and a little unsteady—more plea than command.

Sol didn’t need a second invitation.

She moved forward until she was in Lenora’s lap, straddling her with that casual dominance that made Lenora’s spine straighten—and then Sol was kissing her.

No warning.

No slow build.

Just impact.

The kiss like whiplash—all teeth and tongue and breathless want. It knocked the balance clean out of her, leaving Lenora clutching at Sol like a madwoman. Her good hand slid up Sol’s back, fingers digging in, desperate to keep her close.

They kissed like it cost nothing and meant everything.

Lenora matched Sol’s pace for a stretch, let herself get swallowed whole by it, until her lungs burned and her restraint snapped. She broke the kiss with a sharp inhale, her mouth dragging along Sol’s jawline, teeth grazing skin just hard enough to steal a gasp. Then she moved lower—her lips found the curve of Sol’s throat, biting, sucking, and marking.

Sols hips rolled forward, grinding into Lenora in a way that made the strap press hard against Lenora’s clit. They both groaned at the same time.

Sol’s was a low, filthy rumble.

Lenora’s heart catapulted straight from her chest.

And Lenora came alive beneath her.

She moved like she was being driven by something older than logic, older than fear—something feral and singular. Her mouth dragged lower until it found the curve of Sol’s breast. She kissed there, licked there, teeth catching on Sol’s sensitive nipples.

Sol responded in kind.

“Fuck,” she gasped, as her fingers threaded through Lenora’s hair, pulling it back not to guide—but to watch. Like she needed to see Lenora’s mouth around her nipple.

Sol kept grinding, the slow roll of her hips pressing the strap in just the right spot—again and again and again—until Lenora was shaking from the effort of keeping her mouth steady.

Lenora bit down gently, tugging with just enough pressure to make Sol’s breath catch and her head fall back.

“Jesus, Lenora,” Sol choked, her voice cracking apart, as her body arched into Lenora’s mouth.

Then Sol moved.
Her fingers slid from Lenora’s hair with intent, one hand gliding down until it wrapped around the base of the strap. The way she gripped it—steady, possessive, sure—sent a bolt of heat ripping through Lenora’s core. 

But something also stopped her.

“Wait—shouldn’t we get lube?” Lenora asked suddenly, remembering that step from last time.

Sol didn’t answer with words.

Instead, she let go of the silicone and reached for Lenora’s uninjured hand, guiding it between her legs.

And then—contact.

Wet heat met Lenora’s fingers, and the instant she touched Sol, they both gasped.

“No, my love,” Sol breathed, her lips brushing the shell of Lenora’s ear. “We don’t need lube.”

Lenora groaned.

The intimacy, the heat of Sol's words vibrating against her skin, the slick proof of her need clinging to Lenora’s fingertips—it was too much and at the same time not enough.

Her fingers moved instinctively, circling Sol’s clit clumsily but Sol didn’t mind.  In fact, Sol gasped and moaned, hips chasing Lenora’s finger. 

“Fuck—Lenora.” Sol’s voice was a rasp, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment before she reached down again. Her fingers curled around the strap-on.

“Keep your fingers right there,” she said, her voice thick with command, but trembled with anticipation. “Don’t stop. Can you do that for me, baby?”

Lenora nodded. She couldn’t trust her voice, not when everything inside her felt like it was on fire. And then Sol shifted, adjusting her hips as she guided the silicone into position.

Lenora's pulse pounded as she realized what was coming.

What they were about to do.

She had a choice.

Look down and watch the silicone disappear inside Sol, to see every inch claimed.

Or keep her eyes locked on Sol’s face—to witness every flicker of emotion that crossed over Sol’s face as she took it.

Lenora chose the latter.

Her breath caught as she tilted her chin up, locking her gaze onto Sol—and God—it was the right choice.

Sol’s features shifted in real time, like a sunrise breaking over her skin. Her lips parted. Her lashes fluttered closed for a single, fleeting beat—then Sol moved.

A slow roll of her hips.

Testing.

Taking.

Owning.

Lenora watched, and it was…breathtaking.

It was like watching someone lose themselves and find themselves all in the same moment.

Lenora’s fingers struggled to keep up, but Sol didn’t seem to mind at all. 

“God, you feel so good,” Sol whispered, her voice shaking with pleasure.

Lenora couldn’t look away.

She wanted to burn this moment into her memory—to remember the way Sol’s head tilted back, exposing the elegant line of her throat and the way her body arched, needing more.

“Sol…” Lenora breathed, her voice thick with need.

And then Sol moved at a different angle—a devastating grind that dragged the strap across Lenora’s clit.

White-hot pleasure shot through her, as Lenora gasped, hips jerking upward, chasing the friction, the contact, the everything.

“Fuck,” she panted, the word ripped from her lungs, as her body arched involuntarily.

Sol’s response was instant as the strap went deeper, a guttural groan that vibrated against Lenora’s lips as their bodies found a rhythm. Her movements grew more insistent, her hands bracing against Lenora’s shoulders for leverage as she ground down, every motion wringing more sounds of pleasure from them both.

Lenora somehow still managed to keep pace with her fingers, circling—building up in pressure and intensity with every roll of Sol’s hips.

“Lenora—” Sol’s voice cracked, high and trembling, and then she surged forward, capturing Lenora’s mouth in a kiss.

It wasn’t delicate.

It wasn’t soft.

It was need—spilling into Lenora’s mouth in gasps and broken sounds.

Lenora could feel her own orgasm rising, coiled tight and sharp, a storm she could see cresting on the edge of her control. It was there—throbbing between her legs, climbing with every pass of the strap over her clit—but she held it at bay, white-knuckled in her restraint.

Because she needed Sol to fall first.

She remembered how Sol reacted in the bathroom when she talked, so she tried that again, desperate for anything to get Sol over the edge first.  

“Look at you,” Lenora rasped, her voice low and shaking with want. Her hand was starting to cramp, and her already unrefined movements were getting worse.  So, she needed to break out the big guns. 

“You look so fucking gorgeous like this. Taking me so goddamn well.”

Dirty talk was Sol’s domain, not hers—but something about the way Sol looked right now made Lenora want to push.

Sol whimpered.  Her forehead dropped against Lenora’s as her rhythm faltered for a breath, just long enough for Lenora to feel her stutter before she found it again, now harder and so much messier.

“You like this, don’t you?” Lenora pushed, her voice breathless. “Feeling me inside you like this?”

“Fuck—yes,” Sol gasped, as her eyes squeezed shut and her hands clutched tighter at Lenora’s shoulders. Her hips snapped down faster, losing all rhythm now, chasing something she was seconds from catching.

“You’re right there, aren’t you, baby?” Lenora encouraged.

“Please… please, Lenora—” Sol’s voice splintered on the plea, high and frantic.

Jesus.

Just the sound of Sol’s voice like that had Lenora nearly cumming.  Instead, her hips lifted, meeting Sol’s with a punishing thrust, the strap grinding against her perfectly. Her fingers circled messily and then—

“Come for me, Sol,” Lenora growled, “Give me what is mine.  Let me have it.”

And Sol shattered.

The scream hit Lenora’s ears just as her instincts kicked in—her hand left Sol’s clit and curled behind her neck, yanking her into a kiss. She swallowed the sound whole, the vibration of it buzzing between their mouths as Sol collapsed against her, trembling and completely undone.

They tipped backward together, Lenora falling against the bed, Sol’s weight pressing down on her in the best possible way. Lenora’s hips worked up, grinding the strap deeper, chasing every inch, every last flicker of heat still pulsing in her.

She groaned into Sol’s mouth, her own orgasm already clawing at the edges.

Sol’s hips moved in jerky and desperate rolls. Her whimpers spilled into Lenora’s mouth, wild and wrecked as the sound of wet friction echoed between them.

“Fuck,” Lenora cried out, arching, as her own orgasm tore through her. Her body convulsed, hips driving up hard as she cried out into Sol’s mouth, the sound tangled with Sol’s soft, stuttering moans.

Sol clung to her.

Fingers fisted in Lenora’s hair, breath shattered, their bodies trembling in sync as they rode out the final waves together.

And then… stillness.

Sol sagged against her, warm and boneless. For a while, they just breathed.

No words.

Just the ragged rhythm of recovery.

Lenora reached up, fingers threading gently through Sol’s sweat-dampened hair, pressing a soft kiss to her temple.

Eventually, Sol stirred, letting out a groan as if she were summoning the last of her strength to roll off of Lenora with all the grace of a falling boulder. She flopped face down on the bed. 

Lenora turned her head slowly, taking in the sight—Sol’s flushed skin, her mussed hair, the slow rise and fall of her back.

Then her gaze drifted down her own body… and caught the ungodly amount of wetness stretching across her stomach and the purple silicone glistening with the unmistakable evidence of Sol’s release.

A wicked smirk tugged at her lips before the words even landed.

“Well, would you look at that,” Lenora drawled.

Sol cracked one eye open, squinting at her suspiciously.

Lenora’s grin widened.

“Christmas came early. Again.”

Sol groaned into her pillow.

“You’re the worst,” she muttered, through the corner of her mouth.

Lenora opened her mouth to deliver what was undoubtedly going to be another smug remark, but before she could get a single word out, a pillow smacked her square in the face.

27

Statue of limitless support

The next morning, Lenora stood motionless in her closet, still wrapped in her deep red silk robe. Her makeup was immaculate, her hair styled to precision—but the outfit, the final stroke of armor, remained undecided.

Today mattered.

It was the last day of the Vanguard trial—assuming the FBI didn’t throw a wrench in the works by slipping their evidence to opposing counsel. Lenora needed something that didn’t just say power.

It needed to declare it.

Something sharp.

Unshakable.

Unmistakably Lenora Graves.

Oh, and it needed to cover her fucking monstrosity of a cast.

She barely registered the sound of footsteps before hands slid around her waist, gliding over the silk with ease. Her body tensed on instinct, then softened as recognition sank in.

Sol’s front pressed against her back, holding her. Lenora leaned into her, her head tipping to rest on Sol’s shoulder as warm lips found the crook of her neck and lingered there.

“You’ve been in here for ten minutes,” Sol murmured against her skin, sending a shiver rippling down Lenora’s spine.

Lenora sighed, soft and involuntary, tension bleeding out of her. She barely had time to process the release before Sol began trailing kisses up her neck.

A quiet moan escaped before Lenora could stop it.

“Someone’s wound a little tight,” Sol teased, smug and satisfied.

Lenora could practically feel the smirk against her skin, which only made her roll her eyes.

“Knock it off,” she muttered, though she didn’t move. If anything, she leaned in more, her traitorous body betraying her need for comfort—for Sol.

“I don’t have time for this,” she muttered, still not moving.   “I need to be out the door in twenty minutes.”

Sol chuckled at that, as her breath brushed against the skin of Lenora’s neck.

“I could get it done in two.”

Lenora’s elbow jabbed backward on reflex, catching Sol squarely in the ribs.

Sol grunted, laughing as she released her hold.

Lenora stepped away with a victorious smirk.

“Serves you right,” she tossed over her shoulder, running her fingers along the rows of meticulously arranged designer suits, willing one of them to shout “this sparks joy" with Marie Kondo-level certainty.

Behind her, Sol chuckled again, though this time the sound softened into silence.

“Big day,” Sol noted quietly, the teasing edge gone from her voice.

Lenora turned, her gaze landing on Sol, and immediately twitched with a mix of amusement and mild irritation. Sol was wearing a sweatshirt. Faded gray, slightly oversized, with Harvard stretched boldly across the chest.

Her sweatshirt.

Lenora narrowed her eyes.

Sol, unfazed, met the look with a smile far too innocent to be genuine.

