Miracle in the wrong places

Joachim's pov.

The phone call ended, and I sat in silence for a moment, letting Delilah’s words settle in my gut.

“Do you know any other lawyer who could handle my case better? ” she had asked so politely it nearly sounded like a warning.

I rubbed my temples, pushing down the frustration. The last thing I needed right now was to feel second-rate. I was supposed to be the best at what I did.

My track record has made me a name in the legal world. But after the new judge, Maxwell Lark, took over for the former one, things changed.

I’d become the lawyer who couldn't file a case, no matter how hard I tried. Always second, never first.

And Delilah — she was starting to notice. She was looking at other attorneys now. And that hurt more than I wanted to admit.

Frankly speaking, the question had pierced my heart like an arrow.

And why wouldn’t she doubt me? Recently, I've come second in every major case. It wasn’t just the press that had it out for me, Maxwell Lark, too, just because of a ruined relationship. He'd seen me as a playboy, and it seemed like he had sworn on his grandparents' grave that I would never win a case.

I drained the rest of the red liquid in the glass and poured a fresh one and stared at the blank screen in front of me. Another failed case. Another chance at redemption slipping through my fingers.

I had done everything right, fought tooth and nail and yet — second again. That look Lark had given me as the verdict came in was etched in my memory.

I wasn’t just losing cases. I was losing myself.

The headlines didn’t help.

>Joachim Knight Comes Second Again.<

That was one.

Another said,

> Lawyer Accused of Being A Playboy Rather Than Professional.<

As if the universe itself sought to pour salt on the wound, an alert chimed on my secure monitor. A new post from the cursed gossip blog that had become my obsession. The headline was irrelevant, but the photograph... it was a profound violation.

It was me.

From last night. A shot of me stepping out of my Maybach in the supposedly secure private entrance of my own residence. The angle was perfect, capturing the grim set of my jaw under the dim light of the entryway. They had been there. At my home. Waiting in the shadows.

In the corner of the image was the ghost's signature: 'The Woodsman.'

I pinched the bridge of my nose. I had to do something about this playboy thing that was starting to make me look like a clown.

Get into a relationship and look like the perfect lawyer before everyone.

But with whom?

I went back to my previous relationships. Carmen, Maya, Carla — successful, important women. I’d been with all of them at one point. None of them had ever really been“ the one," they were there for the money.

And I realized something I had been denying for a long time. Perhaps the reason I’d never felt truly emotionally connected to any of them was because I didn't feel a thing for them. If there was love, I wouldn't have been sent to my grandmother when my parents divorced when I was just three. But that was years and years and years ago.

I hadn’t really let myself admit that part of me, the part of me that was different.

The part of me that saw nothing in love.

I’d hidden that part of me down for so long, buried it under the skin of this polished, perfect lawyer persona. But now? The weight of it pressed on me harder than ever.

I was something only tabloids talked about and that was my last relationship, which was a total failure.

The thing was, being the kind of lawyer I was in the human world was tricky. Being a vampire was the trickiest.

Being 570 years old and looking 35 was also tricky.

The need to vanish was a constant, eating me up because I knew I had stayed here for far too long.

It wasn’t just about magnets or chemistry. It was something deeper — something I couldn’t escape.

And as much as I hated to admit it, I knew I’d never truly feel complete until I met the one I'm destined to love.

But I couldn’t risk letting anyone know what I was.

People wouldn’t understand. Hell, I might even look like a clown.

And that was when it came flowing back. Yvette Moreno, yes, that was her name.

I drained the rest of the viscous, crimson liquid in the glass... Her scent had hit me like a freight train the moment she walked in. Not just her perfume, but the warm, coppery tang of the blood humming just beneath her skin. A wild, intoxicating scent.

She was trouble.

I shook my head. Not her.

And as much as I hated to admit it, I knew that after centuries of hollow connections, a part of me would always be empty until I found someone worth the immense risk of feeling something real again.

But as I stared at her picture on my screen, I couldn’t help but wonder. Was this fate knocking at my door?

Thinking about it made me feel stupid. Of all the women I had met, it had to be Yvette?

I closed my eyes, trying to shake off the feeling.

But then, my phone buzzed again. I glanced at the screen.

>Yvette Moreno in Trouble Again. Tessa Miller Sues Her for Leaking Her Photos<

I exhaled.

It wasn’t a surprise. Yvette was always in the headlines for something but then something else began to make sense in my mind. An idea and a beautiful one.

I poured the third glass and gulped down everything in the cup and a thin smile spread across my lips. I loved how the idea was taking shape in my head.

To show the world—and more importantly, Judge Maxwell Lark—that I wasn't the shallow playboy he'd judged me to be. I needed to project stability. Perhaps Yvette, with all her chaotic media attention, was the perfect counter move. A public relationship with her wouldn't just be a distraction; it would be a strategic assault on the very image Lark despised.

I almost clapped my hands in joy. This was just the perfect idea. There was nothing much to do anymore, just sit back, relax and watch how everything would fall into place.

Yvette Moreno.

I wasn't doing this because I felt happy, just because I wanted Yvette Moreno to be free, she hated me and the feeling was mutual.

I just needed to be back to being the renowned lawyer who never lost a case. And maybe, just maybe, one day, I will have to write a book about this.

I laughed at the thought.

I glanced back at my phone and hit the call button. Delilah’s name flashed on the screen. I had to put something in place.

Everything had to be perfect, so that she had to believe me and accept her, and maybe, just maybe, I had told Judge Maxwell Lark that he was picking on the wrong person.

" Ms Delilah," I said, my voice smooth and confident.

I’ve been thinking about your case. And I suppose I know how we can win this.

And as I heard her shriek at the other end of the line, I knew something was cooking.