Page 86 of Double Standards

When we pull up to the gray marble facade and the towering golden gates of Eleven Madison Park, I catch the flicker of awe in her eyes. They widen, pupils dilating as if she’s stepping into a different universe—one far removed from the grit and shadows of the streets we know. Her breath catches ever so slightly, a quiet surrender to the grandeur around us.

The cloakroom attendant takes our coats, and my handbrushes the bare skin of her shoulder blades. I feel sparks trail in my wake.

We weave smoothly between the tables, the quiet murmur of other diners fading into the background as we settle into a secluded corner booth. She sinks into the white leather seat, the pale upholstery a sharp contrast to the deep black of her dress, making her seem even more striking—fragile and fierce all at once.

“You’re nervous,” I say softly, my eyes narrowing as I watch her every subtle movement. I fold the napkin carefully and lay it across her lap, my fingers brushing hers for a brief second.

“Am not,” she says, but the slight tremor in her voice betrays her, and I see right through the bravado.

Her tone drops to a whisper, “The case is over.”

“But we’re not,” I murmur back, my gaze locked on the curve of her lips as I lick mine slowly, deliberately.

Her breath hitches, a delicate sound caught between surprise and anticipation.

“What do you mean?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

I lower my chin, resting it against my palm, then let my other hand cover hers, grounding her—and myself. Leaning in, I trail my tongue lightly over the shell of her ear, savoring the tiny shiver that ripples down her spine. The moment thickens between us, charged and electric.

“People who fuck like us don’t just walk away,” I say, voice a rasp so low it barely leaves my throat.

She tries to hide it behind sarcasm. “How romantic,” she snarks, but I see the flush rising in her cheeks.

“I’ve never been the romantic type,” I admit, pulling back slightly.

I don’t get a reply from her, but the tension eases when the server arrives, breaking the moment.

Over wine and food, the conversation flows; music, books, everything but the dark edges of our lives. She admits to oglingmy bookshelves once, and I offer her free reign, watching her eyes sparkle. I find myself in awe of the way she observes me eat, the slow lick of my lips around mussels, the slight smirk that tugs at the corner of her mouth. I wink, cocky but sincere.

“So, why law?” I ask, brushing the corner of my mouth with a napkin, my eyes never leaving her face.

She pauses for a moment, the faintest flicker of vulnerability crossing her features. “My parents were lawyers,” she says quietly. “I guess I wanted to make them proud.”

There’s a quiet strength beneath her words, and I catch the subtle swell of emotion in her eyes—like a flicker of hope and determination wrapped in something tender. I nod slowly. “I’m sure you have.”

When she turns the question back on me, asking about my family, something inside me softens, the usual hardness slipping away like smoke. I tell her about my mother’s grave, something that not everyone knows I visit. Little do people know, I don’t just visit her, I visit my old man, too.

I lean back just a little, the weight of old memories settling over me. “It’s just me,” I say, voice low. “My parents died when I was a kid. My uncle raised me.”

The words hang in the air between us, a quiet confession I don’t often make. For a moment, the dark armor I wear feels a little less necessary.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs softly, her fingers brushing over my knuckles with gentle sympathy.

I feel the warmth in her touch, but I pull away from the vulnerability too quickly, lifting my glass and taking a measured sip of wine.

“It’s not your fault,” I say with a shrug, masking the ache beneath.

“No, but I understand what it’s like to lose your parents,” she replies quietly, eyes steady on mine.

There’s a pause before I ask, “How did they die?”

For a moment, she stills, obviously weighted by the questionand how unprepared she is to answer it. Suddenly, I feel like I’ve just put my foot in my mouth, but then she smiles and points an accusatory finger at me.

“Don’t pretend you haven’t done a background check on me.”

“I’m not. But I’d like to hear the story.”

She tells me about her parents—how her mother fought a losing battle with cancer, the weight of each day pressing harder than the last. Then her father, gone suddenly from a heart attack, leaving behind silence where once there was love. Her voice is quiet, almost fragile, as if speaking the memories aloud makes them more real, more painful.