Page 3

CHAPTER THREE

T he lights flickered once, twice—then surrendered with a final, breathy hum. The overhead glow of Birdy's office vanished, plunging the space into shadow.

“Oh, no no no no—don’t you dare.” But her laptop screen blinked, sputtered, and went black.

Birdy sat frozen for a beat, staring at the blank screen like she could will it back to life.

The hum of the small, personal space heater she used to keep her toes warm inside her pumps died.

The old radiator, which was in charge of the upper atmosphere of the room, gave a half-hearted groan.

Outside, the snow, which had been a whisper against the window, raised its voice.

It sent its flakes against the windows in steady, sideways sheets.

The streetlamps had gone out. The bakery across the square was dark. So was the diner.

Street-wide power outage. Maybe even county-wide.

Birdy turned back to her desk. Her heart was thumping wildly. Not because of the blackout but because of what she’d just lost: the chat.

She’d been having a good time in that online square box. Not just a polite-customer-service kind of good time but a real conversation. With someone who made her laugh. Someone who calmed her down without making her feel weak.

Birdy Chou did not make a habit of connecting with people. She connected with cases. Arguments. Strategy. But that chat had felt… easy.

And now it was gone.

She grabbed her phone. She still had a couple of bars. She opened a web browser to load the business department site. It lagged.

She hit refresh. It lagged again.

Her signal had dropped to one flickering bar. Useless.

She stood there in the dim office, the smell of cold air seeping in through the edges of the windowpanes, and finally let herself feel it.

Disappointment.

He was gone. Whoever he was. She didn’t even have a name—just a screen alias and a few smart lines of text. And now he’d disappear like the rest of them. Like every man who’d ever backed away from her once he realized she didn’t need him.

She’d heard it all over the years: Too opinionated. Too successful. Too sharp. Too much.

Men said they wanted a strong woman… until they met one.

Birdy had tried to find herself a partner outside of her business. Over the years, she’d given dating a shot. Every time, it ended the same. Intimidated , they said. Or overwhelmed . Like being good at her job, knowing her worth, and changing her own tires were somehow character flaws.

So she’d stopped trying. She didn’t need a man. She had her practice, her family, her purpose.

Still… she’d liked chatting with that agent. She hadn’t expected to, but she had.

Birdy glanced at the door. What could she do? Drive to the state office and demand to see every man who’d worked the chat line during the last half hour?

What if he was some eighty-year-old retiree with a tech-savvy streak and a fondness for witty banter?

She smirked at that thought. Dating older men wasn't new for Chou women.

Her dad had had ten years on her mother.

Even her baby sister had married an older man.

Not that he'd stuck around after the vows were spoken.

More likely? Her virtual agent was married. Or halfway across the state. Or never coming back online again.

Birdy sighed and let her shoulders drop. She had to forget him. He'd helped her save her business, and for that, she'd be eternally grateful. But anything beyond that? That belonged in fantasy.

He could be her onetime unicorn. Her magical little mystery with a keyboard and a perfectly timed sense of humor.

She closed her laptop out of habit, even though it was dark. Grabbed her coat. Slipped her phone into her pocket and headed out of the office.

She braced herself for the storm she'd find outside. It was time to move on. Back to the real world. Back to the world where Birdy Chou didn’t believe in love stories. Just well-written contracts—with no loopholes.

Birdy tugged her coat tighter as she headed toward the lobby. Her boots echoed softly on the tile, the fluorescent lights above flickering in protest as if the building itself was ready to call it a night. She paused at the glass doors to the exit.

A girl stood just inside, framed by the swirling snow behind her. Young. Maybe seventeen or eighteen. Shoulders hunched, hoodie pulled up, jeans stiff from the cold. Her cheeks were red, raw from wind or nerves—it was hard to tell which.

Birdy’s first instinct was that the girl was a runaway. Or homeless. But then her eyes dropped to the girl’s shoes.

They were scuffed but solid, broken in but not broken down.

The soles showed wear, not neglect. The laces were intact, tied neatly.

These weren’t the shoes of someone scamming for sympathy.

And they weren’t the mismatched, threadbare footwear of someone who had to take what they could get from a shelter bin.

These shoes had a story but not one of drifting or deceit.

They belonged to someone who used to have a routine. Who’d walked to school. Maybe to a part-time job. Someone whose life had structure… until it didn’t.

Maybe she'd gotten it wrong. Maybe the girl was waiting for someone. But everyone but Birdy had gone home to wait out the snowstorm.

“Sorry, hon. The office is closed. I’m locking up.”

The girl didn’t move. Just stood there, hands jammed into her pockets, as if bracing for more than the weather.

“Are you a lawyer?” Her voice was thin, wary. Like someone who’d practiced asking questions but gotten too many wrong answers.

Birdy gave a nod. “I am.”

“I just have a question. It's for a class project.”

The girl was a terrible liar, but Birdy would play along. “Shoot.”

“It’s about... if someone leaves a baby. Like, leaves them somewhere safe. But the authorities now have the kid. Can they... can they go back and get the baby?”

Birdy’s lawyer brain clicked on. Safe Haven laws. Timelines. Custody statutes. But her gut was doing something else entirely. Turning. Tightening.

“Depends,” Birdy said carefully. “There are rules. Deadlines. A lot depends on how it was done.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, thanks. For the answer. For my project.”

“Would you like to take my card? In case you have any more questions for your project?”

The business card was matte black with clean, minimalist lines—no glossy finish, no unnecessary embellishments.

Her name was embossed in elegant silver script across the top—professional but not fussy.

In the bottom right corner, a subtle watermark of a phoenix rising—her personal touch.

A quiet nod to the kind of law she practiced. Rebuilding lives from ashes.

The girl looked at the card. Then reached for it. Birdy saw the old bruises on her wrists. They could've been self-inflicted. Or they could be signs of abuse.

Her eyes lifted, meeting Birdy's. There was a confession there. Birdy waited patiently for the words to come out.

“I left my baby,” the girl said in a rush, like if she said it fast enough, it wouldn’t stick to her. “But I want her back now.”

Birdy exhaled slowly, watching the way the girl’s arms crossed tighter. “The baby’s father, is he involved?”

The girl didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. Her silence was louder than anything.

“Did he hurt you?”

Still nothing. Just the tightening of her shoulders. The flicker in her eyes.

“I thought he loved me,” the girl whispered. “I thought... we were going to raise our baby together.”

This was why Birdy didn't believe in fairy tales. Love was just a story people tell themselves. A bedtime tale for adults who should know better.

“Come inside. You’re not going to get very far in this snowstorm, anyway.”

The girl’s head lifted slightly, unsure. She hesitated for half a second longer before stepping inside, out of the cold. Once they were inside, Birdy locked the door behind them and turned the lights back on.