At precisely seven o'clock, Eamon stepped through the revolving doors of Sauveterre Law Firm.
The lobby was already alive. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light across polished marble floors. Receptionists answered ringing telephones while keyboards clattered in steady rhythm. Associates hurried between meetings with files tucked beneath their arms, coffee cups balanced precariously in one hand.
Just another ordinary morning.
Eamon acknowledged the receptionist with a polite nod before continuing toward the elevators. He never once slowed his pace or checked his phone while walking. Every step carried the quiet certainty of someone who already knew exactly how the day would unfold.
It was this kind of presence that people were drawn to. He didn't seek out attention; he never needed to.
And yet, heads turned as he crossed the lobby. Junior associates subtly lowered their voices. Secretaries offered polite greetings. Even a few long-time partners glanced up from their conversations as he passed.
Eamon noticed none of it. His mind was already several floors above them, reviewing witness statements, financial records, and the ever-growing mountain of evidence surrounding the Blackwell investigation.
The elevator doors slid shut.
Only then did the lobby exhale.
A cluster of junior lawyers gathered near the reception desk watched the ascending floor numbers disappear from view.
"...He's unfairly handsome," one petite Omega murmured, hugging her coffee cup with both hands.
"I was thinking the exact same thing," another admitted.
A young Beta laughed.
"He also hasn't lost a case in..." one of the interns paused to think. "What? Three years?"
"Closer to four."
The group collectively groaned.
"Show-off."
One of the younger Alpha associates folded his arms.
"He'll probably lose the Desrosiers versus Blackwell case."
Several heads turned.
"What makes you say that?"
The Alpha shrugged.
"Sexual assault cases are notoriously difficult to prove. Especially when the accused and victim were in a relationship."
He took another sip of coffee.
"Add substance abuse into the mix, and you've got a credibility nightmare."
The petite Omega frowned.
"That's not exactly fair."
"I didn't say it was."
"I'm saying juries are unpredictable."
"This isn't a jury trial," another lawyer corrected.
"You know what I mean."
Someone else spoke up.
"Besides... this is Eamon Sauveterre."
The Alpha rolled his eyes.
"And?"
"And he doesn't take cases he can't build."
A few quiet murmurs of agreement followed.
"He became a senior partner before turning thirty."
"He's ridiculously thorough."
"He practically lives here."
The Alpha gave a dry laugh.
"Or maybe being the owner's son helps."
An uncomfortable silence settled over the group.
Finally, another associate looked at him.
"You're seriously going with nepotism?"
"I'm saying it probably didn't hurt."
"No," the petite Omega replied firmly. "It probably didn't."
She folded her arms.
"But keeping the position?"
She shook her head.
"That part's entirely him."
The Alpha didn't look convinced.
"Maybe."
He hesitated before lowering his voice.
"Still..."
"I don't know why everyone's acting like this Acheron guy is automatically telling the truth."
Several people frowned.
"The video's already everywhere."
"I've seen it."
"So have I."
"He admitted he was addicted."
The Alpha shrugged again.
"We all know addicts lie."
The words hung heavily over the conversation.
"...You realise addiction doesn't erase someone's right to be a victim." The petite Omega looked genuinely disturbed.
"And if half the evidence being collected is true..." He didn't get to finish the sentence.
"We do not discuss our clients in the lobby." A calm, measured voice carried far more authority than shouting ever could.
Every junior lawyer stiffened.
Standing a few paces away was one of the firm's senior litigators, Mr Cleave. His charcoal suit was immaculate, his silver hair neatly combed back, and his expression left no room for argument. The faint pressure of his Alpha pheromones settled over the group, not enough to overwhelm, but more than enough to command attention.
No one dared look away.
Mr Cleave's gaze swept across each of them before he spoke again.
"I don't particularly care what your personal opinions are," he said evenly. "You are entitled to them."
He briefly paused. "But you will keep them to yourselves."
His eyes settled on the young Alpha who had spoken most loudly.
"You never speculate about a firm's clients." He turned his head, making sure to make eye contact with every single one of them. "You never debate their credibility."
"And you most certainly do not do either of those things in the middle of the reception lobby, where clients, witnesses, journalists, or opposing counsel could overhear every word."
The Alpha lowered his gaze.
"Yes, sir."
Mr Cleave continued.
"When someone walks through those doors seeking legal representation, they are no longer your client or Mr Sauveterre's client."
"They become a Sauveterre firm's client."
His voice remained calm, yet each word landed with unmistakable weight.
"That means they are entitled to the same professionalism, dignity, and confidentiality, regardless of the allegations against them, the mistakes they've made, or the circumstances that brought them here."
The petite Omega straightened almost instinctively.
