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Liam's Pov
Anna led me through a maze of corridors that seemed to hum with urgency—law clerks carrying towers of documents, secretaries on phones coordinating schedules, and the sharp click of polished shoes against marble floors.
Eventually, we reached a quieter hallway where the air seemed heavier, more deliberate. The plaque on the door said it all:
Cameron Dennis – District Attorney, New York County.
Anna stopped at the desk just outside, her own little command station. Stacks of neatly arranged case files sat at her side, a laptop open with emails flooding in, a steaming cup of coffee placed just within reach. She adjusted her glasses, glanced up at me, and smiled politely.
"Mr. Dennis is just wrapping up the morning meeting," she said. "He should be back any moment. You can wait inside his office."
I nodded, offering a small, "Thanks, Anna."
She motioned me toward the door, then turned back to her work. I pushed the door open and stepped into the DA's office.
The first thing that hit me was the smell—aged leather mixed with faint traces of old paper and something sharper: scotch.
It wasn't overwhelming, but it lingered, subtle, like a fingerprint.
The room itself had character. One side was lined with shelves stacked with thick law books, trial records, and binders that looked like they hadn't been touched in years, while the opposite wall held a row of neatly organized banker's boxes labeled in bold black marker—each one a different case, a different story, a different battle fought in the courtroom.
Near the far corner, a side table bore the weight of a half-filled bottle of scotch and two crystal tumblers, sitting openly as if daring anyone to question their presence. A quiet statement: this was a man who didn't need to hide his vices.
The large mahogany desk was the centerpiece, polished but cluttered in the way only someone constantly busy could manage.
Case notes spread across its surface, yellow legal pads filled with scribbles, a computer angled slightly to the side, and an old-school brass desk lamp casting a muted glow.
A framed photo of what looked like a family stood near the monitor—faces smiling, frozen in time.
Behind the desk, a high-backed leather chair commanded the space, almost like a throne.
I walked over slowly, letting my fingers brush against the back of the chair before circling back around the table and took a seat among the visitor side.
The leather creaked faintly under my weight. For a moment, I just sat there, soaking it in.
This office wasn't about appearances—it was about weight, responsibility, and power.
Every box against the wall represented lives changed, futures decided. This was where choices carried consequences that rippled through the city.
[Comfortable seat?] Eve's voice teased in my ear.
I smirked faintly, resting my wrist on the armrest and glancing toward the scotch bottle in the corner. "Not my style," I muttered under my breath.
[Mmm. Yet] Eve corrected slyly.
I shook my head lightly, leaning back in the chair. Cameron Dennis would be here any minute.
Until then, all I could do was wait—and prepare myself for whatever the hell the DA of Manhattan was about to throw my way.
The door to the office swung open with authority. Cameron Dennis stepped inside, file in hand, his presence filling the room even before he spoke. He looked exactly like the stories painted him—sharp suit, silvering hair combed immaculately back, eyes hard as steel, and that aura of someone who had spent decades commanding courtrooms and protégés alike. He moved with the self-assuredness of a man who knew every word he spoke carried weight.
"Liam Harper," Cameron said, his voice deep and direct. He strode forward, extending a firm hand.
I rose from the chair and met his grip. Strong, deliberate—no wasted energy. He was testing me already. I matched his shake without faltering, meeting his gaze evenly.
"Welcome to the Manhattan District Attorney's Office," he said before moving behind his desk. He sat, flipping open the file with a crisp motion. His eyes scanned the page, and then he began reading aloud.
"High School—California, Top marks. Bachelor's Degree—Harvard, Top marks. LSATs…" He paused, raising an eyebrow. "Full marks."
He flicked his gaze at me before continuing.
"Harvard Law—Top marks again."
Each line was delivered like an accusation rather than praise, but I didn't flinch. My expression stayed calm, collected. Inside, I knew he was testing me—trying to see if I'd puff up with pride or shrink under scrutiny. I gave him neither.
For the first time, Cameron's eyes left the file and studied me directly. They dropped to my suit, dark grey with a tailored cut, then lingered on my wrist where the Rolex gleamed under the morning light streaming from the blinds.
Finally, he leaned back in his chair. "Listen, Harper," he said, voice low but sharp. "Your performance in Harvard Law just shows your learning and knowledge level. Out here? In the real world? It takes more than that to win."
I stayed silent. He wasn't finished.
"That suit, that watch—it tells me you come from money and I don't want someone who thinks they can float through life just because they were able to memorize a few law books and ace every exam."
I exhaled slowly, leaned forward, and asked evenly, "If that's what you really think, Mr. Dennis… then why offer me a job at all?"
His eyes narrowed slightly, and for the first time his tone shifted, though the edge never left it. "I didn't," he admitted. "Your professor at Harvard—good man—tipped me off. Said you were something special but now…" His gaze dropped deliberately to the Rolex. "…now, looking at you in person, I'm starting to have doubts."
I glanced at the watch. My lips curved faintly.
"True," I said. Then, without hesitation, I unbuckled it and placed it carefully on his desk. The room seemed to tighten with the gesture. "I do come from money and I'm not afraid to show it but that doesn't mean I don't work hard. I like winning, Mr. Dennis. My record—academic or otherwise—proves it and out here, in this office, I'll win too."
I let the silence stretch a second before finishing, my voice steady.
"I chose your office over corporate law because here, winning isn't about bonuses or corner offices—it's about survival. That kind of pressure is exactly what I want and that—" I tapped the Rolex—"is a gift from my mother. You can hold on to it. Give me a case, and I'll win. If I don't, it's yours, and I'll quit but if I do, I'll take it back."
For the first time, Cameron's composure cracked. Not much—just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. A spark of something like respect.
"You're a brand-new lawyer," he said, leaning forward, voice lowering like a challenge. "You think I'll hand you a first chair on your first case? My best guy—Harvey—didn't get that kind of privilege."
I shrugged lightly. "Doesn't matter. You said I was special."
That did it. Cameron leaned back and let out a low laugh. Not mockery—amusement, surprise. "You've got balls, Harper. Talking to me like this."
He picked up the Rolex, turned it once in his hand, and set it deliberately into his pocket.
"Fine. You want a case? I'll give you one. A sure-loss case. The kind no one in this office touches unless I order them to. You still want to make this little bet of yours?"
I smiled faintly, cool and confident. "Absolutely."
Something flickered in his eyes—approval hidden under the mask of authority. "Alright then," Cameron said, smirking. "You just impressed me, Harper but don't expect me to take it easy. Let's hope this first loss didn't break that wild sprit of yours"
"It won't, because I'll win" I said simply.
Because deep down, I wasn't bluffing. With my high intelligence, Sharingan, Eve, system and all the tools at my disposal… I knew I could crack any case.
And this was just the beginning.
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Advanced chapters at:
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