IF YOU break a connection with someone you care about, it takes twice the time and work to repair.
The unexpected unfolded before me one moment at a time. It wasn't the claustrophobic stress of the scenario but rather the pressure from the individual sitting comfortably across from me. The same person I had attempted and failed to forget. I had spent years persuading myself she was gone, and now she was back as if nothing had happened.
It seemed like a reset I hadn't asked for, one in which I had to struggle to recapture the piece of myself she took with her when she vanished eight years ago.
How was she during those years?
Did she still hate me?
Did she ever look for me, too?
The questions flooded my thoughts, gradually draining me.
At first, I felt betrayed when I discovered she was Luke's cousin and had lied to me about her identity. But when I reflected about it, it became evident that I had done worse. I had damaged her in ways that gave me no reason to be mad now.
If her parents were not in the room, I wouldn't have this thin layer of constraint keeping me from asking the questions that were gnawing at my chest.
I only wanted to ask her and apologize.
"This is quite a reunion we have here, Attorney Schuett," she said, a grin curling her lips. "I can tell Canada changed you." Her glance gently moved over me before finding mine.
My heart pounded hard in my chest. However, something was different now. She looked at me differently than she had previously. The gleam of devotion had vanished; what remained was empty.
"I didn't expect this either," I muttered, moving in my seat and feeling self-conscious beneath her observation. "I didn't know you were Luke's cousin."
"I made sure you didn't," she said simply.
I was taken aback at the moment she said it with a hint of cynicism, but before I could respond, Mrs. Thorne intervened, her tone almost indulgent. "Very stubborn, isn't she, Attorney? " A soft chuckle followed. "She insisted on applying to the university on her own. She wanted a normal life—one that didn't exist in the shadow of her father's name. We offered to send her abroad, but she chose to live independently during college and kept my surname instead. She didn't want people approaching her simply because she carried the Thorne name."
It was the explanation I wanted to hear—from Megan. Instead, it came from her mother.
I inclined my head, returning the older woman's smile. "I understand." Then, gently but firmly, I redirected the conversation. "Perhaps we should proceed to discuss the reason why I'm actually here."
I don't want to hear anything about her that she kept from me; I am afraid to know that what she actually felt for me before is also a part of her lies and deceptions. I may have denied her feelings, but when I realized that I had fallen for her too before, that was genuine.
"So professional, Attorney Schuett," she muttered, a coy smile tugging at her lips, as if daring me to notice the trace of sarcasm in her voice. "Always focused on what is realistic... So, what is it that you want to know, then?"
I inhaled slowly, careful not to let the feeling or irritation of how she acts towards me slip out. I had survived courtrooms filled with hostility and the outside of it, where I was greeted with multiple curses. This should have been no different, but no, I felt nervous, insecure, and pressured at the moment, like I was in a hot seat being questioned by her eyes.
I wanted to breathe, but my chest felt too tight.
"Everything relevant to the case," I said, my voice steady despite the plague of questions inside my head. "Beginning with the drug distribution charges tied to your name and the murder the prosecution claims resulted from that operation."
"I didn't do drugs, nor did I kill," she said. "Is that already enough facts?"
I wanted to say her name like she is just one of my clients and say it like it doesn't still echo in places it shouldn't. But I just can't for some reason; that drains me. Megan fixed her posture next to her father, completely at ease, as if this were not her future being dissected but a casual conversation she could leave whenever she pleased.
Her father sighed. "Megan," a warning lacing his tone, "answer properly."
"But that is the truth." She insisted, "Would that be sufficient?"
"We need more specific proof than a baseless statement, Ms. Thorne." Her face hardened the instant her name left my lips. "The court doesn't accept words without supporting evidence—claims must be justified by facts. Saying you didn't use drugs or commit murder is the most common line a convicted person gives when they're caught in the act."
I mentally scoffed when she deliberately rolled her eyes at me. On purpose.
Seriously? Couldn't she set aside her open disdain for five minutes? We were discussing something serious.
I shook my head and shifted my attention to her father.
"I've already made preliminary inquiries with the officers handling the investigation," I explained. "However, they refused to grant me access to the reports without your authorization, sir. Having those documents would significantly help me compile my findings and formally petition for a retrial."
He nodded once "I know the investigator assigned to my daughter's case. She is someone I trust. I'll contact her and have her coordinate with you directly."
I turned back to Megan. I was unsurprised to find her gaze already fixed on me, cold and unwavering.
"As for you, Ms. Thorne," I continued, "I strongly advise complete honesty. Tell me everything you know. The more transparent you are, the faster this process moves."
Watching her now, I finally understood the source of that commanding presence she carried so effortlessly. She had her mother's beauty. The same delicate features—thin brows, slanted eyes, a petite nose, and lips naturally tinted pink. But her posture belonged entirely to her father. Authority radiated from her, not rigid but firm. Even when her words sounded playful, there was an unmistakable chill beneath them.
I was pulled from my thoughts when I felt a hand gently rest over mine, I turned to her mother.
"Attorney Schuett," she spoke softly, her voice calm and so different from her husband's stern cadence. "My daughter was never a drug dealer. We all know she was framed. Someone orchestrated all of this. And the murder..." Her voice wavered before she steadied herself. "She is innocent. I know she is."
I nodded, though something tightened painfully in my chest. A mother's faith is terrifying. When it shatters, it destroys everything in its wake. I thought of my own mother. She once believed with the same unyielding certainty.
"I don't doubt your belief," I replied gently. "But belief alone won't overturn a conviction. We need tangible evidence. Something that can dismantle the prosecution's narrative and withstand scrutiny in court."
"And how long will that take?" Mr. Thorne interjected. "This case is already affecting our business. The public has latched onto it. Investors are nervous. I cannot afford another partnership pulling out."
