As soon as the clock hit six, Samara stormed out of the office, her hands trembling as she shoved her files into her bag.
Her heart was racing, her emotions spiraling out of control.
She couldn't face Kamala again, not now.
Not ever, she figured.
She'd spent the whole day trying not to cry onto the papers, hiding in that conference room because she didn't know any better than to try to talk to someone. It didn't seem she'd get any of that, oh so needed, guidance Kamala had promised.
'Too selfish to tell me that I'm just some pet to her, hell can't even stop and actually teach the intern you tricked' she cursed
She pushed through the doors, her heels clicking sharply against the pavement as she made her way to her car.
Throwing her bag onto the passenger seat, she slid behind the wheel, gripping the steering wheel so hard her knuckles turned white.
Where the hell was she going? She'd grown so used to going back to Kamala place.
She sat there for a moment, her chest pumping as she tried to steady herself, but it was no use. The anger was bubbling up inside her, threatening to spill over.
She couldn't think. She couldn't breathe.
Without another thought, she started her car and drove. Her mind raced a thousand miles per hour, replaying every word Kamala had said, every cold glance, every moment of dismissal.
Before she could rethink it, her tires screeched as she pulled into a liquor store parking lot. She stepped inside, her face set in a scowl that warned anyone from speaking to her. She grabbed three large Buzz Balls from the cooler and marched to the counter.
The cashier looked at her with a knowing smirk.
"Rough day at work?"
Samara didn't even blink. "No, This is stopping me from whooping somebody's ass."
The cashier chuckled awkwardly as she paid, but Samara didn't wait for a response. She grabbed the bag, stormed back to her car, and threw it onto the seat beside her.
As she drove, the roads were unusually quiet, the silence only amplifying the chaos in her mind. Her foot pressed harder on the gas as her thoughts swirled.
What am I going to say to her?
What am I going to do?
She couldn't confront Kamala in the office, but she wasn't going to let this go.
Kamala had to face her, and had to see what she'd done.
Samara reached over and grabbed one, cracking it open with one hand. The sweet, syrupy taste filled her mouth as she took a long sip. Tears began to spill down her cheeks as she drank, her anger giving way to despair.
By the time she reached Kamala's house, she had downed two of the drinks. She parked outside, her vision blurry, her body trembling. Her breath hitched as she doubled over, sobbing into her hands.
She doesn't want me.
Samara thought bitterly.
Fine.
Then I'll find someone who does.
The idea hit her like a lightning bolt, foolish and reckless but too tempting to resist. If Kamala wanted to treat what they had like it was nothing, then Samara would make sure she felt the sting of it.
She wiped her tears, a shaky determination settling in her chest.
She wasn't leaving until she said what she wanted.
She leaned back in her chair, a burp finding its way up as she drifted into sleep.
—
Kamala left her office late, her heels clicking against the polished floor as she made her way back to the conference room. She paused at the door, peering inside, and saw it was empty. Samara had already left.
Though she had no reason to feel anything about it, a pang of guilt settled in her chest. She told herself it was better this way, but a small voice in her head reminded her of the apology she had promised and the explanation Samara deserved.
She couldn't bring herself to give it.
"She'll figure it out eventually," Kamala muttered under her breath. If Claire was desperate enough to stoop that low, Samara would learn the truth soon enough.
Kamala headed out of the building, her pace brisk as the cool evening air hit her. She pulled out her phone, her thumb hovering over Samara's contact.
She hesitated before tapping the call button, only for the screen to display a message.
This number is blocked.
Kamala froze, blinking at the screen. A mix of embarrassment and frustration flooded her as she quickly unblocked the number and tried calling again.
This time, the call went straight to an automated message.
The number you have dialed is no longer in service.
Biting down hard on her lip, Kamala let out a humorless laugh, shaking her head. She leaned against her car, her fingers gripping the door handle as she stared up at the night sky.
"Petty," she murmured, though her voice lacked conviction.
Samara had a right to be upset. Maybe more than upset. Kamala had led her down a path with no promise of a destination.
The realization struck her harder than she expected: Samara likely hadn't anticipated being involved with a woman more than forty years her senior, much less dealing with the chaos that came with it. The scandal, the secrets, the drama—it was too much for someone so young.
Still, Kamala couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't the end. It didn't feel like closure; it felt like the eye of a storm, the calm before something worse.