“Nicked it from your dresser,” she quipped, tugging at the hem like she was claiming territory. “Full disclosure—it’s mine now.”

Lenora’s lips betrayed her with a twitch.

God, she hated how much she loved seeing Sol in her clothes—how that simple thing made her stomach flip.

Not that she’d ever admit it.

“Full disclosure,” Lenora replied coolly, one brow arching, “if you ever see me wearing that hideous orange Longhorn monstrosity from your alma mater, call 911 and have me committed. Because I have clearly lost all touch with reality. Orange. Honestly, Sol—you look like a walking creamsicle.”

She gave a theatrical shudder, flicking her hand as if to banish the memory. But then after her unnecessary dramatics, her mind finally caught up to what she was seeing.

Sol was barefaced, and her hair thrown into a haphazard bun, sweatpants slouched low on her hips.

She looked like she just rolled out of bed even though they’ve been up for an hour.

“You’re not going in today?” Lenora asked, the words softer, more careful than before.

And of course, Sol caught it immediately.

The truth was, the idea of Sol leaving the house—after everything with James Hughes yesterday—had been gnawing at Lenora from the moment she’d opened her eyes. The thought of Sol walking out into a world where James Hughes could be lurking behind every corner, made her stomach twist.

Worse still, Lenora had already prepared herself to let Sol go. To smile, say nothing, and pretend she wasn’t worried.  Because she didn’t want to fight.

Not today.

Not after yesterday.

Not when everything between them still felt delicate.

“No,” Sol answered softly, pulling Lenora from the spiral. “I called in.”

The breath caught in Lenora’s throat, and a sharp rush of relief blooming in her chest.

“You… called in?” she echoed.

Sol stepped closer, closing the space between them like it was the easiest thing in the world. Her hands cupped Lenora’s face, thumbs sweeping gently across her cheeks in a touch so tender it nearly undid her.

“Imani’s letting me work from here,” Sol offered, voice low and steady. A hint of a smile tugged at her lips—fond, teasing. “Figured I’d stick around. Make sure someone doesn’t overthink herself into a full-blown meltdown before one of the biggest days of her career.”

Lenora tried to glare, truly she did, but her body betrayed her—leaning instinctively into the warmth of Sol’s touch. The expression she managed was more pout than protest.

“I do not overthink,” she grumbled, though even she didn’t sound convinced.

Sol’s brow arched, skepticism practically radiating off her in waves.

“You’ve been standing in your closet for ten minutes.”

“I was selecting a statement piece,” defended Lenora.

“You’ve had three cups of coffee.”

“I function better caffeinated.”

Sol laughed softly, sliding her hands from Lenora’s face to wrap around her waist, pulling her in close. Her fingertips traced slow, soothing lines down Lenora’s back, and the simple rhythm of it grounded her.

Their eyes met—playfulness fading into something deeper. A steady, soul-deep connection that made Lenora’s chest ache.

“And you’re trying very hard not to admit you’re glad I’m staying home,” Sol teased, her voice warm and knowing.

Lenora opened her mouth, ready with a sharp retort, but it faltered before it ever found air.

She paused.

Exhaled.

Let the moment settle.

“I am,” Lenora said quietly. “Glad, I mean.”

Her hands moved without thought, rising to Sol’s shoulders, fingers brushing through the baby hairs at the nape of her neck before raking gently across her scalp. Sol’s eyes fluttered shut, a soft hum escaping her lips.

The sound tightened something in Lenora’s chest.

“Thank you,” she whispered, voice trembling just enough to betray the weight behind it. “I can’t—I didn’t want to think—”

She faltered, words catching in her throat, too fragile to force out. But she didn’t need to say them, because Sol leaned in and kissed her.

It was a kiss that cut through all the unspoken fears and lingering shadows.

It wasn’t rushed or desperate.

It was just...them.

“I’ll be safe here,” Sol murmured against her lips. “I’m staying put. I promise.”

She kissed her again, slower this time, her hands still cradling Lenora’s face.

“You just focus on the trial.”

Another kiss, a breath deeper.

“On Brooke.”

A kiss that said, go be who you are.

“On bringing her family justice.”

This one lingered—longer and fuller—as if Sol was pouring her strength into Lenora one press of lips at a time.

“And on holding those fucking bastards accountable,” Sol growled.

Lenora kissed her back—hard.

Fervent.

Needy.

It was a kiss that said thank you, but also don’t stop.

A kiss that said I see you.

Because she had never had that before—not really. She never had someone who just understood the grind, the stakes, and the righteous fury. And she certainly never had someone who matched her step for step in ambition and heart—and still chose her.

Sol didn’t just love her.

She believed in her.

And that belief wrecked her.

The thought struck like lightning, and Lenora surged forward, mouth crashing into Sol’s.

Sol responded with a groan, her arms falling from Lenora’s face to tighten around Lenora’s waist as she backed her into the closet wall. A few designer heels tumbled from their shelves in protest, but neither of them noticed.

Lenora’s robe slipped loose, silk parting under Sol’s hands as they skimmed beneath, warm palms sliding over bare skin.

“I thought you didn’t have time,” Sol teased, voice low and rough, her breath hot against Lenora’s lips as her hand found her breast and squeezed.

Lenora gasped, her body arching into the touch, fingers tangling in Sol’s messy bun, pulling her closer with a growl of frustration and desire.

“You said you could get it done in two,” she shot back, voice breathless and sharp-edged.

She rolled her hips into Sol.

“So, chop-chop.”

Sol’s laugh was a dark, dangerous thing, as her lips brushed Lenora’s jawline, her hands gripping tighter.

“Then I better not waste a second,” she whispered.

And with that, Sol dropped to her knees.

28

Overuled and outplayed

The courtroom thrummed with a midday tension. Lenora leaned back in her chair, allowing herself a single, measured breath before the next round of cross-examination began.

She’d started strong this morning—putting Brooke’s parents on the stand first. Their testimony was doing exactly what Lenora needed.  They painted a portrait of a vibrant, driven young woman with a future cut brutally short. A daughter who had worked hard, who was loved fiercely, and had been failed by her employer.

Kane, as expected, hadn’t wasted a second on the cross.

She went for the soft spots with brutal efficiency. Like a lion pretending to be a house cat. Her questions were measured, her tone gentle, and she never strayed too far into territory that might make her look like the heartless corporate shark she absolutely was. She poked holes, noted inconsistencies, underscored Brooke’s parents’ physical distance—living in another state—as a way to suggest they couldn’t really know everything about Brooke’s life.

But she hadn’t shattered the foothold grieving parents always seemed to hold with a jury—not entirely. 

Every inch she gained, Kane clawed back most of it in her counterpunches.

It was chess, not checkers.

And every word between them was a move on the board, calibrated for the jury's eyes.

Still, for now, Lenora was ahead.

She knew it.

Kane knew it.

And so did the jury.

But that was just the opening act.

The real fight was about to begin.

Lenora stood—the headliner—was about to take the stage.

“We call Harrison Smith to the stand,” Lenora announced.

All heads turned as Harrison Smith walked down the aisle, dressed in a sleek blue suit that fit him like a glove. His boyish charm was undeniable, his clean-cut features and hesitant smile toward the jury radiating an air of harmlessness. 

Lenora resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

Of course, he was polished.

Of course, he was perfectly packaged for the jury’s sympathy. 

Madeline Kane had a gift.

If she ever left the courtroom, she’d be rich training Rottweilers to behave like golden retrievers. Because only she could take someone like Harrison Smith and spin him into a golden boy.

He climbed onto the stand, his hands folded neatly at the edge, posture perfect, nerves just visible enough to humanize him. The jury responded on cue, their expressions already softening.

Lenora waited a moment before stepping forward.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Smith,” she said, her tone civil, almost friendly.

“Good afternoon,” Harrison replied, smooth as polished glass.

Lenora cocked her head slightly.

“You’re the head of logistics at Vanguard Industries, correct?”

“Yes, that’s correct,” he replied, flashing a perfect smile.

“And you’ve held that position for—what—three years now?”

“That’s right.”

Lenora’s brow arched.

“You must be quite the standout, Mr. Smith,” she remarked, voice light with just enough lift to make the words ambiguous. “Thirty years old and already managing such a critical department at the country’s largest defense contractor.”

She let the statement hang.

“Impressive,” she added, the word skating the line between praise and provocation.

“Thank you,” he replied, cheeks tinting pink with what might have been humility—or the performance of it.

Lenora turned on her heel, striding back to the counsel table and picked up a thick stack of papers.  She held them aloft as she spoke. 

“Mr. Smith, this is a list of all 112,612 employees currently working at Vanguard Industries within the US.”

She dropped the stack onto the table with a solid thud.

“My team,” Lenora went on, thinking briefly of Sol and the countless late nights she spent hunched over spreadsheets—“did a bit of digging.”

She let the pause breathe.

“Off the top of your head, could you estimate the average age of individuals holding leadership positions at Vanguard? Those equivalent to your role.”

Harrison blinked. His jaw shifted, and a subtle tension began gathering at the corners of his mouth.

“Uh... I’d say late thirties? Early forties, maybe?” he offered.

Lenora tilted her head, lips curving into a polite, unconvincing smile.

“Late thirties,” she echoed, as if trying the words on for size. “Interesting.”

She picked up another page from the stack, flipping through it.

“Because,” she said, locking eyes with him again, “our findings show the average age of promotion to your level is forty-eight.”

She paused, watching the flicker of discomfort flash across his face.

“Quite a bit older than your twenty-seven, wouldn’t you agree?”

Harrison swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He gave a small, rigid nod.

“I suppose so,” he murmured, the caution in his voice unmistakable—like someone realizing, just a beat too late, that they’d stepped into a carefully laid trap.

“And yet here you are,” Lenora continued, gesturing toward him with an open palm, her tone light, “managing logistics at one of the country’s largest defense contractors, years ahead of schedule. Truly remarkable.”

Across the aisle, Kane shifted. Her gaze sharpened, cutting toward Lenora like a knife. Lenora didn’t so much as flinch.

“Tell me, Mr. Smith,” she said, stepping forward, hands clasped behind her back in a posture that was equal parts poised and predatory. “Do you believe your friendship with Brandon Vanguard—your former college roommate—might have played a role in your accelerated promotion?”

Silence fell over the courtroom, thick and expectant. Every eye locked on Harrison.

“I... I don’t think so,” he replied after a beat, voice tighter now. “I’d like to think I earned my position on merit.”

Lenora let out a soft, neutral hum. No rebuttal. No agreement. Just a sound that said, we’ll see.

She turned to the table, selecting another document from the neatly organized stack Sol had prepared with surgical precision.

“Well,” she said, her voice calm but edged with promise, “let’s see if your merit speaks for itself.”

She handed the page to the bailiff, who moved to distribute it to the jury. Papers rustled as they leaned in, scanning the report, authored and signed by Harrison Smith.

Lenora caught the flicker of tension across the aisle. Kane’s mask didn’t crack, but her jaw had tightened, and her fingers had gone white around the stem of her pen.

She knew what was coming.

Lenora stepped toward the witness stand, holding up another page—plain, unassuming, deceptively simple.

“This,” she said, displaying the document for the jury before offering it to Harrison, “is one of your logistics reports, correct? Prepared and approved under your signature?”

Harrison leaned in, eyes scanning the page. His lips pressed into a thin, controlled line.

“Yes,” he replied evenly. “That’s correct.”

Lenora smiled.

It wasn’t kind.

“Why is a senior manager writing reports, Mr. Smith?” Lenora asked, letting the question land with quiet precision. “Shouldn’t you be approving them, not drafting them yourself?”

