Celeste didn't sleep that night. The black card lay on her mahogany coffee table like a curse, its matte finish seemingly absorbing the dim light of her apartment. Her phone was a frantic insect, buzzing every few minutes with calls she refused to answer—colleagues seeking gossip, news outlets looking for a quote, and her mother, whose disappointment would be louder than the silence. By the time the gray dawn bled through her curtains, Celeste had made up her mind.
If Dante Navarro was looking for a reaction, she would give him one he wouldn't forget.
She arrived at the Navarro Holdings skyscraper at 9:00 AM sharp. She strutted through the glass-and-steel lobby, her heels clicking like a metronome against the polished stone. She didn't care about the stares or the muffled whispers of the staff who recognized her from the morning's headlines. She was a woman with nothing left to lose, and there was a terrifying power in that.
The receptionist, a polished woman in a silk blouse, glanced up with a practiced, professional smile that faltered the moment she saw Celeste's face.
"I need to see Dante Navarro," Celeste said. Her voice was flat, a blade of ice.
The woman blinked, regaining her composure. "Do you have an appointment, Ms. Vaughn?"
"No."
"Then I'm sorry, ma'am, Mr. Navarro is in back-to-back meetings. He doesn't see anyone without—"
Thud. Celeste slammed the heavy black card down on the marble counter. It looked like a hollowed-out piece of the night. "Tell him the counselor's here."
The receptionist hesitated, her eyes darting from the card to Celeste's defiant gaze. She picked up the sleek handset, whispered a few urgent words, and then nodded slowly. "You can go in. Top floor. The private elevator is to your right."
Celeste walked into the elevator, the doors sliding shut with a soft, expensive hiss. Her reflection stared back at her from the mirrored walls. She looked composed—her hair a perfect bob, her suit tailored—but she hated that her hands were trembling. She balled them into fists, hiding the weakness from herself.
When the elevator chime echoed, the doors opened to an office that felt less like a place of business and more like a throne room. It was sleek, cold, and smelled of sandalwood and old money. Dante was already standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, his back turned to her, overlooking the city he seemed to own.
"Took you long enough," he said. He didn't turn around, but she could hear the smirk in his voice.
She crossed her arms, refusing to be intimidated by the scale of the room. "Is this a joke to you? My life is dismantling in real-time, and you're sending me invitations like we're back in law school."
He turned then, a faint, dangerous smile playing on his lips. The sunlight caught the sharp angles of his jaw. "I don't find it funny, Celeste. I find it... interesting. A rare study in how quickly a pedestal can crumble."
"You released those images," she spat, stepping further into the room. "You've wanted to take me down since I beat you in the Miller case. This is your revenge."
He shook his head, his expression shifting to one of mild boredom. "No. If I wanted to destroy you, Celeste, I wouldn't hide behind an anonymous leak. I'd do it in the light, where you could see it coming. I'm a predator, not a coward."
"Then who?"
"Someone who wanted you erased, not just defeated," Dante said, walking closer. His slow steps echoed on the marble floor. "I can find out who. In fact, I already have."
She scoffed, though her heart hammered against her ribs. "Why would you help me? We haven't spoken in years, and our last conversation ended with a restraining order threat."
He stopped just a few feet away, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him. "Because you interest me, counselor. You always have. You're the only person in this city who actually believes the lies about justice. It's... refreshing."
"Stop calling me that," she snapped. "I'm not a counselor anymore. I was suspended an hour ago."
He tilted his head, studying her like a piece of art. "Habit. Or perhaps a reminder of what you're fighting for."
Celeste exhaled sharply, turning away to hide the moisture in her eyes. "You're wasting my time. I came here to tell you to stay away from me."
"Am I wasting it?" he asked softly. "You've lost your job, your reputation, and your husband is currently at a hotel with a woman ten years younger than you. You have nothing left to protect, Celeste. Not even a home."
Her jaw tightened until it ached. "I still have my dignity."
He smiled, and this time it was predatory. "Dignity is a luxury for people who have food on the table and a name that doesn't make people spit. In this room? It's negotiable."
