Chapter Nine

The courtroom settles quickly.

Judge Elaine Hooper is a no-nonsense woman in her late fifties who I have appeared in front of twice before. She respects preparation and punishes waste of time. I like her. I sit at the plaintiff's table with Priya beside me, documents arranged, ready.

Ethan sits at the defense table ten feet to my right.

I do not look at him.

I look at the judge, and the bench, and the clock on the wall. I look at anything that is not him. I breathe carefully and I go over my opening in my head and I remind myself of every hour I have put into this case. I am Maya Collins, attorney-at-law, and this is my courtroom.

Judge Hooper reads through a preliminary matter. She looks up.

"Plaintiff's counsel, opening statement."

I stand up.

I walk to the center of the room with my notes, though I don't need them. I look at Judge Hooper and I begin.

I speak for eleven minutes. Clean and precise and built like a structure — foundation first, then the walls, then the roof. Mercer Tech created the software. The timeline shows it. The documentation proves it. Harrington Holdings took it and dressed it up and called it their own, and today we are going to prove that with evidence that speaks for itself.

When I finish, the room is very quiet.

I sit down.

Priya writes two words on her notepad and slides it toward me.

Damn. Wow.

I almost smile.

Then Ethan stands.

I look at him for the first time since we sat down. I can't help it. He buttons his jacket as he rises, and he walks to the center of the room with a calm that looks like it was built over many years. He doesn't look at me. He looks at the judge, and he starts.

He is good. He is exactly as good as Priya's research said. He is measured and specific and his arguments unfold with the kind of precision that only comes from deep preparation. He does not raise his voice. He does not posture. He just stands there and lays out the case like it is already settled, like the answer is already obvious, like we might as well all agree right now and go home.

He speaks for thirteen minutes.

When he sits down, I stare at the table in front of me and feel something I wasn't fully prepared for.

Respect.

I respect him. The lawyer he has become. The sharpness of it. I don't want to, but I do.

Judge Hooper schedules the next hearing and thanks both parties and bangs her gavel and that is that. The morning session is over. People begin to gather papers and stand.

I take my time. I stack my documents precisely. I talk to Priya in a low voice about the schedule. I make myself unhurried.

When I finally stand and turn, I nearly walk into him.

He is closer than I expected. Just a few feet. He must have crossed the room while I was talking to Priya. He stops when I nearly bump into him, and we stand there, both still, in the clearing of the courtroom.

Goddamn it those eyes.

"You were good," he says. Quietly. Just between us.

"I know," I say.

Something flickers across his face. A memory, maybe. Of the girl I was. Of something I said once in a library corner when I was eighteen and trying very hard to seem like I didn't care.

"Can we talk?" he says. "Not now. Maybe—"

"No," I say.

He blinks.

"You're opposing counsel," I say. "And I'm going to beat you. Professionally speaking."

I pick up my bag and walk past him.

I make it all the way out of the courtroom and into the hallway before I let myself breathe.

Priya catches up to me. She says nothing. She has excellent instincts.

We walk toward the elevator in silence. When the doors close, I lean back against the wall just for one second.

In court, I told myself, I am fine. I am sharp. I am ready.

But tonight, alone in my apartment, I know the thing I have been trying not to know all day.

Seeing him today did something to me that I cannot explain and do not have time for.

And I'm going to have to walk back into that courtroom in two weeks and do it all over again.

But there's something else. Something I noticed as I was walking out the door. Something in the way he looked at me — not just familiar, not just the past — but something urgent. Like a man with something unfinished. Like a man with something to say.

And when I checked my phone in the lobby, there was a message from Patrick.

Call me immediately. Something has come up with the Mercer case. It changes everything.

I stare at the words.

Then I dial.