The warm buzz of the coffee lingered on Acheron's tongue as he stepped outside. The wind had picked up, threading cool fingers through his hair. The small chip sat heavy in his pocket, a weight that grounded him rather than dragged him down.
He stood by the curb for only a moment before the long, sleek silhouette of his parents' car pulled up. Matte black, tinted windows, chrome trim, elegant and clinical, like everything in their lives. The back door opened with a soft pneumatic hiss.
Acheron slid inside without a word.
Inside, the temperature was perfectly controlled. The leather seats smelled faintly of rose oil and cedar, the scent of his parents' pheromones. Lily sat with one ankle crossed over the other, her posture impeccable even as she turned to smile softly at her son.
"How was it?" she asked gently, voice smooth like practised silk. Her make-up was subtle, her blouse a pale blush tone that matched her manicured nails.
"It went well," Acheron said. "I spoke today."
Her smile widened a touch, proud but also cautious. "That's wonderful, sweetheart."
In the driver's seat, Oaklen glanced up at the rearview mirror. His eyes met Acheron's briefly. Stormy grey meeting vivid green.
"Where did you go afterwards?" Oaklen said mildly. Not meaning to judge, just concerned.
"Aviv brought me coffee."
"Aviv," Lily repeated with the gentle curiosity of a mother cataloguing new names. "Is he a friend from the meeting?"
"My new sponsor."
Oaklen gave a short nod. "That's good. It's important to be accountable."
Acheron bit back the instinct to roll his eyes. His father had said that same phrase a hundred times; accountability was Oaklen's religion.
They drove in comfortable-enough silence, the sound of low instrumental music barely audible beneath the hum of the motor. Lily reached into her bag and passed a small bottle of water back to Acheron. He accepted it with a quiet thank you.
As the car curved up toward the business district, the Sauveterre Law Firm came into view, towering with quiet authority amidst the steel and glass skyline, a monolith of prestige that seemed to draw the city's gaze. Its exterior was sleek and obsidian-dark, all polished black stone and shimmering reflective panels, catching the light in a way that made it appear almost liquid at sunrise. Unlike the cold, utilitarian silhouettes of the neighbouring buildings, Sauveterre's architecture had intent; its sharp angles and subtly curved façade gave it a modern grace that whispered wealth, not shouted it.
The moment one stepped through the gold-trimmed revolving doors, the temperature seemed to change. Cooler, calmer and saturated with the scent of clean paper, polished wood, and faint cologne. The foyer opened into a vast, soaring atrium with marble floors so smooth and pale they mirrored the chandeliers above like still water. Each slab was veined with delicate gold and silver tracings, no two alike, gleaming underfoot with quiet opulence.
Suspended from the vaulted ceiling were a series of crystal chandeliers. They were massive, intricate pieces made of cascading tiers that looked like frozen rain mid-fall. Their warm yellow light diffused through the room, softening the stark lines of the space and bathing the lobby in a golden glow that made even silence feel refined.
Rich mahogany panels ran along the walls, broken up by vertical gardens of lush greenery that climbed inside sculpted brass frames. Abstract paintings, mostly in charcoal and deep jewel tones, adorned the walls, curated pieces that whispered legacy and generational wealth. An elegant reception desk curved in front of a sculpted stone backdrop bearing the firm's name in raised, brushed-gold lettering: Sauveterre Law.
Even the air felt more expensive here; light perfume filled the air, circulating through discreet vents with a precision that spoke of money poured into comfort.
The quiet was not empty. It was purposeful. Lawyers in tailored suits crossed the floor with soft footsteps and whispered greetings, their movements brisk, efficient. Assistants in chic neutral tones offered espresso on lacquered trays to high-profile clients seated in cream leather chairs near the lounge, where a waterfall feature trickled softly behind tinted glass.
This was no ordinary firm.
This was power, wrapped in elegance.
The moment they entered the grand marble lobby of the Sauveterre Law Firm, everything seemed to shift from the quiet hum of the outside world to the poised stillness of wealth and order.
A massive reception desk stretched along one side of the room, crafted from deep walnut wood and crowned with black marble. Behind it sat a woman whose elegance seemed to blend seamlessly with the space around her. Her blouse was silk, perfectly pressed, and her dark hair swept into a chignon so tight it didn't dare misbehave. Her fingers moved rapidly over the keyboard, typing with a rhythmic grace that was almost musical in itself.
As soon as Oaklen stepped forward, she stopped mid-keystroke and offered a poised, welcoming smile.
"Meeting with Eamon Sauveterre at two o'clock," Oaklen said, his voice clipped and formal but just barely masking a layer of anxiety beneath his usual authority.
The woman didn't even check the screen. "Yes, you must be the Desrosiers. We've been expecting you."
She stood smoothly and walked around the desk, heels tapping softly against the polished floor as she gestured for them to follow. Her movements were precise, almost choreographed, as though every client deserved this curated display of hospitality.
She led them across the expansive lobby to a bank of sleek silver elevators nestled into a panelled alcove. Without hesitation, she pressed the button for the twenty-second floor and turned to face them.
"There'll be a secondary receptionist waiting for you when you arrive. They'll take you to the meeting room."
"Thank you," Lily said warmly, her tone pleasant but controlled, betraying none of the tension that had subtly crept into her husband's posture.
The elevator doors opened with a whisper. The three of them stepped inside, and the world of glass and gold closed around them. Inside, the elevator was a quiet marvel. Cream-toned panels framed with brass trim, subtle lighting that made everyone's skin glow just a little softer. A soft piano melody played through the concealed speaker system, not loud or showy, just gentle and soothing.