Harrison shifted. The flicker of discomfort was brief but telling before his composure slid neatly back into place.

“I still work closely with my logistics agents,” he replied smoothly, voice laced with just enough humility to sound sincere. “It keeps me informed about real-time issues and bottlenecks. And frankly, I think the team appreciates a manager who’s not afraid to get in the trenches with them.”

Across the room, Lenora could all but feel Kane smirking.

Of course.

Another perfect answer.

She hated it.

Keeping her expression neutral, she stepped closer, not conceding ground, but circling.

“Well, that’s admirable,” she replied evenly. “I’m sure your employees find it inspiring. But I’m curious—between running an entire department and being, as you say, in the trenches, when exactly do you find time to write these reports yourself?”

Harrison blinked.

Just once.

A flash of hesitation.

“I... prioritize,” he said after a beat. “I make time where it’s needed.”

Lenora tilted her head, her voice thoughtful but pointed.

“Of course. Prioritization is key to leadership. So, if you're carving out time to personally draft these, I assume they’re particularly significant?”

Another pause.

“Yes,” Harrison answered, his tone careful. “Important enough to warrant my direct involvement.”

Lenora smiled then, as she turned back to her desk. Vivienne was ready, sliding the next document into her hand without needing a word. Lenora lifted it and held it up for the jury to see—a thick, densely printed packet. 

“This,” she announced, voice cutting clean through the air, “is a standard logistics report from Vanguard Industries. You’re familiar with these, I assume?”

As she approached, Harrison straightened. She extended the document to him, and he took it, flipping through the pages as his brow drew inward.

“Yes,” he confirmed after a moment, his tone cautious. “It looks like one of ours.”

Lenora clasped her hands behind her back and gave him a beat before continuing.

“How many pages would you say that is?”

Harrison flipped through the stack, pausing at the end.

“Twenty-two,” he answered.

Lenora gave a single nod.

“And would you agree it’s fairly comprehensive? Inventory breakdowns, shipping schedules, itemized costs, carrier information—everything accounted for in full?”

“Yes,” he replied, voice a touch more strained.

Lenora turned to the jury, her tone shifting into something crisp and conversational—authority cloaked in calm.

“So just to confirm for the record—that twenty-two-page report in your hand details a shipment valued at ten point three million dollars. Every item documented and every dollar tracked.”

Harrison nodded again.

“Yes.”

Lenora paused.

Then pivoted.

“Now, Mr. Smith,” she continued smoothly, “you mentioned earlier that you personally handle reports when the shipment is particularly important. That’s your own standard, correct?”

“Yes,” he said, clearly bracing this time.

Lenora returned to her table and lifted a second document—this one thin, barely more than a sheet.

“And this,” she said, her tone tightening like a noose, “is the report you personally authored and signed… for a shipment valued at eleven point two million dollars.”

She walked it to the stand, placing it gently in front of him.

One page.

That was it.

Harrison looked down, his discomfort visible now—shoulders drawn, and his mouth a flat line.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “But that’s because—this particular shipment was classified. National security protocols restrict the level of detail we can include.”

Lenora gave a small nod, as if weighing the explanation.

“I see. National security,” she echoed, voice calm but edged with doubt. “Certainly a concern for a defense contractor like Vanguard.”

She paused before picking up the larger report again.

“But let’s consider that first shipment—the one we just reviewed. Ten-point-three million in total. Of that, approximately $789,000 was listed under vague terms like ‘logistics supplies.’ The rest?”

She let her voice rise, just slightly.

“Missiles. Drones. Surveillance systems. Model numbers. Serial codes. All listed—explicitly.”

She let that hang, then stepped in.

“Would it surprise you to learn, Mr. Smith, that my team”—her lips quirked again at the thought of Sol—“reviewed every shipping report Vanguard has submitted in the last three years? And in every single case, items categorized as ‘logistics supplies’ or ‘security hardware’ accounted for less than five percent of total cargo value?”

Harrison opened his mouth, faltered.

Then—

“Objection.” Kane’s voice rang out, sharp and cold. “Is counsel testifying, or does she plan to ask an actual question?”

Judge Marks didn’t even look up.

“Let’s move it along, Ms. Graves.”

Lenora didn’t miss a beat.

“Of course, Your Honor.”

She turned back to Harrison.

“Mr. Smith,” she said, nodding toward the flimsy report before him, “you’re telling this court that the entire cargo on this eleven-million-dollar shipment was classified. Not five percent. Not even fifty. But one hundred percent. No itemized documentation whatsoever.”

Harrison hesitated, as his hand hovered near the page.

“Yes,” Harrison said at last, barely above a whisper. “That’s correct.”

Lenora nodded slowly, expression keen and predatory, then moved back to her desk with unhurried grace. Vivienne was already waiting, sliding the next stack of documents into her hand like clockwork. But Lenora didn’t return to the stand just yet.

Instead, she leaned casually against the table, letting the weight of the silence press down on the room. Tension thickened with every breath.

“When you decide which reports to write personally, Mr. Smith,” she asked lightly, almost conversational, “do you gravitate toward certain accounts? Or do you simply pitch in where the team needs support?”

Harrison shifted in his seat, the movement slight but telling.

“I just help where I’m needed,” he replied, voice carefully neutral.

“So, no preference?” Lenora asked, tilting her head, tone still breezy.

“Objection—asked and answered,” Kane snapped, irritation slipping through.

“Sustained,” Judge Marks replied, not bothering to look up. “Move on, Ms. Graves.”

Lenora offered him a nod, then turned back to Harrison, eyes sharp.

“Do you believe in luck, Mr. Smith?”

A faint scoff rose from Kane’s side of the room. Lenora didn’t look, but she didn’t need to—Kane was bristling.

Perfect.

Harrison blinked, caught off guard.

“I—I guess?” he said, clearly trying to recalibrate. “I mean, I believe more in working for what you want.”

Lenora’s smirk deepened.

God, he was making this too easy for Lenora.

“‘Working for what you want,’” she echoed, savoring each word.

She stepped forward and extended a hand toward the stack of reports in Harrison’s grip.

“So, tell me—would you call it luck that you—and only you—consistently file reports for the Meridian Star? The same ship carrying tens of millions in entirely classified cargo, nearly every other week, for three years?”

She paused and shot him a look.

“Or would you say you worked for that? Worked to ensure no one else ever touched those manifests?”

The silence that followed was deafening. Harrison’s skin had gone pale under the courtroom lights, as the weight of every pair of eyes pressed in on him.

And he said nothing.

He didn’t have to.

Lenora had him.

So she moved in for the kill.

“Mr. Smith,” she continued with the pressure, “were you aware that Brooke Sinclair flagged one of these reports when she noticed the account number didn’t align with any known accounts and raised concerns about the vague itemization?”

Harrison’s hands gripped the edges of the stand. His knuckles blanched.

“I was aware,” he said slowly, but the control in his voice was slipping. “She worked in a different department, but… her supervisor escalated the concern to me. I worked with her directly, and—due to the classified nature of the manifest—”

Lenora cut in.

—Confidential or not, she flagged the report, didn’t she? She raised questions about the validity of the account number and the lack of transparency in the itemization."

Harrison nodded, though reluctantly. 

“Yes, she did.”

Lenora’s brows lifted slightly, as if settling in for a particularly intriguing tale.

“And what exactly did you do in response to her concerns?”

Harrison hesitated, the line of his jaw tightening.

“I explained that certain logistics details were classified under company policy. I assured her that the proper protocols were followed and that there was no need for concern.”

Lenora tilted her head, her gaze narrowing.

“You assured her,” she repeated, voice cool. “And did that satisfy her, Mr. Smith?”

“Yes,” he answered—too quickly. “As far as I could tell, she understood and moved on.”

Lenora nodded once, slowly, as though considering the answer. Then she straightened, her posture sharpening like a blade being drawn.

“And yet,” she said, stepping in, voice edged with steel, “a week later, Brooke Sinclair flagged another one of your reports. This time, she bypassed her supervisor entirely and took her concerns straight to James Hughes, didn’t she?”

Harrison froze, his mouth parting slightly before he caught himself.

“I—I wasn’t aware of that.”

Lenora arched a brow.

“You weren’t aware that she raised concerns about your report with Vanguard’s Head of Security?”

“No,” he said, the wobble in his voice more noticeable now. “That wasn’t brought to my attention.”

Lenora’s lips curled into a small, precise smile—nothing warm about it.

“Interesting,” she murmured. “Because emails exchanged between Ms. Sinclair and Mr. Hughes—obtained during discovery—show that she explicitly flagged discrepancies in your report.”

She turned slightly, addressing the bench.

“Would you like me to read them for the court?”

Harrison’s color drained. Kane stood abruptly.

“Objection, Your Honor. This is argumentative and lacks full evidentiary context.”

Judge Marks didn’t even glance at her.

“Overruled. Proceed, Ms. Graves.”

Lenora held up the printout.

“In an email dated five days before her death, Brooke Sinclair wrote—and I quote—‘This manifest doesn’t align with standard protocols. The vague itemization and missing account details are alarming. I believe this warrants further investigation.’”

She looked up, locking eyes with Harrison. His face was ashen.

Lenora took a step forward, cutting him off smoothly.

“Mr. Smith,” Lenora said, her voice quiet but no less sharp, “do you still believe Brooke Sinclair was satisfied with your explanation?”

The courtroom went still.

Harrison didn’t answer.

He sat motionless, lips parting slightly as though a reply might come—but nothing did. The silence that followed was dense with the collective weight of expectation.

Lenora just waited.

And when Harrison finally tried to speak, it came out as a fractured stammer.

“I—uh, well, I mean—”

Lenora let him stammer for a second, savoring it like music to her ears before stepping forward, not with aggression, but with the precision of someone tightening the final thread.

“Mr. Smith,” she said evenly, setting the stack of paper down in front of him, “in front of you are more than one hundred logistics reports—every one of them filed under your name for the Meridian Star. But you’re not the final approver on those documents, are you?”

Harrison shifted.

“No,” he muttered.

“These reports,” Lenora continued, her voice picking up just enough strength to fill the space, “require two additional authorizations: one from senior leadership and one from security—verifying contents and clearing the shipment. That’s Vanguard protocol, yes?”

Harrison’s eyes flickered down to the stack of papers in front of him, and then back up.

“Yes.”

Lenora tilted her head.

“Grab the report at the top, Mr. Smith. And please—read aloud the name listed under leadership approval.”

He hesitated, then slowly reached for the top report, his eyes scanned the page until he stopped on the bottom.

A pause.

Then—

“Brandon Vanguard,” Harrison said, and the crack in his voice gave him away.

The courtroom seemed to exhale—and then hold its breath again.

Lenora didn’t react.

Not outwardly.

She gave just the slightest tilt of her head, like a predator smelling blood.

“And the security sign-off?” she pushed.

Harrison froze. His eyes flicked, almost involuntarily, toward Kane and then back to the page. And then, like a man reading his own verdict, he spoke.

“James Hughes."

The name twisted in Lenora’s gut, revulsion coiling beneath her skin like something alive, but she pushed forward.

“James Hughes,” she repeated. “Vanguard’s Head of Security. The same James Hughes to whom Brooke Sinclair escalated her concerns. Is that correct?”

Harrison swallowed, and there was no hiding the discomfort anymore. It was plain as the sweat gathering at his collar.

“Yes,” he croaked.

The word settled in the air.

Lenora's eyes shifted toward the jury, her gaze sweeping deliberately across their faces, as she let them absorb it.  Then, without looking back at Harrison, she spoke again.

“Grab another report, and read me who the authorizers were?”

He hesitated. Then obeyed, pulling from the stack.

