Chapter 4

Lennon didn’t flinch when her voice rose.

He didn’t look around to see who was staring, didn’t raise his hands in defense, didn’t tell her to calm down. He just sat there—jaw tight, eyes steady behind his glasses—as if he’d been waiting twelve years for this moment.

“Leilani,” he said, low, firm, not unkind. But she was already somewhere else, somewhere twelve years away.

“You don’t get to say my name,” she hissed.

The tablecloth trembled beneath her palms. The white plastic bag rustled against her hip, pointe shoes digging into her side like teeth.

“I…” Her breath snagged, anger snagging with it. “I carried that baby for nine months. I begged him—your father—to help me. I told him I didn’t push her. I didn’t—she slipped. She hit her head. They knew she hit her head on the damn dresser. But he said accidental death wasn’t sympathetic enough for the jury.”

Her voice cracked.

“And you want me to believe you’re different?”

Lennon inhaled sharply, the kind of breath someone takes to swallow pain. “I am different.”

She laughed, a short, broken thing. “You have his name.”

“I’m not him.”

“You have his job.”

“I didn’t choose his way of practicing.”

“You’re sitting across from the woman he destroyed—”

“He destroyed both of us!” Lennon suddenly snapped, a sharp edge slicing through the whispery restaurant air before he choked himself quiet again.

Leilani’s eyes widened not out of fear.

Out of recognition.

He lost his composure.

He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly, grounding himself. “I’m sorry. You didn’t… You didn’t deserve any of that. But I need you to understand something.”

He raised his gaze back to hers.

“Your release is tied to me. Yes. But that means your future is tied to someone who actually gives a damn if you make it.”

Her nostrils flared. “I don’t need your pity.”

“This isn’t pity,” Lennon said. “It’s a responsibility.”

“Responsibility you chose?”

“Yes. Willingly.”

Her hands trembled against the table. Fury, grief, humiliation, confusion—they all fought for room beneath her skin.

Then, quietly, “And what do you get out of it?”

His throat bobbed. He could feel Declan’s stare burning a hole between his shoulder blades, but Leilani didn’t know it, and it was better if she didn't know it all.

At least for the moment.

“I get the chance,” he said softly, “to undo what my father did. Even if it’s only a fraction.”

She froze. Completely. No breath. No blink.

And then—slowly—her gaze slipped over his shoulder, to the faces looking at her with discernible curiosity and judgment on their faces, she sat down instantly, glance automatically falling to the water glass.

Lennon’s voice dropped to almost nothing.

“Look at me.”

Her attention snapped back to Lennon instantly, muscles stiffening like a reprimanded soldier.

“Let's talk about the conditions of your release,” He tried to smile at her reassuringly but thought better of it and didn't.

He looked at the heirloom watch on his wrist, his lawyer facade slipping on with practiced ease, as if the last few seconds had never happened.

Leather briefcase on the table, it snapped open shuffling inside till he retrieved a folder with her name typed across it. Her heart dropped to her soles.

“Here are the conditions to be met for you not to violate your parole.”

“It’s mandatory. A condition of parole. You have to remain employed, full-time, for the duration of your supervision term.”

This was what she feared most. It was already manifesting. "I'm guessing the job has to be one where you can monitor me closely, isn't it?”

He hesitated and she almost laughed. Almost.

The hesitation scared her more than anything he’d said so far—he saw it in the way her back straightened.

A beat passed.

“Doing what exactly, Mr Patterson?”

“It’s a live-in position,” he said finally. “Private residence. Domestic work.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Housekeeping?”

“No,” he said. “Not exactly.”

“Then what?”

Lennon exhaled slowly and said the words he knew would reshape her world again another blow after the illusion of freedom.

“You’re going to be working for a family, helping care for a child.”

Her breath caught.

A ballerina. A felon. A girl who’d had her baby dragged away from her, never to be seen or spoken about again, is now being told her survival depended on living in someone else’s home, raising someone else’s kid.

Her voice, when it came, was barely audible.

“And if I refuse?”

He met her stare dead-on.

“Then, Leilani… you’ll be taken back into custody before nightfall.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe.

And for the first time since leaving prison, he saw it—fear.

Raw. Silent. Shattering.