Page 24 of Double Standards

“I have an arraignment in two weeks.”

Her eyes go wide. “No! They can’t!”

I watch her scramble through her bag like a woman possessed. She’s panicking, movements rushes, lips moving faster than her thoughts.

“Well—”

“Cassie.”

“I mean, technically they can?—”

“Cassie.”

“But they have to notify your attorney and?—”

“Cassie.”

“Shit.”

There it is. That moment when the storm of her thoughts catches up to her, crashes into the wall of reality. I hand her the letter. The bold black date screams off the page and she shakes her head, blinking hard. I know that look. It’s someone trying to rearrange a picture that’s too distorted. She doesn’t want to believe it. She doesn’t want it to be real. But it is.

“Axel, I need you to sign something,” she says suddenly, like flipping a switch. Now she’s all business; fast, and focused, her fingers flying through her phone.

“I’m not signing shit.”

“You are.” She thrusts the screen at me. “Here.”

I scan it quickly. It’s all legal crap that I don’t bother to read. I don’t like being told what to do—even less when I feel cornered.

“What is this?”

“Confirmation that I’m your attorney.”

“For fuck’s sake,” I curse under my breath, but she keeps pressing, those green eyes silently pleading.

“I can’t represent you if you don’t sign it. And the court knows it. Whoever’s behind this? They know you haven’t assigned a lawyer yet.”

I sigh, jaw clenched. She's not wrong, and I hate that. I hate being in anyone’s pocket—especially someone who thinks they can manage me.

She rests her hand on my arm. “Trust me.”

Trust. It’s a dangerous word. Sharp around the edges, like glass you think you can hold onto until it slices deep. People throw it around like it's nothing, but I know better. Trust gets you killed. Or worse—it exposes you. It leaves you vulnerable,makes you dependent on someone who might not catch you when you fall.

I’ve seen what trust costs. I've paid the price in blood, silence, and scars no one ever sees.

So when she says it—“Trust me”—I don’t hear comfort. I hear a loaded gun.

And still… I’m tempted to pull the trigger.

Slowly, deliberately, I sign the document, my finger etching a name that’s already heavy enough.

As I hand the phone back, I hold on just a second too long, leaning in close, close enough to smell the perfume on her skin. It’s sweet, addictive.Pure.

She tries not to react, but I feel her breath hitch.

“If you fuck me over,” I growl, low and close, “You won’t live to see the next day.”

I let go. Her fingers shake when she lifts the phone and taps send.