Page 8 of Dial L for Lawyer
"Georgio’s, wasn't it?" His voice is light, almost amused. "Table by the window. Eight o'clock."
"Caleb, I'm so sorry?—"
"Don’t be." He waves a hand dismissively. "When you didn't show, I just called a friend. We had an excellent meal. The osso buco was particularly good that night." He picks up a pen, twirling it between his fingers. "Their wine list is impressive. You missed out."
"Sounds like I did," I say, forcing my voice steady. Of course he had a backup plan. A man like Caleb Kingsley always has a backup plan, probably on speed dial and wearing couture. The thought is a sharp, unexpected jab. This isn't the picture of Caleb Layla and Bennett were painting last night. But then again, why would I have expected anything else?
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I force myself to switch gears. "We should probably get to why I'm here." I place my purse on the floor and pull the thick folder from my bag, setting it on the polished surface of his desk. It makes a solid, definitive thud. “That’s the evidence they have against me.”
His eyes linger on the folder, then flick back to my face, cool and professional. He pulls the folder toward him, the slide of cardboard against polished mahogany echoing in the quiet room.
“Bennett gave me the broad strokes,” he says, his voice clipped and devoid of any warmth. He opens it, his gaze immediately scanning the documents inside—the suspension letter, the printouts of the Radiance campaign, the damning email from Victoria Chase. I hold my breath.
“Intellectual property theft. This says you have five days before a formal interview.”
“Less now,” I point out, voice tight. “It’s Friday morning.”
"Time is against us then. Walk me through your side of things, Serena." He clicks his pen, as if the last five minutes—or six months—never happened.
So, I push those feelings aside too and lay out the whole ugly story. He takes notes, occasionally asking clarifying questions, treating me like any other potential client.
"The other lawyers I spoke to said I should negotiate a settlement," I finish. "Take a plea deal if they press charges and it goes to trial."
His pen stops moving. “What other lawyers?”
“I…just a few firms around the city.” My voice falters. Shit. I shouldn’t have said that.
His gaze sharpens. “So, I’m your last choice?”
“No.” The word rushes out too quickly. “Of course not. I just… I thought it might be awkward. Given our history.”
“It isn’t.” He taps his pen on the folder. "These access logs," his focus moves to the papers in front of him, "they pinpoint the breach to your terminal, but do they have location data? Was the access remote or from inside the building?"
"They don't specify," I say, forcing myself to focus on the facts instead of his hands, the way the pen rests against his knuckles. "But the timestamps match when my badge was used to enter the building after hours."
"After hours?" He makes a note. "How often do you work late?"
"Often. But I don’t come and go like this is showing, and most nights I’m home by seven."
"Can anyone verify that?"
"No. I live alone." The words hang heavy between us. "But my UberEats account will show my orders. I get a lot of takeout."
He nods, still writing. "And the emails from Victoria Chase?"
"I reported the first two to HR, like I’m required to. David—your brother—advised me to document but not engage."
"Smart. But you stopped reporting them."
"They became white noise. I'd delete them without reading." I lean forward. "Caleb, I never responded to her. Not once. You can check my sent folder, my phone, everything."
"I believe you."
The simple statement makes my throat tight. "You do?"
He sets down his pen and finally looks at me directly. "Yes. But what I believe doesn't matter. What matters is what we can prove."
"So you'll take the case?"
