Page 8 of His Verdict
“I don’t think that’s appropriate,” I say, the words sounding flimsy, pathetic. A paper shield against a battering ram.
“Appropriate is a cage for people who don’t know what they want, Olivia. You and I are not those people.” He pauses, and in the silence, I can practically feel him smiling. “The Rhapsody Lounge. Nine o’clock. Don’t be late.”
The Rhapsody. I know it by reputation only. An exclusive, members-only establishment tucked away in a historic downtown building.
“Why?” I ask, hating the breathless quality of my own voice. “What could we possibly need to discuss in a place like that?”
There’s another pause, longer this time. When he speaks again, his voice is stripped of all warmth, leaving behind something cold, hard, and absolute. The voice of the man Sarah warned me about. The wolf beneath the wool.
“We need to discuss things.”
The line goes dead.
I’m left standing in the shitty, buzzing silence of my office, the dead phone still pressed to my ear.
I should be angry. I should be marching to a senior partner and reporting this, because I can only see this getting out of hand, demanding he be reassigned. That’s what sane, respectable Olivia Sutton, Esq., would do. That’s what a good lawyer would do.
But I’m not angry.
I’m terrified.
And I’m going.
My body makes the decision before my mind can catch up. I grab my purse, my keys. The mountains of files, the bleakness of my office, the life I was just drowning in—it all recedes, fading into the background.
Sarah’s warning rings in my ears.He’s not a cause. He’s a job.
Chapter 4
The Rhapsody Lounge doesn’t have a sign. Of course it doesn’t. It has a single, unmarked mahogany door on a quiet side street, flanked by gas lamps that cast a flickering, golden glow on the wet cobblestones. It’s a door you only know if you’re meant to. Standing here in my slightly-too-worn trench coat, the humidity making my hair cling to my neck, I feel like a fraud. A child playing dress-up in her mother’s heels.
My hand hesitates, hovering over the ornate brass handle. This is the point of no return. I can turn around, go back to my cramped apartment, eat leftover lo mein, and pretend that phone call never happened. I can talk to my supervisor in the morning. I can be a good lawyer.
I don’t know what I want anymore. But I know what I’m tired of. Tired of being broke. Tired of being powerless. Tired of fighting for a version of justice that feels like a myth.
I open the door.
The change is instantaneous. The city’s chaotic symphony vanishes, replaced by a tomb-like silence broken only by the gentle clinking of ice in heavy crystal and the ghost of a jazz piano. The air tastes different—rich with the scent of old leather, cedarwood, and expensive whiskey. Dim, recessed lighting glints off dark wood paneling and the deep oxblood of velvet booths.
A man in a tuxedo, with the build of a retired heavyweight and the eyes of a hawk, materializes before me. “May I help you?” His voice is a polite brick wall.
“I’m here to meet Jasper Wolfe.” Saying his name in this space feels like an incantation.
The man’s expression doesn’t change, but a flicker crosses his eyes. “Of course. This way, miss.”
He leads me through the hushed expanse to a secluded corner booth, a circular alcove that offers a panoramic view of the room while remaining shrouded in shadow.
And there he is.
He’s already watching me approach, his posture relaxed, one arm draped over the back of the velvet seat. The man from the courtroom is gone. The man from the holding cell is a distant memory. This man is in his element. He’s wearing a dark, impeccably tailored suit, but with no tie, the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt undone. It’s a look of casual, predatory elegance. An open bottle of whisky sits on the table, two glasses beside it. He’s been waiting.
He doesn’t stand. He just watches me, his eyes tracking my every movement as I slide onto the velvet bench opposite him. The look is so intense, so possessive, it feels like he’s stripping me bare right here.
“You came,” he says.
“You made it sound like I didn’t have a choice.” My voice is steadier than I feel.
A slow smile spreads across his lips. It transforms his face from something handsome into something devastating. “There is always a choice, Olivia. That’s the entire basis of our legal system, isn’t it? The freedom to choose your fate.” He pours ameasure of the amber liquid into both glasses and pushes one toward me. “Drink.”