She exhaled deeply, opening her car door and sliding inside. Tomorrow would bring its own challenges—an early sit-down with Claire and her group, Bridgette, and the Kaplan team. But tonight, she couldn't escape the ache in her chest or the nagging thought that she had truly pushed Samara away.
For good.
As Kamala drove home, the streetlights casting ever fleeting shadows across her car's interior, she wrestled with the lingering guilt. The fight, the misunderstanding, it churned in her gut.
When she pulled into her driveway, her headlights illuminated a car parked askew at the curb. She frowned, recognizing it instantly.
Samara.
Kamala sighed, grabbing her bag and stepping out into the crisp night air. She approached the car and knocked on the driver's side window, startling the slumped figure inside. Samara stirred, groggily pushing the door open with more force than necessary, nearly tumbling out onto the pavement.
"Whoa," Kamala said, catching her by the wrist.
"You're drunk, Samara."
Samara mumbled something unintelligible.
Kamala rolled her eyes but tightened her grip, steadying the younger woman. "Come on. You're not driving home like this. Inside. Now."
Samara didn't resist as Kamala guided her toward the house. Once inside, Kamala locked the door behind them and set her things down with a weary sigh. She kicked off her heels, glancing up to see Samara standing unsteadily by the entryway, her arms dangeling at her sides, and her face streaked with smudged mascara.
Tears glistened in Samara's eyes as she muttered something, her voice barely above a whisper. Kamala stepped closer, her frustration softening into something closer to concern.
"Sit," Kamala instructed gently, leading Samara to the couch. She resisted briefly, mumbling incoherently, her emotions spilling over in garbled bits.
Once seated, Samara looked up at Kamala with tear-streaked cheeks and whispered, "I'm not, nothing, you know."
Kamala froze, her chest tightening at Samara's voice.
"I never said you were," Kamala replied, her tone low.
"You didn't have to," Samara countered, her words slurring slightly but laced with pain.
"You act like it. Like what we had, what I am, doesn't matter. Like... I'm disposable."
Kamala sat down beside her, unsure of what to say. She hadn't expected this, hadn't prepared for the weight of Samara's feelings to be thrown at her so suddenly.
"I'm sorry," Kamala finally said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I've handled things badly. I know that."
Samara scoffed, wiping her face with the back of her hand. "Badly? That's an understatement."
Kamala sighed and rubbed her temples. She wanted to defend herself, to explain the complexities of her life and choices, but the sight of Samara in such a state silenced her excuses.
"I'll get you some water," Kamala said, standing up. "You need to sober up, and we'll talk."
Samara grabbed her wrist, stopping her mid-step. "Don't walk away from me again," she said, her voice breaking.
Kamala turned back, meeting Samara's pleading gaze. "I'm not walking away," she said softly. "But we won't do it like this. You're upset, and I don't want to hurt you more by saying the wrong thing."
Samara released her grip, slumping back against the couch. "Fine," she muttered. "But I'm not leaving until I get answers."
Kamala nodded, her heart heavy. She retrieved a glass of water and a blanket, handing them to Samara before sitting beside her again.
Kamala offered the glass of water to Samara. "Drink. You do have—"
Before she could finish, Samara threw the blanket back at her with a sudden burst of energy. It landed in Kamala's lap as Samara shot up from the couch, stumbling and nearly toppling over.
"I'm not going to keep begging for someone to love me when they clearly don't!"
"Samara—" Kamala started, but Samara wasn't finished.
"You can apologize all you want, Kamala, but it doesn't change how you've treated me!" She wobbled on her feet, pointing a shaking finger at Kamala.
"You're lucky I didn't tell the dean—"
She stopped herself abruptly, her face paling. "Wait, no," she muttered, waving her hand dismissively.
"That'd get me kicked out, shit, but the point still stands!"
Kamala stood slowly, watching this play out. "Samara, you're upset. Please, let's—"
"If you don't want me," Samara interrupted, her voice rising, "then I'll find someone who does. Someone younger, with a youthful pussy and fewer wrinkles." Her lips twisted into a bitter smile as she slurred her words, swaying dangerously on her feet.
The insult hung in the air, leaving Kamala stunned. She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, Samara turned toward the door.
"Samara, what are you doing?" Kamala asked, her voice laced with urgency.
