Page 26 of His Verdict

The casual way he says “we” makes the anger coalesce into a cold, hard knot in my stomach. “We don’t have court,” I say, the words clipped and precise. “Youhave court. I, if you’ll recall from the little life-ruining stunt you pulled, cannot practice law right now. My license is suspended. I am under investigation. Or did that slip your mind while you were playing house?”

He doesn’t even blink. He just watches me, his expression placid. “Check your email,” he says.

“What?”

A cold dread washes over me. Holding his gaze, I walk over to my laptop on the small desk by the window. I open it, my fingers feeling clumsy and slow. I log into my email account. There’s one new message. It arrived at 6:15 AM this morning.

The sender is the State Bar Disciplinary Board.

My breath catches in my throat. My hand trembles as I click it open. The language is dense, formal, and bureaucratic, but the message is brutally, unbelievably clear.

Dear Ms. Sutton,

This letter is to inform you that upon further review of the preliminary materials regarding the referral from Judge Martin Harrison in the matter of State v. Wolfe, the Board has determined there is insufficient evidence to proceed with a formal investigation. The complaint has been dismissed, and the matter is now considered closed. Your license to practice law has been reinstated, effective immediately. A formal order of dismissal will be sent via certified mail.

I read it once. Then a second time. And a third. The words won’t compute.Insufficient evidence. Complaint dismissed. Matter is now closed. Reinstated, effective immediately.

It’s impossible. These investigations take months, sometimes years. They don’t just disappear overnight because of an email. The system doesn’t work this way.

I look up from the screen, my eyes finding his across the room. He is still leaning against the counter, watching me, his expression knowing.

“How?” I whisper, the word barely audible.

“Money is the world’s most effective lubricant,” he says, his voice devoid of any triumph. “People, systems, investigations… they all move much more smoothly with the proper application.”

He didn’t just throw money at it. This was something else.

I should be relieved. I should be on my knees, weeping with gratitude. My life, my career, has just been handed back to me. But I feel nothing but a cold, heavy sense of dread. This wasn’t a rescue. This was a demonstration.

I stare at him, a thousand questions screaming in my mind. Who did you pay? Who did you threaten? What did you do?

But I don’t ask. I close the laptop. The questions don’t matter. I know, with a sudden, chilling certainty, that I don’t want to know the details. Knowing would make me an accomplice.

I turn without another word and walk back into my bedroom. I can feel his eyes on my back the entire way. The fight is over. He has won. He didn’t just conquer my body; he has conquered my reality.

As I step into the bedroom, I see it. Sitting on the lone wooden chair by my closet is a large, sleek shopping bag from a high-end department store I’ve only ever window-shopped at. It wasn’t here last night. It must have been part of the “delivery.”

I approach it cautiously. Inside, nestled in layers of tissue paper, is an outfit. A slate-gray sheath dress made of a heavy,luxurious wool-crepe. A sharply tailored black blazer. A pair of understated but clearly expensive black leather pumps.

“What is this?” I call out, my voice flat.

“It’s for you,” he calls back from the kitchen. “Try it on. We don’t have much time.”

I stare at the clothes. They are the uniform of a woman I am not. A woman who is powerful, wealthy, and controlled. A woman who belongs in his world, not mine. The thought of putting them on feels like putting on a costume, like shedding the last vestiges of myself.

But then, a weary, fatalistic thought surfaces.In for a penny, in for a pound.

I’ve already surrendered. I’ve already accepted his help, his body, his presence in my life. What’s one more concession? What’s a dress? I’ve already lost the war; there’s no point in fighting a skirmish over a uniform.

I strip off my t-shirt and pull the dress over my head. The fabric is cool and heavy against my skin. It slides down my body, and my breath catches.

It fits.

Not just well. It fits perfectly. Like it was tailored for me. The way it nips in at my waist, skims over my hips, the precise length of the hemline—every detail is exact. The blazer is the same, settling on my shoulders as if it were made for them. He didn’t guess my size. He knew my exact measurements. The thought is deeply, profoundly disturbing. He has studied me on a level I can’t even comprehend.

I pull on the shoes. They, too, are a perfect fit. I walk to the full-length mirror on the back of my closet door and stare at my reflection. The woman looking back at me is a stranger. She is sleek, powerful, and expensive. There is no trace of the frazzled, broke public defender. This woman looks like she belongs at his side. The thought makes my stomach churn.

I do a quick search on my new phone for the brand name on the dress’s label. The price that pops up on the screen makes me feel faint. The dress alone costs more than my monthly rent.