Mr Cleave looked around the group one final time.
"If any of you intend to build careers based on rumours and personal bias instead of evidence..."
His gaze hardened. "...this is the wrong firm."
Silence settled over the lobby. Even the nearby receptionists had stopped typing.
Finally, Mr Cleave gave a curt nod.
"Back to work."
The group dispersed almost immediately, disappearing down different hallways with considerably less confidence than they'd had only moments before. Mr Cleave remained where he was for another second before turning to the young assistant waiting nearby.
"Find out who they are."
"Yes, sir." The assistant opened his tablet. "I'll have the list within the hour."
Mr Cleave adjusted the cuff of his sleeve.
"Forward it directly to Mrs Alessia Sauveterre."
The assistant blinked.
"Understood."
Without another word, Mr Cleave continued toward his office. Behind him, the lobby gradually returned to its usual rhythm.
But the lesson lingered.
At Sauveterre Law Firm, a client's dignity was never optional.
Back on the fifteenth floor, the steady rhythm of the law firm settled around him once more.
The chatter from reception had long since faded, replaced by the muffled sounds of ringing telephones, printers, and distant conversations filtering through the corridor. Eamon closed the door to his office.
Silence.
Exactly how he preferred it.
He walked towards his desk, which was already buried beneath stacks of files waiting for his attention. Years of practice had made organising them almost second nature. Without hesitation, he divided them into neat piles.
Cases requiring immediate action. Others are waiting for court dates. Some had already closed, while the rest needed only routine follow-ups. One by one, the piles grew smaller until only a single stack remained.
DESROSIERS.
Every file bore the same surname.
Eamon rested a hand atop the stack for a brief moment before kneeling beside his desk. Concealed beneath the lowest drawer sat a biometric safe, hidden behind an ordinary-looking wooden panel. He entered the security code before placing his thumb against the scanner.
A soft click echoed through the office.
Inside lay several thick binders and encrypted storage drives. These weren't official case materials; none of it existed in the firm's public filing system. Everything inside had been assembled quietly over the past year by only a select few people.
Together, they had been attempting to understand something far larger than just Acheron's case.
The Blackwell Organisation.
Eamon carried the binders back to his desk and spread them open beside the Desrosiers files. Each binder is filled with information about family trees, corporate structures, financial statements, property records, and even shipping manifests.
The information resembled less a legal investigation and more a blueprint of an ecosystem.
It was no fluke that the Blackwells had become one of the country's wealthiest and most influential families. Their reach extended into almost every major industry. Construction. Real estate. Hospitality. Import and export. Even politics. Every legitimate business they owned provided another layer of protection, another opportunity to hide what lay beneath.
The Blackwells weren't a single serpent waiting to be beheaded.
They were a nest of vipers. Strike at one, and a dozen more remained concealed beneath the undergrowth, waiting for the right moment to emerge. The family's involvement in the drug trade was hardly a secret among those who moved in the city's darker circles.
Proving it, however, was another matter entirely.
Every trail ended the same way. Records disappeared. Witnesses forgot. Financial transactions dissolved behind shell companies and offshore accounts. If the Blackwells hadn't covered their tracks themselves, they had someone exceptionally skilled doing it for them.
Blackwell controlled a significant portion of the city's drug trade. That doesn't happen overnight; someone had to have manufactured it or imported it, at least.
If imported, shipments had to cross international borders, and crossing borders required paperwork. Which leads to false declarations, shipping companies, port authorities, truck drivers, warehouses, a distribution network and finally street-level dealers.
Every criminal network, regardless of its sophistication, relied upon ordinary people performing ordinary tasks.
Someone loaded the trucks.
Someone unloaded them.
Someone signed invoices.
Someone accepted deliveries.
Someone kept records.
The challenge was finding the first person willing, or frightened enough, to talk.
Thus far, every lead has ended with nothing.
Eamon leaned back in his chair, studying the web of notes spread across his desk. There had to be a weakness; there always was. Organisations this large did not collapse because of one dramatic mistake. They unravelled because of hundreds of tiny ones.
His job was simply to find the loose thread.
His eyes drifted over the evidence once again. Reading and rereading the information they had so far, but that loose thread was too well hidden.
He exhaled slowly.
"For once," he muttered to the empty office, "could organised criminals have the courtesy to keep sloppy records?"
The empty office, unsurprisingly, offered no opinion.
Instead, he felt a dull ache begin forming behind his temples; he pinched the bridge of his nose before opening one of his desk drawers. Looking for painkillers, he purposefully stored them there. He swallowed two with the last mouthful of now-lukewarm coffee.
Almost immediately, his phone vibrated inside his pocket.
The screen lit up.
Eamon's shoulders relaxed.
Finally.