Samara didn't answer. She fumbled with the door handle, finally wrenching it open and stumbling out into the night. Kamala followed, her heart racing as Samara made her way unsteadily toward her car.
"Samara!" Kamala called. "What are you doing?"
Still, Samara didn't respond. She clumsily attempted to unlock her car, her hands shaking as she dropped the keys more than once. Kamala's alarm turned to action as she rushed forward and snatched the keys from Samara's grasp.
"No," Kamala said firmly. "You are not driving."
Samara turned on her, her face twisted with anger. "Give them back!" she shouted, lunging toward Kamala.
Kamala held the keys out of reach. "No! You're drunk, Samara!"
"Fuck you!" Samara screamed, her voice breaking as she slammed her fists weakly against Kamala's shoulder before collapsing against her car.
She slid down to the ground, leaning against the car door as sobs wracked her body. Kamala stood there for a moment, clutching the keys tightly in her hand, unsure of what to do next.
After a moment, Kamala knelt down beside her, her voice soft but steady.
"Samara, I'm sorry. I know I've hurt you, but you're not in any condition to be out here like this. Let's go back inside, okay?"
Samara didn't answer, her tears falling freely as she hugged her knees to her chest.
Eventually, Kamala watched Samara struggle to her feet, wiping at her face with trembling hands.
"I'll walk," Samara said, her voice low and defiant. She staggered forward, swaying slightly with each step.
"Samara, don't be ridiculous," Kamala called after her, but Samara didn't stop.
Kamala crossed her arms, leaning against the car and waiting. Surely, Samara would give up before she got to the end of the block. But when Samara rounded the corner and disappeared from sight, a sinking feeling settled in Kamala's chest.
She locked Samara's car and hurried into her own house, grabbing her keys before sliding into her own car. Starting the engine. Kamala drove slowly through the quiet streets, scanning for any sign of her. It wasn't long before she spotted Samara near the crosswalk, leaning heavily against a light pole, her unsteady figure silhouetted by the streetlamp's glow.
Kamala pulled up beside her and rolled the window down. "Samara, get in the car. Please."
Samara turned to look at her, her expression a mixture of anger and exhaustion. "You just want me to come back so you can take my clothes off again," she slurred, her voice dripping with bitterness.
Kamala flinched.
The words stung because there was truth in them. She'd allowed their connection to be something fleeting, in Kamala's terms, or worse, only when Samara wasn't fully sober.
"You're right," Kamala admitted softly, resting her arms on the steering wheel.
"I was wrong to let things get that way. I should've been better for you. I should've never let our relationship feel so one-sided. But i-"
" you what?" Samara snapped
" Do you love me? NO. Care about me!? YES, OF COURSE BECAUSE I'M GUILTY, I FUCKED A TWENTY SOMETHING YEAR OLD GIRL AND HAD HER ACTING LIKE A LOVE SICK PUPPY! YOU HAPPY NOW, IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT TO HEAR? ta' hell with' how I feel right now. You're sorry....WELL I don't give a DAMN, IF you won't actually fix it!" Samara began to scream, but her tone quickly softens as it struck her
" you broke it off with me, you said it was all over because me and you being together meant you couldn't win."
"Claire wouldn't have taken me from you if you just let me be yours."
The light turned green, the faint hum of an idling car behind them adding tension to the moment. Samara slid off the pole and began to cross the street.
"Samara, stop!" Kamala shouted, opening the car door and stepping out.
But Samara kept walking, each step unsteady but determined. Kamala clenched her fists, watching the woman she cared for slip further away, knowing she couldn't just let her go.
She slipped back into her car and followed Samara. She knew she was talking, but at least she could make sure she didn't get herself hurt.
—
Tazara sat cross-legged on her dorm bed, lazily scrolling through her phone when it buzzed beside her. A call from the campus post office. Confused but intrigued, she answered.
'The package just arrived for you. You can pick it up anytime.'
Sliding on her slippers and grabbing a jacket, she made her way across campus, the cool evening air brushing against her cheeks. Moments later, she was back in her dorm, a neatly taped box resting on her desk. With a small knife, she cut it open, revealing layers of tissue paper folded over an array of professional outfits and a pair of heels.
Her eyes widened. The quality of the clothes alone made her heart race, and tucked at the top was a note scrawled in elegant handwriting:
"Call me when you receive this. — Claire Washington"
She didn't hesitate, grabbing her phone and dialing. The smooth, low tone of Claire's voice answered after just two rings.
