The file weighed five pounds, but it felt like a tombstone sitting on Lauren Hayes' lap.
The morning sun bled through the sheer curtains, spilling long, pale bars of window across the floor that looked too much like a prison cell. Lauren ignored the warmth. She couldn't feel it. She could only feel the sharp edges of the folder digging into her silk pajamas and the throbbing ache behind her eyes.
She stared at the name embossed in bold, unforgiving black ink.
The People v. Grey Knight.
She rubbed her temples. This was a mistake. A panic move. Yesterday, she had snatched this file off Petra Steele's desk like a starving dog fighting for a scrap of meat. She hadn't read the charges. She had only seen the "High Profile" stamp and the billable hours that could pull her out of the red.
Three months ago, Lauren was the golden girl. The closer. Then came the Sterling case—the dead bakery owners, the senator's drunk son, the moment her conscience bled into her cross-examination. She'd hesitated. She'd lost.
Petra, a woman composed entirely of Botox and malice, had been clear.
"You are poison, Lauren. Bring me a win that makes the partners forget you have a morality complex, or go work at the mall."
So, Lauren had taken the Knight case. She assumed it was white-collar. Embezzlement. Tax fraud. Boring. Fixable.
Not motherfucking—?! She flipped the file open.
Defendant: Grey Knight. Occupation: Venture Capitalist. Charge: First Degree Murder.
The air in the living room vanished.
"Murder?" The word tasted like ash on her tongue.
She flipped the page, her fingers trembling. Victim: Elara Vance. Found strangled in the penthouse suite of the Obsidian Hotel.
"Oh, god." Lauren let her head thud back against the sofa. "I fix contracts. I fix reputations. I don't do bodies."
The front door burst open.
Josephine breezed in, a whirlwind of blue scrubs and exhausted charisma. She tossed her keys into the bowl, the metal clatter shattering the silence.
"Coffee," Josephine announced. "I need caffeine, a vacation, and for my children to magically transport themselves to school." She paused, spotting Lauren on the couch. "Why do you look like you're attending your own funeral? I thought you landed the big fish?"
"I did," Lauren said, her voice tight. "But the fish is a shark, Jo. It's a murder case."
Josephine froze. "Excuse me?"
"Grey Knight. The venture capitalist. They think he strangled a woman in a hotel room."
"Grey Knight?" Josephine's eyes went wide. "The guy on the cover of Forbes? The one who looks like he was sculpted out of sin and old money?"
"That's him."
"And you're defending him?"
"I have to." Lauren snapped the folder shut. "If I drop this, Petra buries me. I'll be stapling papers until I die of paper cuts. My career is hanging by a thread."
Josephine leaned against the doorframe, her expression grim. "Lauren, I love a comeback story, but not if the lead character gets murdered by her client. Are you sure?"
"Everyone deserves a defense. Innocent until proven guilty."
"Whatever helps you sleep," Josephine muttered, turning toward the stairs. "Beatrice! Move your ass or you're walking!"
Heavy, sullen footsteps announced the arrival of Beatrice. Sixteen, rebellious, and wearing a scowl that could curdle milk, she stomped down with oversized headphones blasting tinny noise.
"Morning, Bea," Lauren said, forcing a smile.
Beatrice didn't look up from her phone. She grunted.
"Beatrice," Josephine snapped. "Say good morning. And pull your skirt down."
"It's fashion, Mom. You wear pajamas to work."
"Hey." Lauren's voice cut through the air—sharp, authoritative. The voice she used to silence courtrooms.
Beatrice froze.
"Don't speak to your mother like that," Lauren said, her gaze steady. "She worked a double shift for those headphones. Show respect."
The teenage defiance flickered and died. Beatrice mumbled a sorry and shuffled out the door.
"Thank you," Josephine exhaled. "She thinks you're cool because you sue people."
"I'm terrifying," Lauren said dryly, grabbing her keys. "Go. Save lives. I've got David."
"Be careful," Josephine warned, kissing Lauren's cheek. "If this Grey Knight guy acts weird—like 'human organs in jars' weird—you run. I don't care about the job."
"It's just a meeting, Jo."
Lauren watched her leave, then turned to the guest room. She took a breath, armoring herself.
"David? Let's roll."
The traffic in Belmont City was a special circle of hell.
Lauren gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white. The clock on the dashboard mocked her: 8:15 AM.
"Move!" she hissed at a red sedan. "It's green! Go!"
From the passenger seat, eight-year-old David watched her with large, silent dark eyes. He didn't speak. He just observed, his head tilted like a curious bird.
Lauren felt his gaze and forced her shoulders to drop. She turned to him, the rage replaced by a soft mask.
"Sorry, bud. Auntie Lauren is practicing her court voice."
David offered a small, shy smile. "Loud."
"Yeah. Loud."
She dropped him at school, watching until he was safely through the gates. Once he was gone, the smile fell away.
She merged back into traffic, heading away from the city center and toward the hills. Toward the Estates.
Her phone buzzed. Meeting with G. Knight - Residence.
It was irregular. Dangerous. Client meetings happened in glass-walled conference rooms with security cameras and bad coffee. But Grey Knight had been clear.
Mr. Knight is unavailable during office hours. Come to the house.
Lauren drove upward, the city skyline fading in the rearview mirror, replaced by the manicured, silent greenery of the wealthy.
"Just a house," she muttered, her stomach twisting. "Just a rich guy. You've handled worse."
She hoped she was right.