"Go to hell, Dante."
"I've been there," he said simply, his voice dropping to a low, melodic vibration. "It's quieter than you think. And much more honest than the world you've been living in."
She turned toward the door, her heels clicking sharply, but his next words stopped her like a physical blow.
"I can give you your life back, Celeste. Better than it was."
She froze, her hand inches from the handle. She looked over her shoulder, her eyes narrowed. "You? How?"
"I know who leaked the story. I know about your husband's affair—did you know he's been planning his exit for months? I'm surprised he never touched you in a year of marriage. It's almost as if he was waiting for you to be the one to break." He paused, letting the cruelty of the truth sink in. "And I know about his other agenda against you."
"You're bluffing," she whispered, though her mind was racing, connecting dots she had ignored for months. The late nights, the cold bed, the missing documents from her home office.
Dante reached into his mahogany desk, pulled out a thick manila file, and tossed it onto the glass table. It landed with a heavy thud. "You can read it yourself. It's all there. The bank transfers, the timestamps, the names."
She stared at the folder but didn't move. The air in the room felt thick, suffocating. "What do you want in return? Men like you don't do favors."
He rested his weight against the desk, crossing his ankles, looking perfectly at ease. "I want you."
Her heart leapt into her throat. "You... what?"
"Be mine for three years," he said, his tone as casual as if he were discussing a real estate merger. "No holds barred. No lies. You live where I tell you, you go where I go. I'll give you your name back. I'll dismantle the people who did this to you. I'll fix your mess. And when the three years are up, you can walk away with enough money to never work a day in your life."
She laughed, but it was a thin, plaintive sound. "You're insane. This isn't a contract, it's a cage."
"Probably," he conceded.
"You really believe I'd ever sign up for that? To be your... what? Your pet? Your trophy?"
He shrugged. "You've signed off on far worse things in court, Celeste. You've defended monsters for a paycheck. At least I'm being honest about what I am."
"That was my job," she said, her voice trembling.
"This is personal."
She pushed the folder back toward him with a shaky hand. "I'm not that desperate."
"Not yet," he said, his voice a dark promise.
A heavy silence stretched between them for several seconds. Celeste felt the weight of the world pressing down on her—the shame, the betrayal, the looming poverty. She started to turn again, ready to vanish into the city, when he spoke one last time, almost offhandedly.
"You never asked me about your brother."
She stopped dead. The air left her lungs. "What about him? Leo died in a car accident. It was three years ago."
Dante re-opened the file, his fingers flipping through the pages with clinical precision. He extracted a grainy, high-contrast photograph. "The night he died—the car wasn't an accident. The brake lines didn't just fail, Celeste."
Her voice dropped to a jagged whisper. "Don't lie to me. Don't use him."
"I don't have to lie," he said, his eyes locking onto hers. "Your husband was at the scene before the paramedics arrived. And so was a senior partner from your firm. They didn't call 911. They waited."
"You're lying," she breathed. If Ethan—the man she had shared a bed with, the man she had trusted—was responsible for Leo's death, she wouldn't just sue him. She would destroy him with her bare hands.
He pushed the photo across the table. "Just look at it."
With trembling fingers, she picked it up. It was a long-lens shot, dark and grainy. It showed the wreckage of her brother's silver sedan at the bottom of a ravine. In the distance, two figures stood by a black SUV, their silhouettes unmistakable. One was Ethan. The other... the profile was too familiar. It was her mentor at the firm.
The world tilted on its axis. Everything she believed in—her marriage, her career, her past—was a lie constructed by the people who had killed the only person she ever truly loved.
Slowly, she looked up, her eyes burning with a new, terrifying light. The fear was gone, replaced by a cold, searing rage.
"What do you want with me, Dante?"
He gave a faint, triumphant smile. "Just a yes."
She swallowed hard, looking at the man who was offering her a lifeline made of barbed wire. She looked back at the photo of her brother's grave.
"Yes," she whispered..