"Tazara," Claire greeted, her tone warm and unhurried.
Tazara practically melted into her bed, her voice shaky with excitement. "I just got the package. Thank you so much, these are beautiful."
Claire chuckled softly, the sound almost hypnotic.
"Good. You'll need them. Be ready bright and early tomorrow. We're all heading to the courthouse to meet Kamala and her team."
The mention of Professor Harris sent a jolt through Tazara.
" She and her intern will be playing at negotiations," Claire said, a hint of disdain lacing her words.
"We're talking about settlement. She knows the DA's office gave her a case she doesn't have a leg to stand on in, but she's clever. That's where you come in."
Tazara sat up straighter. "Me? What do you need me to do?"
"Probe Samara. Watch for any cracks or weaknesses in their strategy. Kamala's tricky, but she can't win if her intern can't keep up."
Tazara nodded fervently, her mind already racing with possibilities. "Got it. And... Thank you again for the clothes. They're incredible."
Claire's tone softened, almost teasing. "Consider it a reward. You've been impressive, Tazara. Daniel and Sophie are thrilled with your work, and so am I. Keep it up."
The call ended, leaving Tazara beaming. She hopped off her bed, twirling around her room in excitement. But as she folded the new clothes neatly into her closet, a nagging thought tugged at her.
When Samara got home, the last thing she'd want to hear about was Tazara's glowing praise from Claire or the gifts she'd received.
'At least I know what this is' she told herself.
Claire wasn't stringing her along or pretending they had a deeper connection. She was being rewarded for her work, like a loyal pet. The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth, and she quickly shook it away. She had barely put the clothes away when her phone buzzed again. Another call from Claire.
"Tazara," came that velvety voice, making her heart skip. "One more thing before tomorrow..."
"Yes?" Tazara asked, her voice catching slightly.
"You'll be happy to know," Claire continued, her tone casual but deliberate, "that I'm no longer on the line for anything in this case."
Tazara blinked, confused. "What do you mean?"
"I found the manifesto. All of it," Claire said, her voice tinged with satisfaction.
"Apparently, it got misplaced in the evidence lockers, and instead of Austin, the prosecutor for the case at the time, admitting it, they replaced it with a sanitized copy that was for public release. It's missing some very... damning pages, but honestly it was better those pages never got to be seen"
Tazara's jaw dropped. "So... they can't prove you knew the manifesto was incomplete when the trial started?"
"Well did I know my client possibly did it, yes, but did I give the entire Manifesto to discoverie, yes I did but I have no idea what they did with it afterwards" she said in almost a confident defiant tone, tazara knew it was a sign to stop asking.
" But exactly, I didn't know," Claire said, her smile practically audible.
"No consequences for me. None at all."
"But... What about your defendant?" Tazara asked, her mind racing. what
"What does this mean for his verdict?"
"You're so clever. Always thinking ahead. I like that about you."
Tazara felt her face heat up, grateful Claire couldn't see her reaction.
"I'm going to inform the court that the full manifesto has been located tomorrow," Claire explained.
"I'll let them review it, of course. But I'll bargain that my client's ruling still stands, if they wouldn't want me to reveal to the public that the DA's office lost a possible murderer's manifesto and potentially let them go free."
Tazara swallowed hard. "How did you even get the rest of it? Isn't the evidence lockers or stuff like that in the DA building?"
Claire chuckled, low and rich.
"Daniel and Sophie have lasted so long and made it so far by being just like me, ruthless when necessary. They are intelligent but a lot more resourceful. Not to say that you're not smart in your own right," she added teasingly.
"they just have... talents in other areas. Talents that solve problems even brains can't."
Tazara was quiet, unsure how to respond. The mixture of admiration and predatory charm in Claire's voice left her both flattered and unsettled.
"Good night, Tazara," Claire said softly, her tone like silk.
"Good n-" Tazara managed, but the line had already gone dead.
Tazara wasn't sure if she should be inspired or afraid.
—
Kamala pushed her way through the crowded club, her patience fraying as bodies pressed against her on all sides. The bass thumped in her chest, each beat matching her growing frustration. She'd been here for over thirty minutes, tailing Samara from a distance, yanking her out of questionable situations, and trying to keep her from making a mess of herself.