Of course, for a man like Mr. Thorne, it was never just about his daughter's name. It was about the empire attached to it. Truth was secondary. Containment was everything. Just like every powerful businessman I had ever known.
"As long as it takes," I answered evenly. "But cooperation accelerates the process. Without it, progress slows significantly."
Megan never looked away "It seems I'll need to spend more time with you, Attorney Schuett." That familiar, mischievous curve returned to her lips. "If you require my full cooperation."
The implication landed exactly where she intended. I felt it. That subtle pressure. The kind that once made me reckless. The kind I had spent years teaching myself to ignore.
I did not meet her gaze. "If it benefits your case," I replied simply, "then I'm willing to accommodate."
IT WAS already past twelve o'clock when we finished talking, and I quietly admired myself for not melting on the spot. I wanted nothing more than to escape that living room, but professionalism demanded otherwise.
"Thank you for your time, Attorney Schuett," her mother offered, shaking my hand. "We're expecting good news regarding the case"
I returned her smile with practiced politeness. "You certainly will."
Her hand lingered in mine as she looked at me with a warmth that felt achingly familiar. It mirrored the way her daughter used to look at me once.
"Attorney," she continued, glancing back at her husband and daughter, "why don't you join us for lunch? It would be nice. You'd have some time to know Megan, aside from discussing her case." Both her husband and Megan turned toward me.
A flicker of nervousness crept in, and it is proven by my hammering heartbeat—I hesitated. I had been itching to flee the moment I noticed the large portrait dominating the living area. The thought of staying longer, let alone sharing a meal with her daughter, made it worse.
"I don't mind at all," her husband added. "That is, if Attorney Schuett doesn't have any prior engagements."
"I have a sch—"
"I called your office earlier. Attorney Kwong mentioned that you aren't handling any major cases at the moment and that you're free for the day." Megan's voice interjected without warning.
I looked at her, eyes widening, but she dismissed me with a careless eye roll. The urge to melt on the spot crept in, the kind that felt like being caught just before committing a crime. All I wanted was to flee and breathe. Why did she keep applying pressure, cornering me like this? It was obvious she was doing it on purpose. She knew exactly how uncomfortable I was in her presence.
Her mother clasped both hands together, clearly delighted, and turned her gaze toward me. "Please join us, Attorney," she urged, her eyes holding mine.
I bit the inside of my cheek as I looked at her. She reminded me of my own mother, who used to look at me with the same pleading expression whenever she asked for a favor. Come to think of it, it had been a long time since I'd felt the warmth of having a mother around. And looking at Megan's family now, they seemed happy and content, as if this case had never existed.
I sighed in surrender and nodded.
Her mother's smile widened instantly as she looped an arm through mine. "Perfect. Come on, I want you to taste what I cooked for lunch."
She excitedly clung to me again, and as she kept talking, seemingly forgetting her own husband and daughter behind us as she pulled me toward the dining area. I glanced back and saw Megan walking beside her father, the two of them engaged in quiet conversation. The moment she sensed my gaze, she turned toward me, one brow lifting, a lopsided smile appeared on her lips.
I immediately turned back, feeling my cheeks warming up after being caught sneaking a glance at her. Just what the hell was I doing? I was supposed to leave, just like I always do after finishing a case discussion with my other clients.
When we arrived, the maids had already set the table, laden with dishes. Never in my life had I thought I would drool over food, yet there I was, taken by how appetizing everything looked. The scent of a home-cooked meal filled my senses, and I realized how long it had been since I'd last had one.
While I was in Canada, I survived on eating out or ordering takeout. I rarely had time to cook for myself, my days consumed by relentless schedules and back-to-back work. Sometimes, I even wondered how I managed to survive on nothing but fast food for so long.
"I hope you don't mind that everything is brown," she remarked beside me, noticing my distraction as I stared at the spread. "My daughter prefers brown food."
I know. Megan is a picky eater.
She doesn't like anything that isn't perfectly brown—especially fried food. Any other color fails to look appetizing to her, dulling her ability to appreciate the real taste of a dish. She has a soft spot for sweets, though.
I was about to pull out a chair when a pair of hands beat me to it. "Sit down, Attorney. I know you're famished," she commanded, stepping past me to pull a chair next to mine. She settled into it, eyes on me, while I hesitated, unsure whether to sit in the chair she'd just pulled. It would look bad if I didn't, especially with her parents watching.
I sank into the seat, careful not to cause any unnecessary confusion in the room. I tried to focus on the food in front of me, even though the person next to me made my heart race, leaving me both nervous and bewildered.
"Here, Attorney, try this," Mrs. Thorne said, handing me a bowl of green curry. "I made this extra spicy."
I don't eat spicy food—it burns my tongue—but the thought of declining when she was the one serving me made my chest tighten. I forced a polite smile and reached for the bowl, only to have Megan's hand brush mine, stopping me. Her fingers lingered just a moment too long, and I felt my heart skip.
She was staring at the bowl, brows slightly furrowed. "Sorry, Mommy, but Attorney Schuett doesn't eat spicy."
"Oh, I'm sorry," her mother said quickly, retracting the bowl. "Please, Attorney, if there's something you like, don't hesitate to help yourself."
"Ah, no, I actually wanted to try it," I said, my eyes locked on Megan. She blinked, before tilting her head toward a bowl of Som Tum Pla Raa, one of the dishes on the table. She picked it up and nudged it toward me.
"Don't force yourself to change your taste just because what's offered is hard to refuse," she said softly, but there was a weight behind her words. My pulse quickened—I knew she wasn't talking about the food. "It's better to stick to what we always like."
I caught the faintest gleam in her eyes as she watched me, and for a moment, all I could feel was the warmth of her hand near mine and the fluttering in my chest, making it impossible to focus on anything else but her.