Page 19 of His Verdict

His lack of reaction is the most profound insult of all. It tells me everything I need to know. I’m not the first woman to stumble out of Jasper Wolfe’s penthouse looking like this in the early hours of the morning. I am not special. I am not unique. I am just another one.

He moves to the towering glass doors. "Have a pleasant day, miss," he says, his voice a smooth, professional murmur, as he holds the door open for me. He holds it open as if I’m a respected resident, not a piece of human wreckage fleeing the scene of her own debasement.

The cool, damp city air hits me like a slap in the face. It’s still drizzling, a fine mist that clings to my skin and my clothes. The sounds of traffic, of distant sirens, of a world that is waking up and going to work, are a jarring cacophony after the tomb-like silence of the penthouse.

I stumble to the curb, my body screaming in protest, my mind a war zone. I need to get away. I need my own space. I need to wash the last 24 hours off my skin, out of my memory. I raise a hand, desperately trying to flag down a taxi. The rain is starting to plaster my hair to my face. My unstrapped shoe finally slips off my heel. As I bend to fix it, my purse slips from my shoulder.

My phone makes a small, sharp sound against the pavement as it slides slightly out of the purse, thankfully not taking any damage.

Just as a yellow cab pulls to a stop in front of me, the screen lights up.

Jasper Wolfe.

My blood turns to ice. He knows. He knows I’m gone. He probably watched me leave on a security camera. He let me run. He gave me a head start. It’s all a fucking game.

Rage, pure and undiluted, supplants the fear. I yank my purse up from the ground, allowing the phone to be swallow deep within its depths, wrench open the cab door, and throw myself inside.

“Just drive,” I gasp to the driver, who gives me a concerned look in the rearview mirror. “Please. Just go.”

The cab pulls away from the curb, merging into the stream of morning traffic. I look back through the rain-streaked rear window. I can’t see the penthouse, but I can feel it. I can feel his eyes on me.

The ringing finally stops. I slump against the cracked vinyl of the backseat, my breath coming in ragged gusts. The cab smells like stale cigarette smoke and cheap air freshener. It’s the most comforting scent in the world right now. It smells real.

I survived. I escaped. The thought is so overwhelming I feel tears prickling at my eyes.

The journey back to my apartment is a slow, agonizing crawl through traffic. With every block, Sapphire Heights grows smaller in the distance, and the crushing reality of my own life grows larger. By the time the cab pulls up to my rundown building, the adrenaline has faded, leaving behind a profound, hollow exhaustion.

I pay the driver and get out, fumbling for my keys. My apartment, which had felt like a tomb just yesterday, now seems like the only sanctuary in the world. I just need to get inside, lock the door, and fall apart in private.

As I unlock my front door, a buzz vibrates from inside my purse. Feeling a sense of dread, I pull out my phone. A missed call from Jasper. And one new text message.

My heart hammers against my ribs. I don't want to read it. I don't want to know what he has to say. But another notification is right below it. A text from a number I haven’t seen in over a year, but a number I will never forget.

Marcus.

My ex-fiancé.

My finger hesitates, then I tap on Marcus’s message, a morbid curiosity I can’t explain.

Olivia, I heard what happened. It’s all over the legal blogs. I know you’re in trouble. I want you to know, I can help you. I can get you the best appeal lawyer, sort out the Bar investigation. Let’s put the past behind us. Just come back to me. We can fix this.

The words swim in front of my eyes.Fix this.Come back to me.The sheer, condescending arrogance. The opportunistic benevolence. To be the hero who swoops in and saves the poor, helpless little idealist who couldn’t hack it in the real world. He wants me to crawl back to him, broken and grateful, so he can finally have the version of me he always wanted: the one who needs him.

Something inside me snaps.

A scream builds in my chest—a raw, primal sound of pure, undiluted fury. At Jasper’s manipulation. At Marcus’s pity. At my own fucking weakness and stupidity.

My arm cocks back, and I hurl my phone with all my strength. It flies across my small living room and smashes against the opposite wall with a sickeningcrackof plastic and glass. It clatters to the floor, the screen a spiderweb of shattered light, before finally going dark.

The silence that follows is absolute. I stand there in the middle of my room, my chest heaving, my arm still tingling from the force of the throw. My last link to the outside world, my only means of communication, is now a dead piece of junk on my floor.

The momentary release of the action fades instantly, replaced by a fresh wave of helpless despair. I just destroyed my own phone. Out of rage. Out of spite. It's the most childish, self-defeating thing I could have possibly done.

I slide down the wall, my legs giving out from under me. I bury my face in my hands, the rough fabric of my trousers scratching my skin.

And then, I let out a guttural, animal scream of pure, hopeless irritation, ripped from a place so deep inside me I didn’t know it existed.

Chapter 9