Page 55 of I Wish I Would’ve Warned You (Forbidden Wishes #3)

COLE

Back Then

W eeks after my release—armed with a padded bank account courtesy of my father—I take a trip to New York.

It’s supposed to be a fresh start. A way to channel the chaos into something cleaner. Legal. Strategic.

But the city doesn’t let me forget him.

I walk out of every law firm the second I see one of his books sitting on a shelf. Hardcover reminders of the man I took the fall for. Of the lie I let bury me alive.

By the time I reach the last name on my list, I’m ready to give up. Ready to take the silence as a sign that I should just deal with the hand life gave me—the one I played poorly—and walk away.

But something stops me.

It’s the most expensive firm in Manhattan.

Hamilton & Associates.

I know I can’t afford it. Not really. But I remember my father bragging about being one of their clients once. Loudly. Publicly.

He isn’t. I checked.

That makes this the perfect place to start.

The building is all glass and silence. Modern art on the walls. Security that doesn’t smile. The receptionist offers me a cup of fresh coffee and escorts me to the elevator with the efficiency of a five-star hotel.

“Mr. Carter will see you in three minutes,” another assistant says, guiding me into an empty boardroom with panoramic views of the city.

The door clicks shut behind her.

Then a man walks in—sharp suit, calm energy, practiced confidence.

“Cole Dawson?” he asks, his voice smooth and deliberate.

I stand. “Yes.”

“Nice to meet you.” He extends a hand. “I’m Damien Carter. How may I help you?”

“I sent a confidential letter a few weeks ago. The tracking confirmed it arrived. I was hoping you’d read it.”

“I don’t read anything for free,” he says.

I set my coffee down. “So, you’re one of those asshole lawyers.”

“The biggest one you’ll ever meet.”

“Alright, then.” I stand. “Thanks for your time.”

“I don’t typically do revenge plots, Mr. Dawson,” he says before I reach the door. “But I read every word of your letter. I’m just pretending I didn’t—because you said, and I quote, ‘sometimes I feel like harming my father.’”

I blink.

He studies my face. “Is he still alive?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I don’t represent murderers.”

He walks to the head of the table, casually clicking his pen. “How much is his empire worth these days?”

“I’m not going after his money.”

“I’m calculating my fee.”

I sigh. “Thirty million. Give or take.”

“There are really that many people buying his bullshit?”

“He gains more fans every day.”

He smiles. “Tell you what—don’t burn the house down just yet. Something like this needs a slow fire.”

“What does that mean?”

“Can you prove he was the one driving that night?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Phone records,” I say. “He called me to come get him. And… they never took my blood. I just…”

“Admitted to a crime you didn’t commit to protect him,” he finishes.

I nod. “Yeah.”

“I’m going to send you a plan,” he says, his tone shifting from casual to clinical. “You’ll follow it to the letter.”

“And if it doesn’t work?”

“Worst case,” he says, “the truth doesn’t come out for another four years.

He pays you four million and two of whichever properties you want.

Best case? He self-destructs trying to cover it up, tells the truth himself, and…

I don’t know what you’ll get, but I’ll make a million either way. So I’ll be happy.”

I stare at him. “Has anyone ever told you you’re shady as fuck for a lawyer?”

He smirks. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He slides a card across the table. It’s blank, except for one sentence:

Welcome to the firm.

“I’ll be in touch,” he says. “Bide your time. And trust me.”