“Brandon Vanguard and James Hughes,” he read, voice strained.

Lenora didn’t miss a beat as she turned back towards him, stepping forward, she pulled a random one from the center of the pile and handed it over to him. 

“And this one?”

His fingers trembled slightly as he held it, reading it out loud.

“Brandon Vanguard and James Hughes.”

Lenora's brow lifted, as a faint, knowing smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“Let’s try one from the bottom, shall we?”

“Objection!” Kane’s voice cracked through the air, sharp with irritation. “This is a waste of the court’s time.”

Lenora turned smoothly, all poised composure as she faced the judge.

“Your Honor, I agree. In the interest of time, the record can reflect the following: All 123 one-page reports authored by Mr. Smith—each tied to the Meridian Star cargo carrier, each listing vague classifications like ‘logistics supplies’ and ‘security hardware’—share one critical detail. Every single one bears the signatures of Brandon Vanguard and James Hughes.”

A wave of murmurs swept the gallery, rippling through the jury box.

Judge Marks glanced at opposing counsel.

“Mrs. Kane?”

Kane’s jaw flexed as she weighed the damage. When she finally spoke, her voice was clipped.

“We’ll stipulate it for now, with the right to withdraw pending signature verification.”

“So stipulated,” Judge Marks said, turning back to Lenora. “Anything further for the witness, Ms. Graves?”

Lenora smiled. The kind of smile that made people shift in their seats without knowing why. She raised a single finger before pivoting smoothly toward Harrison.

“Just one,” she said, her tone almost playful, but no one in the room mistook it for casual.

She stepped closer, her gaze locked on Harrison like a hawk eyeing a lone rabbit in a bare field, with nowhere to hide.

“Mr. Smith,” she began, “do you think it was luck that Brooke Sinclair died before she could escalate her concerns further?”

She took another step, voice softening, sharpening.

“Or would you call it what you described earlier— ‘good old-fashioned, working toward what you want’?”

The air was sucked from the room.

The gallery gasped, a collective intake of breath like the moment before impact. Harrison’s face blanched. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again—searching for a defense that didn’t exist.

“Objection!” Kane barked. “Argumentative. Counsel is clearly attempting to inflame the jury with inflammatory speculation.”

Lenora turned slowly toward the bench, catching the warning look from Judge Marks. Her reply came cool and unbothered.

“Withdrawn,” she amended, but the faint smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth betrayed exactly how satisfied she was.

Because the damage was already done.

The jury would remember those words. 

And like a stone thrown into a windshield, the impact left its mark. And unless Kane or Grant found a way to ease the pressure, the more Lenora drove this case forward, the wider that crack would spread…until the whole fucking thing shattered.

“No further questions, Your Honor,” she added, offering Harrison one final glance before striding back to her table.

She didn’t need to look at Kane or Grant to know they were rattled.

She could feel it.

The tension practically hummed in the walls.

And Lenora Graves never missed the sound of a case tipping in her favor.

29

on the record but off balance

The judge called for a lunch recess, and the jury was promptly ushered out—most of them looking dazed, their heads filled with numbers, names, and that final question Lenora had withdrawn but left bleeding out still in the middle of the courtroom floor.

Lenora leaned back in her chair, finally letting the tension slide from her spine. Next to her, Vivienne was already flipping open her notebook, brows furrowed, pen tapping thoughtfully.

"Juror Six’s mouth dropped open during the Hughes signature reveal," Vivienne murmured without looking up. "And Juror Ten? She looked like she was suppressing the urge to start clapping."

Lenora smirked.

“That’s our theater major.”

“Yeah, well, she’s on your side. So are Two and Eleven. I’d bet my paycheck on it.”

Vivienne looked up.

“But Nine and Four… not sold yet.”

Lenora nodded, eyes drifting to the empty jury box.

“Keep watching them this afternoon. Harrison might have handed us momentum, but Kane’s good. She’ll regroup fast.”

“She already is,” Vivienne muttered. “She’s been writing like her pen’s on fire since you dropped the Meridian signatures.”

With the jurors off to lunch, Lenora made her way to the small room set aside for the Sinclair family. Brooke’s parents were waiting inside, both perched on the edge of a couch that looked far too soft for how stiff they sat.

Marianne Sinclair stood the moment Lenora entered, her expression taut.

“Is it going okay?”

Lenora offered a reassuring smile, one of the few genuine ones she had left in her for the day.

“It’s going well,” she said gently. “We're ahead, and the jury knows what happened to Brooke doesn’t add up. They just need a little help seeing why.”

Marianne nodded quickly, though her eyes shimmered.

“She’d have hated all this attention,” she murmured. “But… she’d be proud. Of what you're doing.”

Lenora’s throat tightened at that.

“She deserves this fight,” she said quietly.

After a few more calming words and a check-in about their plans for the afternoon session, Lenora stepped back into the hallway, alone for the first time all day.

She sat on one of the hard wooden benches lining the corridor, crossed one leg over the other, and pulled out her phone, hoping for maybe five quiet minutes.

No such luck.

The first thing she saw was alerts.

Explosions.

Highway.

Tour bus.

Multiple injuries.

And then—

Shit.

Three missed calls from Henry.

Her ex-husband only ever called that many times in a row when something was wrong.

Lenora didn’t hesitate. She hit redial and raised the phone to her ear.

It barely rang once before he answered.

“Hey—are you free today?” Henry’s voice rushed out, frantic.

Lenora resisted the impulse to roll her eyes.

Classic.

This was the difference between them.

When her life caught fire, Lenora figured it out.

When Henry’s life caught fire, he expected her to bring the bucket.

“I’m in the middle of my trial,” she said flatly.

“But is Sonya at your house?” he pressed, immediately ignoring her answer.

Lenora took a breath.

“Yes,” she replied. “And so is Sol.”

That gave Henry pause. She could almost hear his brain stutter.

“Okay… good, um—well, I don’t know if you saw the news, but I’m being called in. It’s all hands at the hospital. I can’t get Henry from school, and I won’t be home until sometime tomorrow.”

Lenora stared down the hallway, her mouth tightening.

“Can he go to your place tonight?” Henry pressed. “I’ll pick him up in the morning.”

Lenora’s thumb drifted along the edge of her phone, her mind already running the mental gymnastics—schedules, logistics, threats, coverage. Somehow, she always made it work.

“Yeah,” she said finally. “I’ll take care of it.”

A quick glance at the time made her curse under her breath.

Because, of course, Ben was out of school in twenty-five minutes.

She raised her hand and motioned toward the plainclothes security detail stationed down the hall—never far from her side.

They moved instantly.

Pulling the phone from her ear, she spoke low and fast.

“I need someone to pick up Sonya from the house and get her to Henry’s school. I want eyes on them the entire time.”

Her voice hardened.

“No stops. Straight from pickup to my place.”

The nearest agent gave a nod and immediately stepped aside, phone already at his ear, relaying orders.

She brought the phone back up.

“I’ve got one of the security agents picking up Sonya and bringing her to the school,” she told Henry. “They’ll escort Ben straight to my place.”

There was a pause on the other end—one second too long.

“Did everything get sorted out with that?” Henry asked, his voice suddenly tentative. “I know you’d wanted him with me because… well, you were worried.”

Lenora closed her eyes. Her jaw locked tight, and though her hand holding the phone remained steady, her other curled into a fist against her knee.

No, it hadn’t gotten sorted out.

It had gotten infinitely worse.

Because what she’d feared—that the mugging wasn’t random—had proven to be exactly right. And now, James Hughes had all but confirmed it when he alluded—no, threatened—that it could happen again.

And yet, here she was. Preparing to put him on the stand. Preparing to expose everything.

If she was right—and she usually was—this would be over by the end of the day. And once it was, Ben and Sol would be safe.

Really safe.

“I’m handling it,” she said finally.

“Look, Lenora—I can find a sitter,” Henry offered, the familiar edge of guilt-laced scrambling bleeding into his voice.

“I said I’m handling it, Henry,” she snapped, cutting him off. “Ben will be safe. If I didn’t believe that—if there was even a question—I wouldn’t take him.”

Because that wasn’t just something she told herself.

It was her line.

Her absolute.

Suddenly, the door to the courtroom opened back up again, signaling that the case was going to be called back from lunch.  She quickly found Vivienne amongst the crowd, moving back to the courtroom.

“Look, my case is being called back,” Lenora said, her tone softening just slightly. “I have to go, but I’ll take care of Ben. You go take care of your people.”

There was a pause on the other end.

“Okay—thanks, Lenny.”

Then the line went dead.

Lenora lowered the phone, staring at the black screen for a beat before raising one finger to Vivienne in a ‘silent one more thing.’

She tapped across the screen and brought the phone back to her ear.

Sol picked up on the second ring.

“Hey—you already win?”

Her voice was light, bright, like the first inhale after holding your breath too long. For a moment, it washed through Lenora like warm water, softening every muscle she hadn’t realized was clenched.

“Not yet,” Lenora replied, exhaling. “But I’m getting called back in. Can you let Sonya know someone’s coming to pick her up to grab Ben from school? Henry got pulled into work—there was some accident on the highway. Ben’s staying with us tonight.”

“No problem,” Sol said, and Lenora could hear movement in the background, like she was on her way to do just that. “Consider it handled.  Anything else?”

Lenora opened her mouth—something nearly rising in her throat—but there just wasn’t time. Not to say what she wanted to. Not to unpack the strange, selfish relief that came from knowing Sol was there.

She stepped toward the courtroom doors.

“No, that’s all I need,” she said, pausing just outside, watching as people began to take their seats.

“Thank you, Sol.”

A quiet beat passed on the other end. Then:

“Of course. Now go get ’em, killer.”

A slow, dangerous smile crept across Lenora’s face.

“Of course,” she echoed.

And with that, she ended the call, slid the phone into her pocket, and stepped through the doors.

She wasn’t walking back into court.

She was coming for them.

Specifically?

James. Fucking. Hughes.

30

Judgement day

“Ms. Graves, call your next witness.”

Lenora stood, adrenaline coiling low in her gut. Her broken hand flexed against the cast as she cleared her throat.

“We call James Hughes to the stand.”

The courtroom shifted as everyone's heads turned when the back doors opened.

James Hughes entered wearing a sleek black suit that matched the bruises under his eyes and the swelling around his nose, making it the perfect accent piece. Lenora’s gaze followed him, and a flicker of satisfaction coursed through her as she took in the damage.

She’d done that.

As he passed, their eyes locked. His glare burned with resentment, and hers with fury. 

He moved past her and took the stand, stiff and tense, glaring back at her like he still thought he could intimidate her.

He couldn’t.

Lenora leaned back in her chair, savoring the moment.

Because this wasn’t just another witness.

This was the one.

It had taken time to realize it wasn’t Vanguard she was after. Or even Brandon or Harrison.

The rot started here.

James Hughes.

At first, she'd thought of the trio as some twisted version of Fluffy, that three-headed dog from Harry Potter—guarding their smuggling empire. But Sol had helped her see it clearly.

Hughes wasn’t just a head.

He was the brain.

The Voldemort of the whole damn operation.

God, she really needed to stop reading those books to Ben and move on to a different series.

Her nails tapped the table once. Then she stood and walked toward the witness stand. Heels clicking in perfect rhythm.

Click.

Click.

Click.

She skipped the pleasantries. 

“Mr. Hughes, you are the Head of Security at Vanguard, correct?” she asked, her tone innocuous, like she was just ticking off a box. 

Hughes’s jaw tightened. For a moment, she thought he might not answer, but then he gave a stiff nod. 

“Yes,” he said, his voice clipped. 

One-word answers.

