Page 3 of Marrying Mr. Wentworth (Austen Hunks #3)

Wednesday morning — Milwaukee — Ariana

T he lights in the courthouse were doing their usual impression of an interrogation room—harsh, fluorescent, and about as forgiving as a failed cross-examination.

They flickered slightly as I stepped into the prosecutors’ bullpen, projecting just enough of a buzz to grind directly against my last nerve.

I tugged at the collar of my blazer and walked in like I hadn’t been awake since four a.m., reading depositions in bed with one hand while eating dry Cheerios out of the box with the other.

Clutched against my chest was my latest case file—assault with a deadly weapon and more conflicting eyewitness testimony than a daytime courtroom show.

I held it like a lifeline. Or maybe a shield.

The bullpen was already humming. Phones ringing.

Keyboards clacking. Paper being shuffled with the kind of righteous urgency that only prosecutors and postal workers seemed to possess.

The scent of burnt coffee, over-worn polyester suits, and late-stage capitalism filled the air.

God, I almost missed it when I was gone.

“Morning, Remington.”

Scott Landry’s voice drifted over from the next desk, warm and easy, like a smile in vocal form.

I glanced over and, yep, there it was—his trademark lazy grin.

The kind that had probably charmed every admin, intern, and newly hired ADA since 2012.

Tall, clean-cut, with eyes full of golden retriever sincerity and just enough edge to avoid being boring.

Theoretically, everything I should want.

“Hey,” I said, dropping my bag beside my desk with a heavy thud and slumping into my chair like a woman emotionally carried in on a stretcher. “Busy docket?”

“Three pretrials and a sentencing. I heard your eight a.m. started off with some…poetry?”

I groaned and let my head thunk gently against my desk. “Defense counsel brought in a character witness who insisted on testifying in haiku. Actual. Haiku. I counted the syllables.”

Scott chuckled. “Poetic justice.”

I lifted my head just enough to shoot him a look. “If I hear one more legal pun before I finish this coffee, I swear to God, Scott?—”

“Message received.” He raised his hands in mock surrender.

He stood and wandered over, propping his elbow on the edge of my desk like we were starring in some kind of indie workplace rom-com, where he was the earnest suitor and I was the overworked, emotionally unavailable female lead with a tragic backstory and a complicated ex.

Which wasn’t wrong.

“Did you see the email about guardian ad litem volunteers?” he asked, the grin softening. “They need more for the next intake.”

I sighed. “Yeah. I saw it. Wish I could sign up.”

He nodded. “Conflict of interest?”

“Exactly. Prosecutors aren’t allowed. Not officially. Still kills me though. Those kids need someone. Someone who knows how the system works and gives a damn.”

His expression changed—gone was the playfulness, replaced by something quieter. Sharper.

“I had one last year,” he said. “Nine-year-old girl. Testified against her dad. Brave as hell. Didn’t cry once. Sent me a Christmas card.”

My chest tightened. “Jesus. Nine years old?”

“Yeah.”

There was a beat. Long enough for the hum of the fluorescent lights to fill the silence between us. It didn’t need words. We’d both seen it too many times—kids swallowed by a system built for bureaucracy, not mercy.

“They’re just trying to survive,” I said softly. “And we give them forms to fill out.”

He nodded. “Hardest part of the job.”

“Harder than murder trials?”

“Some days, yeah.”

I looked down at the file in front of me, but the words blurred.

Not from lack of sleep this time, but from the simple truth that no matter how many motions I filed or how many closing arguments I nailed, there were cracks in the system you couldn’t seal with case law.

And some days, that made me want to burn the whole thing down.

There was a pause. A charged one. The kind where the air thickens just slightly. Where you know what’s coming, even before the words hit the air.

“So…” Scott began, voice casual. Too casual. “What about that drink I keep asking you about? Maybe this weekend?”

And there it was.

I smiled before I could stop myself. Automatic. Polished. Professional. “I can’t. I’m going to Vegas.”

“Ah,” he said. “The bachelorette trip?”

“Yep. My brother’s bachelor-slash-bachelorette weekend. Jet. Champagne. Emotional chaos, probably.”

Scott nodded, trying to look nonchalant. But I caught it. That small flicker in his expression—the brief shadow of disappointment before it vanished under something more neutral. The man was good. He should’ve been a defense attorney.

“Another time, maybe,” he said.

“Maybe,” I echoed.

But we both knew what that meant. What it always meant. I wasn’t going. Not really. Not ever.

Scott was smart. Funny. Kind. The kind of guy who remembered birthdays and sent thank-you notes and brought donuts on Fridays without trying to make a statement about it. The kind of man who showed up. Who stayed.

So why did I keep saying no?

I knew why.

Because I didn’t trust “easy.” Or at all, maybe. Because I’d already learned what happened when you handed your heart to someone and believed they’d keep it safe. Because once upon a time, I’d been all-in with someone who told me I was his future…and then walked away like it was nothing.

Christopher.

His name still did things to my pulse.

I turned back to the case file, determined to focus, to drown out the thought of him in paperwork and policy.

But the words on the page were useless. Flat ink and legal jargon couldn’t distract me from the fact that somewhere out there, he still existed.

That he was going to be in Vegas. That I’d see him.

And not from a distance. Not in passing. Not on a magazine cover while I stood in line at the grocery store.

On a private jet .

At parties.

In photos.

In my proximity.

I hadn’t seen him since that hallway outside my dorm room after junior year, where he ended us with the kind of finality usually reserved for death or life sentences.

And yet, he never really left. Not from my memory.

Not from my music library. Not from the dreams I woke up from with the ache of him still in my chest.

Every time someone got too close—Scott included—my heart pulled back. Like it remembered. Like it had a muscle memory of how it felt to get dropped mid-future.

Don’t , it warned me. It’s not worth the fall.

And maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was safer to be whole and lonely than shattered and in love.

But now? Here I was—steady job, decent apartment, good friends—still living a life that looked whole from the outside.

But some part of me hadn’t healed.

Vegas was waiting.

And with it…the one man who'd caused all the trouble to begin with.