Page 22 of His Verdict
“Wait a minute,” I choke out, my own voice a pathetic, shaky whisper.
My mind is a frantic scramble. I can’t face him like this. Naked. Dripping. Vulnerable. It would be a surrender before the battle has even begun. I stumble out of the shower, grabbing a towel, my movements clumsy and panicked. I dry myself with rough, jerky motions, my skin still tingling from the scalding water.
I throw on the first clothes I can find in my bedroom: a pair of soft, worn cotton shorts and a loose, oversized t-shirt I usually sleep in. It’s the least intimidating, least professional outfit I own. It’s armor made of tissue paper, but it’s better than nothing.
My heart is a wild animal trying to beat its way out of my ribcage as I approach the front door. My hand trembles as I reach for the deadbolt. I leave the chain lock on, a flimsy, symbolic barrier of brass between me and him.
I press my face close to the crack, my eye level with the chain. Through the narrow gap, I can see him. He’s standing there, perfectly relaxed, wearing a dark, expensive-looking peacoat against the evening chill. His expression is unreadable, his gray eyes fixed on the door, on me.
“What the hell do you want, Jasper?” I demand, my voice low and tight with a fury I’m struggling to control. “And how did you get into my building?”
“Someone buzzed me in. It wasn’t that hard,” he says, his voice a calm, conversational murmur, as if discussing the weather. “As for what I want, I told you. We need to talk about my offer.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I hiss. “Take your blood money and your fake job and get the fuck away from my life.”
“I don’t think you mean that,” he says, not an ounce of doubt in his tone.
Just then, I hear a faint creak from the apartment door across the hall. Mrs. Gable, my elderly, notoriously nosy neighbor. I can picture her, her ear pressed to the wood, soaking in every word. The thought of my private humiliation becoming public gossip is the final straw. This man has a talent for stripping me of my dignity, for forcing my hand in front of an audience.
With a growl of pure frustration, I shut the door and slide the chain lock off. I wrench the door open. “Fine. Get in.”
I stand back, and he steps over the threshold. He brings the cold night air in with him, and the faint, clean scent of rain and expensive wool. He doesn’t look at me. His gaze sweeps across my small, cluttered apartment—the piles of unsorted mail on the entryway table, the single wilting plant in the corner, the worn floral pattern of my secondhand sofa.
The intimacy of his presence in my space is a profound violation. This is my home, my territory, the one place I thoughtI was safe from him. And he has invaded it with the casual ease of a man who believes the entire world belongs to him.
I slam the door shut behind him.
His gaze finally settles on me, taking in my state of dress—the frayed shorts, the baggy shirt, my damp, uncombed hair. I feel like an insect under a microscope. He says nothing, just shrugs off his peacoat and drapes it over the back of my desk chair as if he owns the place.
Then he walks to my sofa and sits down.
My sofa. The one I curl up on to watch old movies. The one I cry on. He just takes a seat, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, the picture of relaxed, proprietary ease. It raises my ire so fast I feel the hair on my arms stand up.
“You don’t get to do that,” I say, my voice trembling with contained rage. “You don’t get to just… sit there. In my home. Like you belong here.”
“Where would you like me to sit?” he asks, his tone infuriatingly reasonable.
“I’d like you to leave,” I spit. “What is there to talk about? You sent a contract. I cashed a check. We have no further business.”
“We have a great deal of business,” he says, leaning forward slightly, his forearms resting on his knees. “I’m considering amending the contract. Increasing your salary.”
The offer hangs in the air, a baited hook. A week ago, those words would have been a dream come true. Now, they just make me suspicious.
“Why?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest, a defensive posture that feels utterly useless against him. “What’s the catch?”
“There’s no catch,” he says.
“Bullshit. What do you want? Is the salary tied to… other duties?” The words taste like acid in my mouth, but I have to ask. I have to know. “Because I want to be perfectly clear. I am not sleeping with you again. I am not your whore.”
A sound escapes him then, a low chuckle that's devoid of any real humor. It's a dry, dismissive sound. “Olivia. I have an entire world of women who are more than willing to warm my bed. I assure you, if all I wanted was a whore, I could find one far less complicated and argumentative than you.”
The insult is so direct, so dismissive of what happened between us, that it momentarily stuns me. He’s completely detached from it. To him, it wasn’t the earth-shattering, soul-splintering event it was for me. It was… an incidental Tuesday.
“So then why?” I press, my voice shaking. “Why the money? Why the job? Why me?”
His mask of cool detachment finally cracks. A flicker of something real, something that looks almost like frustration, crosses his face. “Because, as it happens, I have a status conference that was moved up to tomorrow morning in front of Judge Harrison for the preliminary hearing, and I find myself in desperate need of a lawyer. My lawyer.”
He looks at me then, a direct, unfiltered gaze. “I needyou, Olivia.”