Smarter than his peers. 

But she wasn’t worried. 

She just needed to pry him open like a stuck pickle jar—and everyone knew the best way to unstick a pickle jar was to slam the lid on the countertop. 

Her gaze flickered briefly to his face, taking in the bruises, the swollen nose, the undeniable evidence of her fist meeting his face. She resisted the urge to smirk, fighting it back with every ounce of willpower.  

Time to give James Hughes a little tippy-tap on the metaphorical countertop. 

“The injury to your face looks painful,” Lenora remarked, her voice laced with feigned concern, her expression a perfect mask of mock sympathy. “Did you get that at work?”

The words had barely left her lips when the courtroom erupted into motion. 

“Objection!” Kane shot to her feet, the word echoing off vaulted ceilings like a god damn opera house. 

“Ms. Graves!” Judge Marks barked. 

But Lenora didn't so much as turn towards them.     

Her focus was singular—locked on James Hughes. 

His reaction was all she cared about. 

And...there...it...was.  

The narrowing of his eyes.

The clench of his jaw.

The slow curl of his lip into a snarl. 

A thrill bloomed in Lenora’s chest as she let the smirk she’d been holding back unfold across her face.  She wanted him to see it, to feel it, to know exactly who had just gotten under his skin. 

Judge Marks was most certainly going to rip her apart in a second, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.  

It had been worth it.

Every. Single. Second.

The jar was officially cracked open.

“Counsel,” Judge Marks snapped. “Bench. Now.”

Lenora turned away from Hughes, though the swagger in her step faltered slightly under the full weight of Judge Marks’ glare.

She heard footsteps falling in behind her.

Kane.

Their shoulders nearly brushed as they approached the bench, and without turning her head, Kane leaned in just enough to mutter under her breath.

“You’ve got balls, Graves,” she said, a sliver of reluctant admiration threading through her usual disdain. “I’ll give you that.”

Lenora’s lips twitched.

But there was no time to bask in the rare compliment, because like a switch flipping, Kane’s tone snapped into full righteous fury the second they reached the bench.

“Your Honor,” she began, already seething, “Ms. Graves is blatantly baiting the witness. Yesterday’s events were to be kept strictly from the jury to avoid prejudicing my client with opposing counsel’s baseless, inflammatory accusations. Her reckless disregard for this court’s instructions is—”

Judge Marks held up a hand, palm out, and Kane’s words died in her throat.  And then he turned his gaze on her.

“Ms. Graves,” he all but hissed, his voice low with warning as he leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Let me make myself crystal clear. If you so much as hint at yesterday’s events again—if you even think about dancing around the edges with one of your clever little word games—I won’t just fine you. I will hold you in contempt.”

He paused, letting the threat settle, then leaned in further.

“And unlike the last time I held you in contempt,” he followed up, voice dropping into something more personal, “you won’t be paying a fee and walking out the front door. You’ll be escorted by my sheriffs to the dirtiest, most miserable cell the great city of New York has to offer.”

Lenora barely resisted the urge to cringe.

Judge Marks exhaled slowly through his nose, still glaring.

“And as I’m sure you’re well aware, paperwork moves slowly down there, and likely won’t be processed till the morning.  So don’t test me, Ms. Graves, unless you wish to participate in the worst sleepover of your life. Am I being understood?”

The warning hung in the air.

And Lenora, for all her talents at toeing the line—hell, dancing on it in stilettos—she knew exactly when not to push. Judge Marks was not someone she wanted to meet on the other side of that line.

So, she nodded once.

“I understand, Judge,” she said, her voice laced with just enough contrition to pass inspection.

She meant it.

Mostly.

Judge Marks studied her for a long moment. The silence stretched, thick with scrutiny, until he finally leaned back in his chair and gave a curt nod.

“Continue your questioning, Ms. Graves.  But tread carefully.”

Lenora nodded once, her expression unreadable. As she stepped away from the bench, her eyes snapped briefly to Kane. She shot her a pointed look before returning to her side of the courtroom.

Once Kane was seated again, Lenora pivoted, her attention locking back onto James Hughes.

“Mr. Hughes,” she began, voice steady, “what exactly does the Head of Security at Vanguard do?”

Hughes shifted in his seat, the stiffness in his shoulders betraying the tension coiled beneath his suit. His jaw flexed before he answered in a voice that dripped with polished authority.

“Given the nature of Vanguard’s work, our primary concern is preventing our weapons from falling into the wrong hands, whether foreign or domestic. I oversee all surveillance, warehouse security, and logistics protocols. When we move weapons—by land or sea—I’m responsible for making sure they’re protected. That is my job, Ms. Graves. I protect.”

Lenora’s lips twitched, just barely.

Protect.

What a goddamn joke.

She leaned forward slightly.

“Wow.  To hold such a critical position at Vanguard, one would assume you have a background in law enforcement, the military, or private security. Would that be accurate?”

Hughes didn’t hesitate.

“I was a Marine,” he replied. “Captain. Served fifteen years. Retired. Three tours in Iraq. Special Forces.”

Lenora gave a tight nod, her jaw ticking before she forced the words out.

“Thank you for your service, Mr. Hughes.”

He didn’t acknowledge her.

Not a nod.

Not a blink.

Just a dead stare.

Good.

She didn’t mean it anyway.

She let the silence stretch a beat longer before tilting her head, her tone shifting.

“When you say Special Forces, Mr. Hughes,” she asked lightly, “are you referring to your time as a Marine Raiders?”

The slightest flicker of surprise crossed Hughes’s face.

Thank you, Amelia Bolden. 

Hughes looked at her for a moment, like he was trying to figure out just by looking at her how Lenora knew that before responding.

“Yes. For five years.” 

Lenora’s eyes bore into Hughes as she leaned casually against her table. 

“What does a Marine Raider do, exactly?” she asked, her tone deceptively light. Then, without missing a beat, she added, “The unclassified version, of course.”  

Hughes’s jaw ticked.

It was subtle, but Lenora caught it. He didn’t like being cornered, and she was dragging him there, inch by inch. 

“A Marine Raider,” he began, his voice still gruff but now more measured, “is responsible for direct action missions, special reconnaissance, and foreign internal defense. We’re trained to operate in hostile environments and neutralize high-value targets. Among other things.” 

“Among other things,” Lenora repeated not for her but for the jury, her tone carefully neutral, though her lips twitched in amusement at his vague deflection.  

She took a step forward. 

“To put that in layman's terms,” she continued, “you’re highly trained to assess threats, execute operations with precision, and ensure mission success by any means necessary. Would you agree with that summary, Mr. Hughes?” 

He shifted slightly.

“Yes.”

Lenora paused, letting the weight of that admission settle over the courtroom.  

“And would you say those skills translate well into your current role at Vanguard?” she asked, her voice smooth, almost conversational, as if she weren’t about to tie a noose with his own words. 

“They do.”

Lenora nodded, the familiar curl of excitement stirring in her chest.  She was building the foundation for her case here.

Brick by brick.  

This wasn’t a criminal case—she didn’t need to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that James Hughes was responsible for Brooke Sinclair’s death. This was a civil case, and all she needed was for her version of events to be more likely than his. 

Lenora returned to the table, retrieving one of Harrison Smith's one-page logistics reports for the Meridian Star. She held it up, letting the jury take in the familiar document before turning her attention back to Hughes. 

“Do you sign all logistics reports, Mr. Hughes?” she asked. 

“No,” he replied. “That would be impossible with the sheer amount of work we do—I’m only one person. I have lower-level managers who sign off.” 

Lenora nodded, taking a few measured steps forward.  

“So, you don’t sign any reports yourself?” 

“I didn’t say that,” Hughes snapped, his words coming out a little too harshly before he quickly caught himself.

He exhaled, steadying his tone.

“I sign off on our larger-level projects, depending on the cargo or if the destination is flagged as hostile.” 

Lenora’s lips curved faintly, her gaze sharpening.  

“I see. So, your signature indicates a higher level of scrutiny?” 

Hughes nodded stiffly.

“Yes.”

Lenora let the moment breathe as she scanned the jury. Then, she turned her attention back to Hughes, the report still in her hand.  

“When a signature is placed on a logistics report,” she began, her tone thoughtful yet probing, “what does that mean, exactly? What do you and your team evaluate before approving a report?” 

Hughes shifted in his seat, clearly considering his response. 

“We look at the cargo contents,” he said carefully. “We evaluate the destination and assess current threats. We coordinate with the military and the Department of Defense to ensure they are aware of our cargo’s movement. And we select the best path to ensure the shipment reaches its destination safely.” 

Lenora nodded, her expression composed, though her mind buzzed.  

“So, you’re telling this court that every signed logistics report represents a comprehensive review—cargo, route, security, coordination with external agencies—all of it?” 

“Yes,” Hughes affirmed, nodding his head.

Perfect.  

Right where she wanted him. 

Lenora turned, walking back to her table where Vivienne handed her a neatly prepared, vividly color-coded diagram that Sol had painstakingly put together. It compared one of the Meridian Star’s routes to a standard Vanguard cargo run. 

She strode forward, handing one copy to Hughes while placing another on the display for the jury to see. 

“Mr. Hughes,” she began, as she gestured to the diagram, “on this chart, you’ll notice two lines across the Atlantic Ocean. The green line represents the Queen’s Voyager, a cargo ship carrying $11.3 million worth of equipment. All details for this shipment were meticulously laid out in the standard 23-page logistics report we reviewed earlier. The ship departed from New York on June 7th and arrived at Camp Lemonnier in Africa 15 days later.” 

She paused, letting Hughes and the jury absorb the clear trajectory marked on the chart. 

“Would you consider this route and timeframe typical for a Vanguard shipment of this scale?” 

Hughes glanced down at the chart, his jaw tightening slightly before answering. 

“Yes, that’s a standard route and timeframe.” 

Lenora’s lips curved ever so slightly.  

“Thank you,” she responded, before pivoting, her hand now gesturing to the red line on the diagram, which was all over the place on the document. 

“And this,” she continued, her tone hardening, “is the Meridian Star’s trajectory. A cargo ship carrying $11.2 million in ‘ classified materials,’ according to this one-page report. It departed from New York on April 12th and arrived at the same destination.” 

She paused again, this time locking her gaze on Hughes.  

“Do you notice anything… unusual about this path, Mr. Hughes?” 

Hughes shifted in his seat, his eyes darting from the diagram in his hands to the one displayed for the jury. His jaw worked slightly as he stared at the red line. 

“It’s not… standard,” he admitted, his voice tight. 

Lenora tilted her head, her expression carefully neutral.  

“Not standard. That’s one way to put it.”  

She took a step closer to the jury, letting the diagram stay in their view.  

“The Meridian Star’s route, as you can see, took nearly double the time of the Queen’s Voyager to reach the exact same destination—28 days instead of 15.” 

She turned back to Hughes, her eyes narrowing slightly.  

“Mr. Hughes, can you explain why a ship carrying ‘classified materials,’ requiring such high levels of security and oversight, would take an indirect, erratic path across the Atlantic Ocean, extending its journey by almost two weeks?” 

Hughes fidgeted, his hand gripping the edge of the witness stand.  

“There could be several reasons for that,” he responded cautiously. “Weather, unexpected logistical changes, or ensuring the ship avoided potential hostile territories.” 

Lenora let his answer hang in the air for a moment before stepping forward again.  

“Interesting. According to meteorological records, the weather was clear on the Meridian Star’s entire route during that time. And Vanguard’s own internal communications show no mention of logistical changes. In fact…” 

She returned to her table, picking up a new document with a flourish.  

“...this internal memo dated April 11th states that the Meridian Star’s path was pre-approved by security management. Care to guess whose signature authorized that pre-approval?” 

