Page 7 of His Verdict

I’d spent last night buried in the discovery files, what little there was. The state’s case was built on metadata,security logs, and a single anonymous whistleblower at Meridian Technologies. It was damning, technically. But it was all circumstantial. Clean. Too clean. It felt curated, as if someone had laid out a neat path of breadcrumbs for the police to follow.

A path leading straight to Jasper Wolfe.

And his story, the one he spun in that holding cell, still echoes in my mind. The vigilante hacker exposing corporate rot from the inside. It’s a compelling narrative. The kind of story I desperately want to be true. It would make this feeling in my gut, this magnetic pull toward him, something righteous. Not something dangerous.

“Don’t tell me you’re still working on the Wolfe case.”

I look up. My colleague Sarah leans against my desk.

“Just reviewing the discovery,” I say, closing the file. Sarah pushes off the desk and picks up a cold cup of coffee, sniffs it, and grimaces. “I saw the news alert. ‘Tech Guru Jasper Wolfe Released on Bail.’ You pulled it off.”

“It wasn’t hard. The state’s case for remand was weak.”

“It’s not the case I’m worried about. It’s him.” She taps a manicured-but-chipped nail on his file.

“I can handle him,” I say.

“I hope so,” she says, her voice softening. She squeezes my shoulder. “Just… don’t lose yourself in the process. He’s not a cause. He’s a job.” She heads for the door. “Now, come on. I’ll buy you a beer. You look like you’re about three seconds from setting this whole pile of shit on fire.”

I’m about to agree. A beer with Sarah sounds like the most sane, grounding thing I could do. A moment of normalcy in a day that has felt anything but.

But then my phone buzzes.

Not my office line. My personal cell.

I glance at the screen.Unknown Number.

My heart gives a painful lurch. I know, with a certainty that makes the hair on my arms stand up, who it is.

“You coming?” Sarah asks from the doorway.

“Just give me a minute,” I manage to say, my throat suddenly dry. “I have to take this.”

She gives me a long, searching look, then nods and disappears down the hall.

My hand is trembling as I swipe to answer. I press the cold glass to my ear. “Hello?” My voice is a whisper.

Silence for a beat. Just the faint sound of ambient space, like they’re somewhere quiet. Somewhere expensive. Then… his voice.

“Olivia.”

A cold dread snakes down my spine, coiling low in my gut. It’s mingled with a thrill so sharp it’s almost painful. This is wrong. He shouldn’t have my personal number. He shouldn’t be calling me. A client communicates through official channels, during business hours.

“How did you get this number?” I ask, my voice tight.

A low chuckle on the other end. It’s the sound of smoke and dark whiskey. “Does it matter? I have it now.”

I’m standing, pacing the small space between my desk and the wall, the cracked linoleum cool beneath my worn-out heels. “Mr. Wolfe, if you need to discuss the case, you should call my office line tomorrow morning.”

“I’m not calling to discuss the case,” he says, his voice dropping even lower, drawing me in. “The case is a formality. You handled it beautifully, by the way. You have a fire in you when you’re in your element. It’s compelling.”

My cheeks flush hot. The compliment lands like a brand, a possessive mark. He’s not just my client; he’s an observer. A predator who has been studying his prey.

“What can I help you with?” I finally ask, the words ripped from me.

“I want you to meet me.”

Not a question. A command. The same quiet authority he used in the holding cell, now amplified by the intimacy of his voice in my ear.