The Legal Aid Society office in lower Manhattan was a chaotic, suffocating mess. Phones rang constantly. The smell of stale coffee and cheap printer ink hung heavy in the air.
Annette sat at her cramped desk. Her supervisor had just dropped three massive, overstuffed manila folders onto her keyboard.
"Public defense cases. I need the briefs filed by Friday," her boss barked before walking away.
Annette didn't complain. She opened the first file and stared at the blurry security footage of a juvenile robbery.
A coworker leaned over the cubicle wall and handed her a paper cup of black coffee.
"Jesus, Annie. What happened to your face?" he asked, pointing at the angry red scratch on her cheekbone.
Annette quickly pulled a strand of dark hair forward to cover the wound. "I tripped coming out of the subway. Hit the turnstile."
When the clock hit noon, the office emptied out for lunch.
Annette didn't eat. She stood up, locked her office door, and pulled down the blinds.
She got down on her knees and pulled a heavy, black briefcase from the very bottom of her filing cabinet. It had a physical combination lock.
She spun the dials. Click.
She opened the case. Inside were hundreds of documents, crime scene photos, and trial transcripts. It was the complete, unredacted file of her father's murder conviction.
She pulled out a glossy photo of Beth Vargas, the victim's wife. She pinned it to the corkboard hidden behind her office door.
She took a red marker and drew a thick, aggressive line connecting Beth's face to the name of the prosecution's star witness.
She knew they were lying. She knew Beth was sleeping with the witnesses to buy their testimony. But she needed hard, physical proof to break the perjury ring.
Suddenly, her cell phone vibrated violently against the desk.
Annette quickly flipped the corkboard around to hide the photos. She picked up the phone. It was Clara.
"Hey, the rehearsal isn't until-"
"He wants me to sign a prenup!" Clara screamed into the phone. Her voice was thick with tears and alcohol.
Annette frowned. "Clara? Where are you?"
"Fifty pages, Annette!" Clara sobbed. "His family lawyers sent it this morning. If we divorce, I get nothing. No shares in the trust. They even put a clause in about child custody. He doesn't trust me!"
Annette's lawyer instincts kicked in. "Clara, listen to me. Do not sign anything. Let me read the clauses first. Where are you right now?"
"I left. I'm at that gross dive bar we used to go to in Williamsburg. I'm drinking tequila," Clara cried.
Annette looked at the clock. It was 3:00 PM. She couldn't leave her best friend alone in a dangerous Brooklyn dive bar while she was drunk and emotional.
"Stay right there. I'm coming," Annette said.
She grabbed her trench coat and ran out of the building.
The rain had turned into a freezing, miserable drizzle. It took Annette three different subway transfers to reach the edge of Williamsburg.
She pushed open the heavy, rotting wooden door of the dive bar.
The smell of stale beer, sweat, and vomit hit her like a physical wall. Heavy metal music blasted from the blown-out speakers, vibrating the floorboards beneath her feet.
The bar was dark, lit only by flickering neon beer signs.
Annette pushed through the crowd of leather-clad bikers and drunk college students. She scanned the sticky booths.
She spotted Clara slumped over a table in the darkest corner of the bar, a shot glass in her hand.
Annette rushed over. She grabbed Clara's wrist and pried the glass from her fingers.
"Clara, get up. We are leaving right now," Annette ordered, pulling on her arm.
Clara whined and tried to pull away. "No! I'm not marrying a man who thinks I'm a gold digger!"
Before Annette could pull Clara to her feet, a massive shadow fell over the table, blocking out the red neon light.
Annette looked up.
Standing right in front of her, looking completely out of place in a bespoke, charcoal-gray Tom Ford suit, was Declan.
He looked like a god of destruction standing in a garbage dump.
He looked down at Annette, his gray eyes sweeping over her wet hair and the panicked look on her face.
The corner of his mouth curled into a cruel, razor-sharp smirk.
"What a coincidence," Declan said, his voice cutting through the heavy metal music like a knife.