Hughes’ jaw tightened, and a flicker of discomfort passed over his face. 

“Yours, Mr. Hughes,” Lenora said, her voice sharp. “So, again, I ask you—why would you send a ship carrying $11.2 million in ‘classified materials’ on a route that doubled its travel time? Was it really about avoiding potential risks? Or were there… other reasons?” 

Kane immediately rose to her feet.  

“Objection, Your Honor. Counsel is clearly speculating!” 

Judge Marks raised a hand to Kane but kept his focus on Lenora.  

“Move it along, Ms. Graves.” 

Lenora nodded and walked back to the table to pick up a neatly organized stack of cargo paths Sol had meticulously created for the  Meridian Star. 

Turning back to Hughes, she approached the witness stand slowly, her expression sharp but calm, every move calculated. 

“Mr. Hughes,” she began, holding up one of the diagrams for the jury to see, “would it surprise you to learn that the Meridian Star—regardless of date, weather, or geopolitical climate—routinely takes two, sometimes three times as long as a standard cargo ship to reach its destination?” 

Hughes’ lips pressed together so tightly they nearly disappeared. 

“Yes,” he said after a moment. “That does surprise me.” 

Lenora’s eyes gleamed as she set the records down and reached for the stack of logistics reports authored by Harrison Smith. She lifted them with a theatrical flair as she approached him. 

“Why would that surprise you, Mr. Hughes?” she asked, pausing just long enough to let the tension stretch.  

“After all…”  

She placed the stack of reports directly in front of him with a soft thud.

“You approved the path for every single one.” 

Hughes’ jaw tightened, the faintest flicker of something—panic, perhaps—passing through his eyes before he schooled his expression.  

Lenora relished the crack in his composure as she stepped back, letting the jury absorb the weight of her words before continuing.  

“So, tell us, Mr. Hughes—why would you want the Meridian Star, a ship carrying sensitive and classified cargo under your direct approval, to take such an inefficient and erratic route?” 

She folded her arms, her gaze locked on him.  

Mr. Hughes cleared his throat, his voice carefully controlled as he responded,  

“It’s not standard. But the nature of our work can’t always accommodate a procedure. Sometimes adjustments are necessary.” 

Lenora tilted her head slightly.

“But every time, Mr. Hughes? Doesn’t that seem… suspicious?” 

“Objection!” Kane shot to her feet, her voice sharp. “Counsel is asking the witness to speculate.” 

Lenora didn’t miss a beat.  

She turned to the judge. 

“Your Honor, Mr. Hughes is a highly trained military professional. He is, quite literally, an expert witness in speculation.” 

The murmurs that rippled through the courtroom were immediate, and Judge Marks raised a hand for silence. His eyes narrowed at Lenora, a warning in his gaze, but his tone was even as he replied. 

“I’ll allow it, but tread carefully, Ms. Graves.” 

Lenora turned back to Hughes, her gaze locking onto his with a sharpness that made him visibly stiffen. 

“Answer the question, Mr. Hughes,” she said, baiting him. “Using your long history in the military and examining intel, doesn’t it seem suspicious to you that every single route taken by the Meridian Star deviates so drastically from standard procedure?” 

Hughes hesitated, the tension in the room thickening as he struggled to find a response. His lips parted, but no words came immediately. Finally, after a few seconds of silence, Hughes exhaled, his jaw tightening as he leaned slightly forward.  

“It’s... unusual,” he admitted, his voice strained. “But I wouldn’t immediately classify it as suspicious. There are many factors that could contribute to deviations.” 

Lenora’s eyebrow arched.  

“Unusual,” she repeated, letting the word hang in the air like a cloud.  

The courtroom was silent, every pair of eyes locked on Hughes.

Lenora’s expression didn’t change, though inside, she was already shifting gears.

“Did you know Brooke Sinclair?” 

Hughes straightened immediately at the sudden change in questioning. 

“No, I never met her. But I did read the email that was escalated to me. I was just looking into investigating when I found out about her suicide.” 

Lenora paused, letting his words hang in the room before taking a slow step closer to the witness stand. 

“So, just to clarify for the jury, you’re telling us that you never met Brooke Sinclair?” 

“That’s correct.”

“Interesting,” Lenora said, pacing slowly. 

She stopped near the jury box and turned back to Hughes.  

“Back to your military background, Mr. Hughes. From what I’ve learned about Marine Raiders, their expertise isn’t limited to just protecting assets. They excel in strategic offensives—calculated moves to neutralize threats before they can even become a problem. Would you say that’s an accurate description?” 

Hughes exhaled deeply through his nose. 

“Yes.”

Lenora tilted her head, her lips curling into a faint, knowing smile.  

She turned and walked back to her desk. Vivienne was already holding out the flash drive, and Lenora took it with a small nod of gratitude before handing it to the courtroom clerk. 

“Could you display this on the monitor?” she asked, her tone calm but carrying an undercurrent of anticipation. 

The courtroom clerk nodded, moving to the large flat-screen TV bolted to the wall, positioned perfectly for the jury and the witness to view. Meanwhile, Lenora leaned against her table, her fingers tapping softly on the wooden surface. Her gaze locked onto Hughes, who stared back.

Oh, she was going to bury him. 

“It’s all set, Ms. Graves,” the clerk said, breaking the silence. 

Lenora nodded her thanks, taking the pointer remote and gesturing toward the screen, which displayed a grainy, black-and-white video feed of a quiet, unassuming street. The jury leaned forward, their interest piqued, as Lenora stepped closer to the monitor. 

“Mr. Hughes, do you recognize this street?” she asked. 

Hughes scoffed lightly.  

“No, it looks like any other street.” 

Lenora nodded as she picked up an affidavit from her desk before carrying it up to Judge Marks. 

“This,” she began, holding the paper aloft for the courtroom to see, “is an affidavit signed by Amit Kannan, owner of the Quick Stop market on the corner of Berkley and Kline Street, here in New York City.  Mr. Kannan attests that the footage was taken by my associate, Sol Ruiz, on October 12th.” 

She paused, turning slightly to point at the TV screen where the grainy footage of a street corner stood frozen. 

“This camera,” she continued, “is positioned to capture activity on Berkley Street.”

She paused, turning back to face the room.

“Brooke Sinclair lived on Berkley Street. Her townhome isn’t visible in this footage, but it’s just three houses up from where the camera cuts off. So, anyone walking toward the camera would be heading directly toward Brooke Sinclair’s home.” 

She pivoted to James Hughes.

“Mr. Hughes,” she said, her voice soft but cutting, “can you read the timestamp in the top-right corner for us?” 

Hughes squinted slightly, leaning forward.

“July 18th, 2019, 9:13 PM,” he read.

“And where were you on July 18th, 2019, at approximately 9:13 PM?” asked Lenora. 

Hughes immediately shook his head. 

“That was over five years ago,” he answered incredulously. “I couldn’t say for sure, but I was likely at work.” 

“You work that late?” Lenora asked.

“I’m on call every day, all year round,” Hughes replied, his voice firm, though the defensiveness in his tone was impossible to miss. “This job keeps me very busy.” 

Lenora’s lips curved.

“I’m sure it does,” she remarked almost mockingly. 

Her gaze never wavered from his as she brought up the remote and clicked it. The footage on the monitor shifted, zooming in on a black car parked under the dim glow of a streetlamp.  

“I want to talk about that vehicle, Mr. Hughes,” she pressed, her tone hardening ever so slightly.  “Do you recognize it?”

He barely looked at it.

“No, I don’t recognize it."

“Are you sure?” Lenora pressed, her voice sharper now, though still maddeningly polite. “Take your time, Mr. Hughes. It’s a very distinctive vehicle—a black Cadillac with tinted windows. You’re telling me you’ve never seen it before?” 

Hughes’s lips thinned, but he didn’t answer. 

“Okay then.  Let's move on, shall we?  Keep your eyes on that car, Mr. Hughes,” Lenora instructed as she fast-forwarded the footage.

On the screen, the car sat unmoving, all night, leaving during the day, and then returning every night. 

“This vehicle,” Lenora continued, her voice slicing through the growing tension in the room, “can be seen on this street every night for five consecutive days. All leading up to July 23rd—the night Brooke Sinclair died.” 

She paused the footage on the final night. Then she pressed play again, and the screen moved, and a figure finally emerged from the SUV. Their shadow stretched long and ominous across the pavement as they began to walk down the street.

Lenora timed it perfectly and paused the video just before the figure stepped into the pool of light cast by a streetlamp. 

“When I hit this button,” Lenora announced, holding up the remote, her gaze sweeping the room, “that man will step under the streetlight, and we’ll all see his face. You, me, the jury— everyone .” 

She turned to Hughes, her stare unrelenting, drilling into him with the force of inevitability. 

“So, Mr. Hughes,” Lenora drawled, “I’m giving you one last chance. Would you like to amend any part of your previous testimony?”

Hughes said nothing.

He just stared at her—stone-faced and silent.

Then, for the first time since he’d taken the stand, James Hughes shifted his gaze—not to Lenora, not to the judge, but to Madeline Kane.

Lenora turned, catching the exchange.

And she saw it.

The moment Kane understood why her client’s employee was looking at her like that.

A tense, suffocating silence settled over the room, broken only by the sudden scrape of a chair against the tile floor.

“Your Honor,” Kane said as she stood, her voice tight and strained, “the defense requests a brief recess.”

Judge Marks looked unimpressed. His jaw locked, clearly seconds from denying it. The man hated delays.

But Lenora already saw what was coming and stepped forward. 

“We don’t oppose the request, Your Honor.”

Marks raised an eyebrow, surprise flashing across his face before he exhaled hard through his nose.

“Recess granted,” he ordered, reluctant but firm, banging his gavel. “You may step down, Mr. Hughes.”  

Marks’s gaze flicked between Kane and Lenora.  

“You have twenty minutes.” 

The courtroom stirred as Judge Marks stood, prompting everyone else to rise.  

Upon his exit, Lenora returned to her table and sank into her chair beside Vivienne, her eyes never leaving the scene unfolding across the courtroom. Hughes strode past her, glaring at her while Grant immediately intercepted him, leaning in close and speaking in a hushed but urgent tone. 

Meanwhile, Kane was glued to her phone, her posture taut with tension. Her lips pressed into a thin, unforgiving line as she glanced sharply in Lenora’s direction. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and Kane’s expression darkened further as she brought the phone to her ear. 

“Yeah...we have a problem...”  

31

a deal with the devil

Lenora leaned back slightly, arms crossing over her chest as she watched each moment of turmoil across the aisle, feeding the steady drumbeat of triumph thrumming beneath her skin. 

“You had him,” Vivienne whispered, her voice cutting through the moment. “Why didn’t you finish it?” 

Lenora turned her head slowly, her gaze meeting Vivienne’s questioning eyes. A smirk spread across her face, cocky and full of confidence. 

“You’ll see.”

Reaching for her phone, Lenora tapped the screen to life, needing the distraction. 

100 unread emails.

10 messages from Ethan about clients. 

1 message from Imani.   

She opened that one and snorted as it read:

“Don’t fuck it up.”  

Lenora rolled her eyes and then her attention snagged on a different message entirely.  

1 new message from Sol.

Lenora’s hand stilled above the notification. Slowly, she tapped it open.

And her breath caught.

It was a photo—just a simple selfie.

Sol and Ben were curled up on the couch, smiling straight into the camera. Ben’s head rested on Sol’s shoulder, his face lit up with that unmistakable, full-toothed grin she usually reserved for dinosaurs and dessert. And Sol wore the same smile—wide, easy, and real.

