Page 69 of Contracted to the Bikers

I step through the heavy glass doors of the County Courthouse, my heels clicking sharply against the marble floor, the sound echoing up into the high ceilings. The building is all harsh light and authority, tall columns, flags standing rigid in the corners, people moving with purpose or trying to look like they have it.

My palms are dry, which surprises me. I expected them to be sweating. I thought my body would betray the tightly coiled, nervous energy that hums through me, but it’s hidden under my practiced air of control.

I adjust the lapel of my blazer, smoothing it down and grounding myself in the familiarity of the fabric, its structure. It’s my armor, it always has been.

“You good?”

I glance to my left at David Thompson, one of the junior attorneys assisting on the case. He’s younger than me by a few years, sharp but still a little too eager, his tie slightly crooked like he’s been tugging at it too much.

“I’m good,” I say with a brisk nod. I am, mostly.

“I’ve reviewed the opening again,” he says quickly. “Everything’s tight.”

“I know.”

He nods slowly, but he still looks nervous.

That makes me smile faintly. I remember what it felt like on my first big case, the nerves mixed with adrenaline, the tendency to second-guess and wonder ‘what if I missed something?’

“Relax,” I tell David. “We’ve got this.” There’s no uncertainty in my voice. I built this case piece by piece, thread by thread, until there was nowhere left for it to unravel.

Still, Briggs didn’t hire amateurs. Across the lobby, I catch sight of his legal team, all men. They’re wearing sharp suits and sharper expressions, the kind of men who bill more in an hour than most people make in a month. At the center of them stands Victor Hale, a name that carries weight in every courtroom. He’s good. Very good. Which means today won’t be easy.

“Five minutes,” David says, checking his watch.

I nod. “Bathroom,” I murmur, already turning.

David doesn’t question it, he’s too absorbed in the contents of his briefcase.

The restroom is cool and quiet. The sounds of the hubbub outside are distant and distorted. The harsh fluorescent lights hum overhead, reflecting too brightly off the mirrors and pale tile walls.

I grip the edge of the sink, staring at my reflection.

You’ve done this before. You know how to do this. You’re ready.

I inhale slowly—a pre-trial ritual. A wave of nausea rolls through me so violently that it steals the breath from my lungs, hitting me suddenly and unexpectedly.

“Oh—” I barely make it to the stall, the door crashing as I hurl myself into the nearest one.

The world tilts, my stomach lurching as I drop to my knees, one hand braced against the cool tile, the other gripping the edge of the toilet as everything comes up, quick and brutal, leaving my throat burning, eyes watering. I stay there for a second after, breathing hard, waiting for the room to stop spinning.

“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath.

Nerves. It has to be nerves. It’s been a long time since I’ve stood in a courtroom like this. After the last time, everything that followed the Escar trial, it’s no wonder I feel nervous. Of course, my body is reacting.

When I’m certain that the sickness has passed, I push myself up slowly, standing on shaking legs. I move back to the sink, rinsing my mouth, splashing cold water across my face. The chill bites into my skin, grounding me, dragging me back into focus. I straighten, fixing my hair, smoothing my jacket again, rebuilding the armor piece by piece. I spritz some perfume and pop some gum, chewing for a moment until the fuzz is removed from my teeth, then wrap it in tissue and throw it in the bin.

“You’re fine,” I tell my reflection. “You’ve got this.” Then I turn and head back out.

The courtroom is already filling when I step inside. Rows of wooden benches, polished and worn, the faint creak of movement as people shift and settle. The air is heavier here, thick with anticipation, tension curling just beneath the surface like a live wire.

At the front, behind the defense table, stands Harlan Briggs. Smiling. A sharp, smug smile. He wears the expression of a man confident that he’ll get away with it. He still thinks he’s going to walk out of this untouched.

His lawyers surround him, murmuring quietly in his ear. Briggs’s smirk falls, he paints a new expression on, transforming into the wrongly accused, law-abiding citizen who can’t quite believe he’s here.

My confidence wavers. Just for a second. A flicker. A crack.

But then I look up, and I see them, my men, my rocks, Rook, Boone, and Cruz, they’re all here, sitting in the gallery, taking up more space than anyone else in the room without even trying. Even in their smart suits, they stand out. That dangerous yet enticing aura they have attracts more than a few glances, some appreciative, some not so much.