Now, on the second floor, where the crowd thinned slightly, Kamala finally had space to move. Her eyes scanned the dimly lit room, and there, against a wall bathed in flickering neon light, was Samara.
Her back was pressed against the wall, a woman leaning into her, their faces close, hands wandering freely. Samara's eyes were half-lidded, her lips parted in what looked like bliss. Kamala felt a sharp gab in her chest.
A hot flush of jealousy.
But Samara was drunk, too drunk, too drunk to think clearly.
Kamala approached, her movements slow but tense. She could feel her pulse in her ears as she reached them.
"Samara," Kamala called, her voice tight.
Samara's head lolled to the side, her gaze hazy but locking onto Kamala.
"Why are you following me?" she slurred, irritation biting at her lips.
"You don't love me, right? So why do you care so much about what I'm doing?"
Kamala froze for a moment, but she wasn't going to admit the jealousy gnawing at her insides.
"You're drunk, Samara," she said instead.
"You shouldn't be here."
She reached for Samara's wrist, but the other woman stepped between them, sliding an arm around Samara's waist.
"Back off, old lady," the woman sneered, her tone mocking. "You had your chance. Samara told me all about you."
Kamala flinched, but she held her ground. "Samara, you have work tomorrow. You can't do this to yourself."
Samara let out a bitter laugh, pushing Kamala's hand away.
"No. You don't get to tell me anything unless it's about class or work. You wanted us apart, Kamala. And now we are. You should've thought about that before you d threw me out."
Kamala's mouth opened to respond, but Samara cut her off, her voice trembling.
"I really did love you, you know? I saw myself being with you. But you lied to me. About so much. And then you got scared, didn't even ask or consider how I felt."
She wanted to tell Samara the truth, to plead with her to come back, to her home and to be hers, but she couldn't find the words.
She wouldn't.
She needed to keep distance, but for how long she failed to think about it.
Her mind spiraled at the thought of Samara leaving with this stranger, of what would happen next. The idea made her blood boil and her skin crawl, her eyes wild with a mix of fear and fury.
But Samara wasn't finished. "You're holding onto the past, Kamala. But I'm the only part you've let go of?"
With that, Samara turned to the other woman, who wrapped one of Samara's arms around her shoulders, steadying her as they began to walk away. Kamala stood frozen, watching as they disappeared into the crowd. The woman smirked over her shoulder, her hand squeezing Samara's ass as they stumbled off together.
Kamala clenched her fists, her chest tightening.
Samara stumbled onto the street, her arm draped over the woman's shoulders like a victory banner. The cool night air bit at her skin, sobering her only slightly as the woman flagged down a cab.
'Where to?' the driver asked once they tumbled inside, Samara pressed against the window as the woman gave her address with a knowing grin.
The ride was a blur of neon lights and fleeting touches, fingers tracing Samara's thigh, brushing her arm, settling possessively on her knee. Samara let it happen, reveling in the haze of alcohol and the distraction from Kamala.
They arrived at an apartment complex, and the woman wasted no time leading Samara inside. Her grip was firm, her confidence intoxicating. Samara barely registered the narrow hallway or the faint smell of incense as the woman pushed her into a bedroom and onto the bed.
The sheets were soft beneath her, but there was an edge to the women's movements. She climbed onto the bed, straddling Samara as her hands roamed with increasing urgency.
Samara pulled back slightly, catching her breath. "Wait... what's your name?" she asked, her words slurred.
The woman laughed, low and throaty. "Siobhan," she replied.
"oh, I live with a roommate. But he's out tonight, so don't worry. He'll probably be gone in the morning too though"
Before Samara could process the words, Siobhan's lips were on hers again, aggressive. The kisses felt more like a claim than an exchange, her hands gripping Samara's hips hard enough to bruise.
Samara let herself sink into it at first, losing herself in the moment. But as Siobhan's touch grew rougher, her fingers dug into her skin, her palms pushing against her shoulders to keep her pinned.
Siobhan's face hovered just above hers, a drunken, devilish smile curving her lips. Her eyes gleamed with something that made Samara's stomach twist.
"I'm gonna turn you out, so good" Siobhan murmured, her voice both a promise and a threat.
Samara froze, her heart hammering in her chest. She'd used this woman as an escape, and now she felt she might be getting trapped.