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I Wouldn't See Your Face, Even If You Died

Baileydria
7
chs / week
The average realized release rate over the past 30 days is 7 chs / week.
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Synopsis
“I don’t want to hear anything from you… don’t want to see your face—not now, not even if you died.” Becky’s furious words became Freen’s cruel reality. Freen, the endlessly goofy, teasing lawyer who never lost a case and hid every hurt behind jokes, is now broken beyond repair: shattered bones, pools of blood, voice ripped away forever. Months in coma, endless pain, threats in the dark—her once-bright life feels utterly cursed, no light, no luck, no laughter left. And Becky drowns in guilt. The woman she fell for at first sight, the one she loved fiercely, is suffering because of her mistrust, her refusal to listen, her final curse. Night after night by the hospital bed, she begs forgiveness, learning sign language with shaking hands, praying the playful girl she silenced can ever forgive her. A raw, steamy FreenBecky tale of goofy love turned brutal betrayal, near-death agony, stolen voice, crushing guilt, and one desperate path back to each other. Mature | Heavy Angst | Tragic Redemption | Happy Ending
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Chapter 1 - Chapter 1: Sparks in the Courthouse

The courthouse smelled like old paper, cheap coffee, and nervous sweat. Freen balanced a paper cup in one hand and a thick case file in the other, dodging lawyers and clerks like it was a game. She was mid-stride when someone turned the corner too fast.

Thud.

Hot liquid splashed across a white blouse and a notebook. Freen froze, eyes wide.

"Oh no—oh crap, I'm so sorry!" she blurted, already grabbing napkins from her pocket like they were magic. "That's definitely assault with a deadly beverage. Should I call myself in? I'm a lawyer, I can represent both sides."

Becky looked down at the spreading brown stain, then up at the woman who'd caused it. Tall, dark hair pulled into a messy bun, eyes sparkling with mischief even in apology. A grin that said she found chaos amusing.

Becky blinked. Her heart did something stupid—skipped, then thudded harder.

"It's… fine," Becky managed, voice calm despite the sudden heat in her cheeks. "It's just coffee. Not blood."

"Yet," Freen quipped, dabbing uselessly at the fabric. "Give it five minutes and it'll look like a crime scene. I'm Freen, by the way. Professional spill artist and undefeated defense attorney."

"Becky." She held out her hand—sticky, but steady. "Investigative journalist. I was actually hoping to catch your closing today."

Freen's grin widened. "Then you're in luck. I'm about to make the prosecution cry. Want a front-row seat? I'll save you one."

Before Becky could answer, two people appeared behind Freen.

"Freen! You're dripping evidence all over the hallway again," the woman said, rolling her eyes fondly. She was shorter, with sharp features and a warm smile. "I'm Nam. This one's office manager-slash-babysitter."

The man beside her—tall, easy grin—waved. "Heng. Paralegal and official hype man. Also Nam's better half." He slung an arm around Nam's shoulders. "We've been trying to find her a girlfriend for years. Or boyfriend. Or anyone who can handle her chaos."

Freen laughed, bright and loud. "Ignore them. They think because I'm single I'm broken. I'm just… selective. Very selective."

Nam snorted. "Selective means 'dodges every guy who asks her out.' There was that cute prosecutor last week—"

"He was wearing socks with sandals," Freen deadpanned. "Instant dealbreaker."

Becky couldn't help smiling. Freen's energy was contagious—goofy, light, like she carried sunshine in her pockets and refused to let anyone see the shadows underneath.

Heng nudged Freen. "See? Becky's laughing. That's step one. Step two is coffee that doesn't end up on her shirt."

Freen turned back to Becky, suddenly softer. "Seriously—let me buy you a replacement. My treat. Non-spill guaranteed."

Becky hesitated only a second. "Okay. But only if you tell me how you've never lost a case."

"Deal." Freen's eyes crinkled. "But warning: my secret is ninety percent charm and ten percent blackmail. Mostly charm."

They walked to the small café cart outside the courtroom. Freen ordered two fresh coffees, handed one to Becky with exaggerated care. "No sudden movements. We've had enough casualties today."

Becky took a sip, watching Freen over the rim. The way she joked with the barista, teased Heng about his terrible taste in ties, laughed at Nam's eye-rolls—it was effortless. Like breathing.

But when Freen turned back, Becky caught something else. A flicker. Just a second where the smile didn't quite reach her eyes. Like she was holding something heavy and refusing to let it show.

"So," Freen said, leaning against the wall, "you covering the malpractice suit today?"

"Yeah. Looking for patterns. Hospitals hiding mistakes."

Freen nodded slowly. "Careful. Those patterns bite back sometimes."

Becky tilted her head. "You sound like you've seen it."

Freen shrugged, grin returning full force. "I've seen everything. And won anyway."

Her phone buzzed. She glanced at it, winced slightly—barely noticeable—then silenced it with a dramatic sigh. "Court in ten. Gotta go dazzle."

Becky felt it then—the strange tug. Like their souls had brushed against each other and decided to stay tangled.

"See you around, Freen."

Freen paused, looked back with that same mischievous sparkle. "Count on it, Miss Scoop. Try not to spill anything important while I'm gone."

She winked and disappeared into the crowd.

Becky stood there, coffee warm in her hands, heart racing for no good reason.

She didn't know it yet, but that spilled coffee was the first crack in a story that would break them both wide open.