And that’s when it hit her.

Same smile.

Same hair color.

Same softness in the eyes.

And suddenly, it felt like Simone Biles was doing a beam routine on her heart—and of course, sticking every goddamn leap.

She hadn’t seen it until now.

But staring at that photo, there was no unseeing it.

They looked alike.

And because her brain was apparently a psychopath with no sense of timing, it immediately conjured up an image she hadn’t asked for: a little girl.

Same inky, black-colored hair.

Same crooked grin.

But with eyes—dark, brown, so similar to her other mo...

Absolutely not.

Shut it down.

Slam the U-Haul door shut and throw a padlock on it because that thought was outrageous.

...Right?

“Lenora.”

Kane’s voice cut clean through the spiral, snapping her back to the present like a cold slap.

Thank God.

Lenora blinked, turned, and spotted Kane standing a few feet behind her—jaw tight, eyes locked with purpose.

“A word?” Kane asked coolly.

Lenora’s lips twitched, tempted to lob something sarcastic, but decided against it. Instead, she reached out and gave Vivienne a light smack on the arm, nodding for her to follow. Vivienne raised a brow but stood, trailing after them without question as they followed Kane out of the courtroom.

Kane led them down the hallway and then opened the door to one of the attorney conference rooms and stepped aside, letting Lenora and Vivienne enter first.

Lenora froze for the briefest moment.

Sitting at the table was William Vanguard.

Founder.

CEO.

Billionaire.

Lenora’s gaze flicked over the room like a searchlight—Grant at one end of the table, trying and failing to mask his nerves as his fingers spun a pen like a nervous tic.

And then there was William.

Perfectly composed.

Tailored suit, that probably cost the same amount as a mid-size car—not a thread out of place. His silver hair was slicked back, and his eyes locked on her like she was something he intended to dissect.

The door shut behind them with a soft click.

“Ms. Graves,” Vanguard said smoothly, his voice carrying the quiet authority of a man used to the world folding at his feet.

He didn’t rise.

He didn’t offer his hand.

He just gestured to the empty chairs across from him like a king tolerating an audience.

“Please. Sit.”

Lenora’s smile was pure venom wrapped in charm.

“How gracious,” Lenora murmured, sliding into the seat without breaking eye contact.

Vivienne followed a beat later, sitting beside Lenora stiffly.

Kane stayed by the wall, arms crossed, and watching.

Across the table, William Vanguard offered a small, practiced smile that was borderline creepy.

“I thought it was time we spoke,” he remarked, voice cool. “Man to man, so to speak.”

Lenora let out a low laugh, dark and dry. The sheer audacity of the man was almost impressive.

Almost.

She raised an eyebrow in response, saying nothing.

Vanguard leaned forward, fingers steepled.

“I’m prepared to settle this—privately. Two hundred million. Here and now. You drop your case.”

Vivienne inhaled sharply beside her. Lenora didn’t need to look to know her co-counsel was calculating the numbers—a seventy-two million dollar contingency—the biggest payday the firm had ever seen.

But Lenora didn’t react because she expected this.

Her eyes stayed locked on Vanguard.

“Two hundred million,” she repeated, as if tasting the words.

Then she smiled.

A slow, cutting thing, before laughing.

“You think this is about money?”

The words landed harder in the silent room.

She leaned forward, mirroring his pose, but with heat behind her gaze—a quiet fury sharpened into a weapon.

“You think two hundred million is enough to make me walk away after what your company did? Not just to Brooke Sinclair—but to my family?”

Vanguard’s jaw ticked, and for the first time, the mask cracked.

“I didn’t authorize that,” he acknowledged finally, voice lower now, strained. Like the words cost him something. “But I am the head of this company. And I know my grandson played a role.”

His voice hardened.

“I want this resolved, Ms. Graves. Quietly. Efficiently. So, I’ll ask again—what’s it going to take?”

Lenora leaned back slightly, studying him like a shark circling something that used to think it was a predator. William Vanguard. Titan of industry. Kingmaker. But now? Just a powerful man trying to outrun a fire he’d set himself.

And that—that—made her heart race.

Not with fear.

But with exhilaration.

“So let me make sure I’ve got this right,” she recounted, her voice smooth and sharp. “You want me to name a number. Something big enough to buy silence. Let you sweep a murder, a conspiracy, and a trail of corruption—under the rug. All so your legacy stays intact, and your name stays out of tomorrow’s headlines.”

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

The tick of his jaw was confirmation enough.

She tilted her head, tapping a slow rhythm against the table.

“Is there an amount of money that will make me forget the blood of Brooke Sinclair on your company's hands? Or the threats against my son and the attempt on the life of the woman I love?”

She heard Vivienne’s soft hitch of breath next to her.

Lenora blinked once.

Oh.

Shit.

She’d said those three little words out loud.

Not to Sol, where it might have meant something.

No—she'd declared it in a corporate cage match.

Classic Lenora Graves move.

But if Vanguard noticed, he didn’t show it.

Instead, he leaned forward, his voice tight.

“Then tell me. What will it take?”

Lenora let the silence breathe—let it tighten its grip on the room. She thought of Brandon Vanguard’s smug little soundbite during Kane’s cross: We’re a ten-billion-dollar company. What’s a few hundred million?

She leaned in.

“Your grandson and your legal team made it pretty clear that losing three hundred and sixty-one million wouldn’t so much as dent the company.”

Her smile sharpened like broken glass.

“So, let's put that to the test, shall we?”

She let it hang there for a beat.

“Three hundred and sixty-two. Even.”

Kane pushed off the wall like she’d been spring-loaded, outrage etched across her face.

“That is absolutely ridicu—”

Vanguard cut her off with a single raised hand.

“Fine,” he said coldly, rising to his feet. “My attorneys will draw up the paperwork. Your firm and the Sinclair’s will sign an NDA. The trial record will be sealed. Do we have a deal?”

He paused beside Lenora, his imposing frame casting a long shadow. There was something close to respect—begrudging, reluctant—written across his face as he extended his hand.

Lenora stood slowly, met his gaze, and took his hand.

“Deal.”

Vanguard nodded back.

“I mean this sincerely, Ms. Graves,” he said, voice low, “I hope our paths never cross again.”

But as he began to pull away, Lenora’s grip tightened—just enough to stop him.

“Then keep your people on a leash,” she murmured. “Because if they come after me or mine again, I promise you—we’ll cross paths. And next time, I won’t settle until your entire company files for bankruptcy.”

His jaw flexed, the corners of his mouth twitching downward before he gave a curt nod.

She let him go.

William Vanguard turned and strode out, the door closing with a quiet click that felt like the end of a war.

When Lenora turned, Vivienne was watching her with wide eyes and the biggest, proudest smile Lenora had ever seen on her.

It did something weird to her chest.

She cleared her throat and shifted her focus to the room.

“Well,” she announced, clapping her hands once, all sharp humor and swagger, “the gang’s all here. Let’s go tell Judge Marks, shall we?”

32

premeditated victory

Lenora stepped out of the courthouse, trading marble for cement. The crisp evening air rushed into her lungs, sharp and clean. For the first time in years, she felt something close to weightlessness.

The burden—Vanguard, Brooke—was gone.

It was over.

The preliminary agreement was signed, and the NDAs sealed. Justice, albeit quiet and purchased, had been served.  

Brooke Sinclair’s parents had hesitated, bristling at the idea of silence. But Lenora had looked them in the eye and asked for their trust, one last time. And they’d given it because it was Lenora who got them this far. And it would be Lenora who saw it through.

The moment the pens left the page, they broke down.

Because the money was proof.

Their daughter hadn’t taken her own life.

She’d been killed.

And for the first time, even if only in shadows, Vanguard had admitted it.

Lenora exhaled slowly, letting the early autumn chill bite at her skin. She felt Vivienne step up beside her, silent and steady.

Her mind drifted to their firm.  Now, one hundred and thirty-four million dollars richer.  The largest settlement in its history.

Lenora smirked faintly, the expression tired but earned.

After a while, Vivienne broke the silence.

“Mei and Imani are waiting at Bemelmans,” she said, her tone light. “Celebratory drinks are very much on the menu.”

Lenora paused.

Normally, she’d be halfway there already—bourbon in hand, applause in her ears, her ego soaking up every last drop.

But not tonight.

Her mind had already gone home.

To Ben’s laughter.

To Sol’s smile.

Lenora turned to Vivienne with a small, real smile.

“Rain check on Bemelmans?”

Vivienne blinked, momentarily thrown. But then she looked—really looked—at Lenora and then smiled.

“Go home, Graves,” she said, gently teasing.

Lenora smiled again, softer this time.

Almost bashful.

Then she caught herself and masked it with a half-hearted glare.

Vivienne just smirked, smug and knowing.

Lenora huffed, pivoted, and walked away—down the courthouse steps and toward the waiting town car. Dan stood holding the door, saying nothing.

She slid into the cool leather seat and the door shut behind her with a soft, satisfying click.

For a moment, she just breathed and let the day hang in the air, heavy and sacred.  Then she reached into her bag, pulled out her phone, and typed a message—the final play in a game she’d been rigging for months.

Ready to become a five-term senator?

That was all the message said.

And really, that was all Amelia Bolden needed.

Yes, Lenora had signed the NDA. Yes, she had agreed to silence.

But the thing about NDAs—they didn’t cover the past.

They didn’t cover the documents she had already provided, nor the lunch where the plan had been strategically planted. Yes, she accepted Vanguard's money, but now, with Amelia’s assistance, she would acquire something far more valuable.

Their reputation.

Their illusion of invincibility.

And their goddamn dignity.

And it would be aired on the public stage, for everyone to see.

She hadn’t just won.

She had outmaneuvered them, outgunned them, and outplayed them on every level.

And that—that was everything.

Dan’s voice crackled through the intercom.

“Where to, Ms. Graves?”

Lenora stared down at her phone for a beat longer, then let the grin take over—slow, smug, and well-earned.

“Home, Dan,” she said. “Take me home.”

33

Love, Beyond a Reasonable Doubt

Lenora wasn’t sure what to expect when she stepped inside the house.  The silence caught her by surprise at first. There were no small feet pounding toward the door. Nor was there an enthusiastic “Mom!” echoing down the hallway.

Which was odd.

Because Ben was definitely home.

She took off her heels with a quiet sigh of relief, the ache in her feet easing instantly, then shrugged out of her coat and hung it up in the closet before moving down the hallway.  

From somewhere deeper in the house, the low hum of a television filtered out, growing clearer with each step.

In the kitchen, Sonya stood at the stove, stirring something that smelled delicious. She glanced up, clearly surprised to see Lenora back so soon, but recovered quickly with a warm smile.

Lenora offered one in return—brief, but genuine—before continuing down the hallway toward the living room.

Peeking over the back of the couch, she spotted two familiar heads: one large, one small. Both turned toward the TV in rapt attention.

She followed their gaze to the screen and blinked.

A documentary about bugs.

Bugs.

Seriously?

Rounding the couch quietly, Lenora’s sarcastic inner monologue died the moment she took in the scene.

Ben was tucked in tight beside Sol, practically melted into her side. Sol was still wearing Lenora’s old Harvard sweatshirt, sleeves pushed to her elbows—had one arm draped loosely across the back of the couch, the other resting gently on Ben’s shoulder.

The sight had her sucking in a breath, as that sharp, unbearable kind of warmth filled her chest until it ached.

Sol’s head turned at the sound of Lenora’s approach. Surprise flickered in her eyes for a heartbeat before softening into something else entirely.

“Hey,” she murmured.

Ben looked up too, eyes wide with delight—then promptly stayed exactly where he was.

No rush to greet her.