Acheron stared up at the floor numbers, watching them blink slowly by. He cradled the chip in his pocket, thumb rubbing absentmindedly along the edge. The chip felt heavy again, not in weight, but in its meaning.
He could sense his father stealing glances at him through the mirrored panelling. Oaklen looked like he wanted to say something. But didn't.
The elevator glided to a smooth stop.
As the doors opened, a second receptionist, this time a young Beta man in a crisply tailored vest, was already on his feet and waiting with a practised smile.
"Desrosiers family? Please, right this way."
They followed him down a muted hallway lined with abstract artwork and soft lighting. There was no bustle here, only the efficient quiet of a firm that operated at the highest level. Every detail seemed curated to intimidate or to impress. He stopped outside a closed door.
"Your meeting will be in here. Mr Sauveterre is already inside." With a polite nod, he stepped aside and opened the door for them.
The meeting room, although compact, featured a wide floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the cityscape beyond. There was no narrow panel peering into the bustling Sauveterre firm and no interruptions from the controlled chaos outside its door. Instead, the room opened outward, granting an unfiltered view of glass-clad buildings and the distant shimmer of traffic threading through the morning light. Not like the other grand boardrooms elsewhere in the firm, this one is much more intimate, tailored not just for clients but for strategy, focus, and trust.
Eamon Sauveterre sat comfortably on a deep brown leather couch that looked more like a relic of an elite gentleman's study than standard office furniture. The leather was aged to perfection, worn in soft creases where he often leaned back, sleeves rolled, mind racing. Beside him rested an empty ceramic coffee mug with faint espresso stains clinging to the rim, its placement just out of reach, suggesting it had been long forgotten in the depths of his concentration.
His open laptop sat centred on the low walnut coffee table in front of him, its screen glowing with dense documents and case files. Next to it lay several legal pads, scattered with slanted, tightly packed handwriting, some notes organised, others frenzied scribbles marked in black and red ink, underlined and circled like war plans. Highlighters and uncapped pens trailed around the pads, and tucked into the margins were dog-eared photocopies, sticky tabs, and the occasional coffee ring.
The walls were matte charcoal grey, broken only by one large corkboard pinned with notes, timelines, and a few photographs, one of which was half-covered by a printout of a court docket. A single standing lamp cast a warm amber light over the space, its dim glow contrasting with the brighter fluorescents just outside the glass panel, making this room feel almost like a different world sealed off, deliberate, and private.
Though technically a shared space, Eamon had claimed this room as an extension of his own office. His scent lingered faintly, clean, crisp cologne with a hint of pine and citrus and a folded suit jacket hung neatly over the arm of the couch. To anyone else, the room might seem cluttered or impersonal, but to Eamon, it was a nerve centre. A war room. The place where loose threads were pulled taut and tangled truths came undone.
Seeing this, Oaklen glanced subtly at his watch.
"You're on time, don't worry," Eamon said, his voice cool but not unkind. "I've had meetings in here all morning."
He stood impeccably dressed as always, his posture disciplined but far from rigid. His gaze swept over the family as they entered, lingering just a fraction longer on Acheron. There was something different about him.
The frailty Eamon had seen in their first meeting, though still there in the delicate way Acheron moved, was now wrapped in a subtle layer of resolve. It wasn't strength that shouted, but one that grew quiet and steady in the bones.
Good, Eamon thought. He'll need that.
Their eyes met. For a moment, neither looked away. It wasn't just a glance, but a silent search, the two men studying the person across from them not as strangers, but as someone whose role had already begun to matter.
Eamon's stare, usually unrelenting, softened ever so slightly before he cleared his throat and turned toward his briefcase.
"We received the DNA results this morning," he began, his tone shifting into something more formal, more clinical. "They were only able to compare it to your three friends, Mr Saxe, Mr Laingville, and Miss Bermudez, as the Blackwells have refused to allow the collection of Hadeon's DNA."
He opened a folder and began handing out the documents, one copy to each of them.
"We've already filed a motion to compel extradition and enforce DNA collection. As you know, your friends were not involved. Their DNA was not found, and there's no evidence placing them in the private room. They're cleared."
Eamon's eyes briefly met Acheron's again as he continued. "I know this doesn't come as a surprise to you, Acheron," he said, less formal now. "You've maintained their innocence from the beginning. Now we also have indisputable forensic confirmation."
He paused as Lily gently pulled the file closer, scanning it quickly. Oaklen, however, was still watching Eamon more than the paper.
"The Bermudez and Blackwell families have had close ties for years. We anticipated they might unite to suppress this case. But Tori Bermudez came forward voluntarily. She not only submitted her DNA but also gave us a full statement. That cooperation cost her their friendship."
Acheron didn't react visibly. He hadn't expected comfort in this meeting, and he wasn't searching for justice in Tori's name. Just clarity. "She was also misled," he said quietly, eyes down.
Eamon gave a short nod, accepting the sentiment without argument.
"We've now also secured surveillance footage from outside the private lounge at the club," he added. "It shows clearly that only you and Hadeon entered. No one else. That, combined with your father and brother's witness statements, gives us a strong evidentiary foundation."
He let the silence settle for a moment before shifting his body slightly, directing the full force of his attention to Acheron now.
"This will be hard, but the evidence is lining up in your favour. The goal is not just conviction, Acheron, but also closure."
His voice lowered slightly, not just in volume but in weight. No longer the attorney, just the man beneath it.
"I'll walk you through everything that's coming next. You're not going into this alone.