SAINT'S POV
The defendant was yelling again.
"I didn't hide the money. I relocated it. She said move it, and I did."
Judge Callahan's face twitched, like someone had just farted in his chambers. The man beside me sighed. The gallery murmured. And then—
"She told you to move it into your secretary's condo, you cheating snake!"
The woman's voice, shrill and furious, tore through the courtroom like a thrown gavel.
Gasps followed. A few choked laughs. I didn't look at the drama. I watched the intern.
She was sitting two rows from the front. Red lipstick. One button too low. A look on her face that said she'd seen this all before and had probably written about it in a much sharper way.
The way she walked in.
Camila Reyes.
Sixty-three seconds late. I had counted. Her heels announced her entrance with a staccato rhythm that echoed across the marble floors, drawing curious glances. She didn't flinch. Red lipstick. Bold. It said look at me and don't you dare underestimate me, all at once. Her blouse was buttoned one too low, and her dark hair spilled over her shoulder like defiance.
She didn't belong here. Not in this brutal courtroom where reputations were shredded and rebuilt in a single sentence. But then she locked eyes with me. Unflinching. Daring. I felt it—the smallest flicker of something. Not weakness. Not admiration.
Recognition.
It passed in a breath but struck deeper than it should have.
She slid into a row near the front, her notepad already open. She moved like she had every right to be here, like she didn't see the predators lurking behind legal briefs and stainless steel watches. I leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, one brow raised.
The trial? Dull. Another corporate dispute about offshore accounts and blurred lines. The kind of case that could put a caffeinated accountant to sleep. I didn't watch the attorneys. I watched her.
Judge Callahan slammed the gavel once, then twice. "Ms. Carter, sit. This isn't daytime television." He adjusted his glasses and looked directly at me. "Mr. Camden, are you bringing in reality stars now, or just spectating today?"
I didn't blink. "Just spectating, Your Honor. Though if you're casting for season two, I'd like a shot. I clean up better than Judge Judy."
Even the bailiff cracked a grin.
Callahan rolled his eyes. "God help us all."
The courtroom calmed, but I didn't look away from her. Camila.
Her pen hovered mid-air. She wasn't writing. She was watching me. Pretending not to. But when our eyes locked, she didn't flinch. The ghost of a smirk curled her lips, like she was reading me in real time and finding me amusing.
I leaned back in my seat, elbows resting casually on the wood paneling. A silent question passed between us.
Do you know who I am?
Do you know who I am?
The courtroom may have belonged to me, but the moment belonged to her.
And that was a problem.
Not because she was a threat. Not yet. But because she didn't seem the least bit afraid of becoming one.
The rest of the hearing dragged. Corporate finance jargon. Disputes over intent, leverage, compliance. I stopped listening. I watched her instead.
She scribbled when it mattered. Laughed once, but only to herself. When the opposing counsel confused "acquisition" with "absorption," she raised a brow. I saw it all. Her tells. Her timing. Her interest. She wasn't here to learn. She was here to hunt.
And whether she realized it or not, she was already on my radar.
She was cocky.
She was good.
And she was dangerous.
My phone vibrated. I ignored it. My attention stayed fixed on the girl pretending she wasn't watching me too.
Back at the office, I closed the door to my suite and poured two fingers of bourbon. The walls hummed with the low buzz of the A/C. Papers rustled faintly from interns still working late. I dropped into my chair and tugged open the file that had been placed on my desk that morning.
Camila Reyes.
Her academic record was flawless. Ivy League. Honors. Law Review. Recommendations glowing enough to blind. But as I flipped to the last page, something tugged at the edge of my mind. A photo was clipped to the back. Younger. No red lipstick. Hair pulled into a messy ponytail.
I froze.
Arianna Hartwell.
The last time I saw that name, it was inked across case files that scorched reputations and swallowed her father whole. The Hartwell Prosecution was a black mark so deep, the press stopped calling it a trial and started calling it a funeral.
He died trying to win a case.
And Arianna was just sixteen, back in Mexico.
She is here under a fake name. Wearing confidence like armor.
And she had the nerve to stare me down in court.
She thought she could play pretend in my courtroom. She thought the name change was enough. That a little red lipstick and bravado would scare off the enemies her father accumulated.
I chuckled. Dark. Quiet. Amused in the worst way.
She thinks she's playing a game.
Poor girl.
She doesn't know who she's playing with.
I leaned back in my chair, watching the skyline blink across Midtown. Somewhere out there, she was patting herself on the back for surviving day one.
But I wasn't done.
Not by a long shot.
She had stepped back into the legal world thinking no one would recognize the shadow of the Hartwell name. But I remembered. And I didn't forget easily.
What I didn't know was why. Why come back now? Why my firm? Why use a fake name and bury herself in a pool of interns?
What was she looking for?
Revenge? For her father? Or something else entirely?
Whatever the reason, whatever the lie, I would get to it.
Because the minute she walked into that courtroom, she wasn't just a daughter to a ghost of a father.
She was a target.
Let's see how long you last, little shadow.
The lights buzzed. A copier jammed down the hall. Someone laughed too loud in the break room.
The city didn't sleep.
And neither did I.
Not when daughters of ghosts came walking into my courtroom in red lipstick and lies.