No flying tackle-hug like usual.

“Hi, Mom,” he said with a big smile, then turned back to the screen.

Lenora blinked.

Bugs and apparently, Sol outranked her.

She let out a huff that was half disbelief, half affection, and eased down onto the couch beside them. Ben shifted instinctively, scooting just enough so he was nestled between the two of them, clearly in peak snuggle mode.

Lenora reached out and ran her fingers through his hair like she always did. 

“Congrats on the win,” Sol offered.

Lenora glanced over, a soft smile tugging at her lips.

“News travels fast.”

Sol gave her a small shrug that said, ‘of course it does.’

“Did you win, Mama?” Ben asked, still glued to the screen.

Lenora smirked, ruffling his hair.

“Always,” she replied with mock offense. “Do you even have to ask?”

Sol snorted, biting back a laugh.

Ben didn’t react because—well, apparently—bugs were still more interesting.

The three of them sat in comfortable silence, the narrator’s calm voice drifting from the TV while Ben shifted now and then, rustling against them like a restless kitten stretching to find a more comfortable spot.

Lenora sank back into the cushions, the edges of her tension finally beginning to soften, her body slowly unwinding after what felt like a lifetime of being clenched too tight.

After a while, the urge to touch Sol rose like instinct.

Her hand slipped from Ben’s hair, and her arm stretched along the back of the couch. She paused—just a second—then let her fingers graze Sol’s shoulder, brushing lightly across the fabric of the borrowed sweatshirt. The touch was soft, almost exploratory, as she let her fingers wander up, teasing the edge of Sol’s neck, playing gently with a few loose strands of hair.

Sol leaned into it, subtle and instinctive, but her eyes shifted toward Lenora, and then down to Ben for a moment, and then back up to her.

Sol held her gaze, a question unspoken but crystal clear.

Are you sure?

Lenora didn’t answer with words. 

She gave Sol’s hair a gentle, playful tug—just enough to make her smile. And then her fingers resumed their lazy path, combing through dark silk.

Sol let out a soft sigh and closed her eyes, her body melting into the touch.

They stayed that way for a while, the hush of the room wrapping around them like a blanket. The narrator droned on about beetles.  Ben didn’t move, too absorbed in whatever insect drama was unfolding onscreen.

And then—

“How does it feel?”

Sol’s voice was curious, but casual.

“To be done with it. To finally beat them.”

Lenora didn’t answer right away. Her fingers stilled for a heartbeat, then resumed their gentle rhythm.

She’d dreamed of this moment for years. She’d imagined the rush, the sheer power of it—taking down William Vanguard, dragging his empire through the mud, and walking away with a courtroom win so large it would be whispered about in law firm corridors for decades.

But now?

Now, with Ben curled into her side and Sol wrapped around her heart—

It felt… small.

Vanguard.

The lawsuit.

The headlines.

All of it shrank under the weight of what was in front of her.

Because—this—this was the real win.

Her gaze drifted to Ben, nestled between them, safe, happy, and whole. The soft glow of the TV lit his face as he watched intently, unaware that his mother’s entire universe had just shifted on its axis.

Then she looked up at Sol.

Sol, who’d stepped into her life like a spark in a pitch-black room. Sol, who challenged her, disarmed her, and somehow made her feel both completely undone and more herself than she had in her entire life.

Lenora swallowed, her throat tight.

Without fully realizing it, Lenora’s fingers drifted behind Sol’s neck, curling lightly. She tugged her closer, instinct guiding her more than thought. Sol’s eyes widened, just slightly—but before a word could leave her lips, Lenora kissed her.

Soft.

Certain.

And right above Ben’s head.

When she pulled back, her forehead brushed against Sol’s, and for once, Lenora didn’t second-guess herself.

“I love you,” she whispered, so quietly the words barely made it into the space between them.

Sol didn’t move at first, as though she needed a breath to catch up with reality. Then, slowly, a smile unfurled across her face.

That smile.

The one that always made Lenora feel like she’d just been hit by sunlight.

“I love you too,” Sol murmured back, her voice thick with emotion.

Lenora smiled back and kissed her again

“Ew, gross,” came Ben’s voice, cutting clean through the moment.

Lenora jerked back, expecting a pair of wide-eyed stares and scrunched-up judgment. But Ben wasn’t even looking at them. His eyes and finger were pointed straight at the TV.

“Look how many legs that bug has,” he cried out, scrunching his nose up.  “Gross.”

Lenora followed his gaze and winced. A nightmare-inducing centipede-like creature squirmed across the screen.

“Okay, yeah,” she agreed. “That is disgusting.”

“That’s an Eumillipes Persephone,” Sol said calmly, not missing a beat. “It has the most legs of any known animal—up to 1,306.”

Lenora rolled her eyes fondly.

Because, of course, Sol knew that.

Lenora turned to look at her, smiling in that helpless, besotted way she still wasn’t used to.

Sol was watching the screen, completely captivated with her brow drawn in thought. All that sharp, stunning intellect, wrapped in a hoodie that still smelled faintly like Lenora’s shampoo.

God, she was so fucking screwed.

But she loved it.

“Mama,” Ben said, pulling her gently from her thoughts.

She looked down to find him watching her, really watching her, with those too-wise-for-his-age eyes.

He reached up and brushed the back of his hand against her cheek, so tenderly it made her breath catch.

“You’re smiling,” he pointed out, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

And maybe it was.

But for her, it had never been simple.

Her gaze shifted, drawn back to Sol, who was no longer watching the TV, but her. And the way Sol smiled back at her—god—it felt like the ground finally settled beneath her feet.

Lenora exhaled slowly, finding Sol’s hand where it rested on the back of the couch. She laced their fingers together before she turned back to Ben, tugging him gently against her side and pressing a kiss to his dark curls.

She let herself pause there, just for a moment. To breathe it all in.

The stillness.

The safety.

The soft weight of a life she never thought she’d get to have.

After years of thinking she wouldn’t be more than a collection of damage and defense mechanisms—

Here she was.

“It’s because I’m happy, baby,” she admitted quietly, the words small but full of truth.

Because for once in her very complicated, clawed-through, hard-won life—

Lenora Graves was happy.

She was really fucking happy.

Epilogue

Sol stood at her apartment door, keys in hand, her stomach doing a strange little flip.

Three weeks.

It had only been three weeks, but it felt like a lifetime since she’d last been here. Lenora had finally won the Vanguard case, and only after she was certain that the billion-dollar company had James Hughes securely in hand did she feel comfortable letting Sol return home.

The timing of Amelia Bolden’s announcement didn’t hurt either—a federal investigation into Vanguard. Now the company was under not only a governmental microscope but also a public one. If they came for Sol again, it wouldn’t just be reckless—it’d blow up in their face.

So here Sol was.

Back at her apartment.

Because Sol and Lenora may have moved fast—typical lesbians—they weren’t stupid. They both knew they were nowhere near ready to move in together. They were still figuring each other out and learning how the other ticked.

Moving in too soon?

That was a disaster waiting to happen. 

Ben, of course, hadn’t been thrilled. He’d sulked through breakfast the morning she packed up, only perking up when Lenora, after a visible internal struggle, assured him that Sol wasn’t going anywhere.

“She’s just going back to her apartment,” Lenora had said, her voice calm but strained, like every word was being dragged out of her. “We’re still... together.”

Sol smirked, thoroughly enjoying the rare moment of Lenora Graves being visibly uncomfortable, but the glare Lenora shot her cut that amusement short.

And now here she was, standing at her door, hesitating.

It wasn’t that the place didn’t feel like home anymore—although there was a little truth to that—it was more that she was bracing herself for what she’d find inside. Or, more accurately, what she wouldn’t find.

The plants.

Her poor plants.

In the grand scheme of things, keeping her plants alive had been pretty low on the priority list. Not dying at the hands of a corporation that was threatening to kill her had taken the top spot. Still, the thought of walking inside and finding a mass grave of brown, shriveled stalks made her stomach twist.

She took a breath and turned the key.

The door creaked open, and Sol stepped inside, cautiously looking around. The first thing she noticed was that the place was intact—no broken windows, no ominous threats painted in blood across the walls.

Small mercies.

The second thing she noticed was the plants.

And that they weren’t dead.

Actually, they looked incredible.

Sol dropped her bag by the door, drawn to the nearest plant like it might explain itself if she stared hard enough. She crouched by the pothos, running her fingers over the glossy green leaves. Then her fingers checked the soil—damp, not too wet, just right.

Perfect, even.

She frowned and moved to the fern, brushing her fingertips over its fronds.

Damp soil again.

Healthy as hell.

Her eyes darted around the apartment, scanning each pot and planter. Even some of her fussier plants—the ones that needed constant reassurance to stay alive—looked like they were thriving. 

Sol straightened, the confusion building in her chest. She walked to the windowsill where her succulents lived, half-expecting to find at least one casualty. But no, they were plump and hydrated, the soil perfectly dry, just as it should be. Even her spider plant’s pups dangled happily over the edge of the pot.  And a brand-new leaf had unfurled from her monstera.

“What the...?” Sol muttered under her breath.

She made her way to the back patio, the sense of unease growing. The greenhouse was her sanctuary, her little pocket of peace filled with orchids, herbs, and flowers that threw tantrums if you so much as looked at them wrong. She pushed open the door and stepped into the warm, humid air.

It was spotless.

Every orchid was in bloom, and their petals were practically glowing. The herbs were full and lush, and the flowers were trimmed to perfection. Every single one was thriving like it had been doted on daily.

Which was...impossible.  And then it clicked.

“Lenora," Sol muttered, half-laughing as she said it. 

There was no way Lenora had taken care of the plants herself. Sol doubted she even knew what a watering can looked like, let alone how to use one.

And time? Lenora barely had enough of that for herself.

But money? That was a different story.

Clearly, she’d paid someone—someone damn good—to make sure every leaf, vine, and petal in Sol’s little jungle was thriving. Sol’s eyes swept over the greenhouse again. 

It was ridiculous—and also...kind of amazing.  

The part that got her, though, wasn’t the pristine care or even the effort. It was the fact that Lenora had known. She’d known Sol was worried about these silly plants, and she’d done something about it.

Shaking her head, Sol pulled out her phone, pressed a few buttons, and then held it to her ear.

“Miss me already? I mean, I know codependency is basically a cornerstone of lesbian relationships—but you left twenty-five minutes ago.”

Sol snorted and smiled despite herself.

“I was just calling to say, thank you,” she said simply.

There was a pause on the other end, just long enough to tell Sol that Lenora was rifling through the possibilities for the thanks. Then, in true Lenora Graves fashion, she connected the dots.

“Oh…” Lenora said, voice dipping into something almost sheepish. “Well—you’re welcome. The least I could do was try to save your life, as well as your personal jungle.”

Sol let out a soft laugh, sinking into the patio couch. The same place Lenora had fucked her for the first time—something Sol thought about far too often.

She was never getting rid of it.

Ever.

“I love you,” she said into the phone, a little breathlessly.

It still surprised her how easily the words came now.

There had been a time, not long ago, when saying 'I love you' had felt like it was a phrase everyone else said, but was not meant for her.

But now?

The words didn’t claw their way out.

They didn’t tremble.

They just… were.

Lenora, on the other hand, still treated them like they came with a blood oath and a contingency clause.  There was a pause on the line—too long to be casual.

Then—

“Yeah—well—back at you, or whatever.”

Sol smiled, lips twitching.

Oh, Lenny.

She tried.

She really tried.

And somehow that made it even sweeter.

Sol shook her head, still smiling.

God help her.

She loved Lenora Graves.

And even better—Lenora Graves was trying to love her back.