Page 45 of Double Standards

She doesn’t reply right away. There’s a hesitation, a pause in her breathing that makes me glance up. Her brows are furrowed—not with irritation, but with worry. I know that look. She’s debating whether to push, whether I’ll shut down if she does.

Then, instead of words, she moves to my side and gently squeezes my arm. Her warmth cuts through the cold professionalism I’ve been wrapped in all day like armor.

“Text me when you get in,” she asks finally, her tone quieter now. “And Cass?”

I meet her gaze this time. There’s something about the way she says my name—like she sees the frayed edges beyond all the polished control, and she’s trying to keep me from unraveling.

“You’re allowed to care,” she adds, voice barely above a whisper. “Doesn’t make you weak.”

I look at her.

“I know you’re keeping this professional. I know you have to. But don’t bottle everything up. He’s not just a case.”

I swallow hard. “Yes, he is.”

She opens her mouth to protest, then shuts it. She nods a moment later and decides to walk away, heels clicking until they fade into silence. The second she disappears from view, I let out a slow breath. The frigid air brushes against my skin like a whisper—reminding me I’m still outside, still in the world. Still not done.

I turn toward the office building, my heels clipping sharply against the concrete as I approach the front doors. The glass reflects back a version of me I don’t always recognize—poised, professional, spine straight, jaw set. The kind of woman people trust to win. The kind of woman who doesn’t flinch, doesn’t bend, doesn’t break.

The lobby is quiet, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, casting everything in that sterile glow that feels more hospital than law firm. Most people cleared out hours ago, but not me. Never me.

I swipe my keycard and the turnstile clicks open with amechanical hum. Only the security guard positioned at his station gives me a curt nod as I head towards the elevators. I don’t have to wait for long. The doors ding softly, announcing its arrival within seconds and I step inside, pressing the button for the twelfth floor. I lean back against the wall, eyes drifting closed for a moment. The world falls silent around me, giving me just a minute to breathe freely.

I open my eyes and I’m staring at my reflection again, every part of me looking composed. The part no one sees? That part’s bracing for the storm Iknowis still coming.

The doors open before I know it, and I’m moving again before I can think too hard. My office is exactly as I left it—papers in neat stacks, case files open and waiting, the faint scent of old coffee lingering in the air.

I shrug off my coat, toss it over the back of my chair, and sit. The silence settles around me like a second skin. Comfortable. Familiar. I dive into my notes, combing through testimony, re-checking timelines, predicting Daniels’ weak objections in my mind. There was a crack in his confidence today, and I’ll find a way to break it wide open.

It’s nearly ten in the evening when I finally lean back from my desk. The office is quiet. Only the low hum of my computer and the soft rustle of paper as I sort through my notes filters through the room. The city glows beyond the windows, blurred lights and long shadows.

I’ve gone through everything twice.

Axel’s alibi holds, though it would carry more weight if I could bring in witnesses. But that’s not an option, so my work around is to use the lack of evidence Daniels against him. But still, if he finds even one loose thread…

I won’t let that happen.

I glance at the clock. My eyes burn from staring at the screen and my body aches from tension. And yet?—

I don’t leave.

Because when I’m here, in the quiet, with work to do andfacts to chase, I don’t have to think about the way Axel looked at me in court. I don’t have to remember how close his hand came to mine, how warm his voice has become. Or how I almost forgot that this is business.

Almost.

I rub the bridge of my nose, shoving the thought aside. We’re going to win this case. And I’m not going to letanything—not even the way he looks at me like I’m already his—get in the way.

I’m halfway through drafting a motion to compel when my phone buzzes. I ignore it at first. It’s probably Jada checking in again. Or a reminder about tomorrow’s deposition. Though Axel made it clear I couldn’t have any other clients, I ignore him. He doesn’t own me. He doesn’t control me. I’m still my own person and I have to make a living.

My fingers keep moving across the computer keyboard, keys clicking in a steady rhythm, but the buzz comes again—short, insistent.

I sigh, finally dragging the phone closer.

Axel Bonanno: Where are you? A.

Axel Bonanno: Answer me.

I stare at the screen a beat too long.