Still don’t know what’s wrong w this

Also many thoughts but like sinestros blush being purple bcs of red skin + blue blood

Something something moustache moves along w ears something smth (you will ignore that I wrote moustache wrong)

The courtroom buzzed with tension. Cameras weren’t allowed, but everyone knew this trial would make tomorrow’s headlines. Your client sat behind you — an international arms broker flagged by Interpol — calm, cuffed, his expression unreadable. The prosecution had painted him as a global menace. You painted him as a businessman caught in political crossfire. Truth didn’t matter here. Strategy did.

You rose, straightening your jacket, and stepped toward the bench.

“Your Honor,” your voice carried through the chamber, smooth and even. “The prosecution wants intent where there is none. The documents they’ve presented show contracts, not crimes. Transactions, not terrorism. They’ve built outrage, not evidence.”

The prosecutor stood, snapping, “She is twisting the record!”

You didn’t look at him. “I’m clarifying it,” you replied calmly. “Justice requires proof, not panic.”

A pause. The air seemed to thin. Then the judge spoke, tone heavy but final.

“Given the lack of sufficient evidence to establish intent beyond a reasonable doubt, this court hereby sentences the defendant to four years’ confinement.”

Gasps filled the courtroom. The prosecution froze. Journalists scribbled like mad. Your client leaned back slowly, a grin threatening to break his composure. Four years instead of seventy — that was a miracle only Grayson & Holt could deliver.

He stood as the bailiffs approached, hands cuffed but shoulders relaxed. When he turned toward you, there was a glint of amusement in his eyes.

“Good job,” he said, voice low, extending his cuffed hands as far as the chains would allow.

You shook them firmly. “Do yourself a favor,” you said under your breath. “Don’t cause trouble while you’re inside.”

He chuckled, the sound low and sharp. “Inside,” he repeated, as if tasting the word. “Yeah, right.”

You didn’t need to ask what he meant. Everyone in the courtroom knew where he was headed — a “special facility” reserved for high-profile offenders. Private suites. Gourmet meals. A tennis court. It was called prison, but it felt more like a five-star retreat with locked doors.

The guards led him away. The cameras outside would be waiting, the headlines already half-written.

You gathered your files, eyes forward, expression composed. Another win for Grayson & Holt — another devil walking free.

The hallway outside the courtroom was colder, quieter. Reporters waited at the end of the corridor, their voices echoing faintly, but for a moment you were alone — until a familiar voice cut through the hum.

“Good job, Miss Lawyer.”

You stopped. A chill crawled up your spine. You knew that voice.

Turning slowly, you saw him leaning against the wall, arms crossed, a faint smirk on his lips — Lloyd Hansen.

His black suit was sharp enough to cut glass, his brown hair slicked back with casual arrogance. He looked every inch the predator he was — handsome, composed, and completely out of place in a courthouse filled with rules.

He pushed off the wall and walked toward you, clapping once, slow and deliberate. “Another successful case.”

“Thank you, Lloyd,” you said, steadying your voice. “It’s also because of your help.”

That smirk of his deepened. Of course it did.

Lloyd Hansen wasn’t just anyone. He was a client — used to be your client. Until you defended him two years ago in a classified case that could’ve buried both of you. Since then, he’d turned into something else entirely — an ally, a supplier, and the quiet hand behind several of your firm’s biggest wins.

His company, Hansen Security, was officially a “private protection firm.” Unofficially, it specialized in making problems vanish. Judges who got too curious. Witnesses who wouldn’t stay silent. Evidence that slipped through cracks that weren’t supposed to exist.

He called it efficiency. You called it disturbing.

You’d told him once to tone it down. He’d laughed, that wicked, amused laugh of his.

'Not your style, huh? But for you, Miss Lawyer, I’ll behave.'

He even winked. Like murder was a joke.

Now he stood close enough for you to smell his cologne — sharp, clean, expensive.

“But it’s too bad,” he said lightly. “Your client didn’t walk free. Old man Holt won’t like that.”

You exhaled, gathering your composure. “There were two hundred victims. It’s a miracle he didn’t get a death sentence.”

“Right,” Lloyd said, eyes glinting. “And it’s because of my assistant too. You’re welcome, by the way.”

You sighed, opened your phone, and pulled up your crypto wallet. The app confirmed your last transaction. “I’ve transferred the payment,” you said. “Ten million in Bitcoin — sent to your usual address.”

His smile sharpened. “Always a pleasure doing business with you.”

He tilted his head toward the exit. “Let me drive you back to the office.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I insist.” His tone left no room for argument. “Besides…” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I’m invited.”

You frowned. “Invited? Someone wants to meet you?”

He raised a brow, that teasing glint never leaving his face. “You didn’t know?”

*****

The Grayson & Holt International Law Building gleamed like power incarnate. Glass façade, steel lines, marble that looked expensive enough to make judges flinch. It was the kind of place where truth came to die in tailored suits.

You pushed through the revolving doors, exhaustion still clinging to you from the courthouse. You expected silence, the usual post-trial calm. Instead, sound exploded—music, laughter, champagne corks popping.

The lobby was full. Partners, associates, secretaries, even the interns. Waiters carried trays of hors d’oeuvres—lobster bites, shrimp wrapped in bacon, little gold-flecked desserts. A live jazz band played near the firm’s insignia wall.

What the fuck is this?

You stood still, trying to process the scene. Everyone was smiling, celebrating. A banner stretched above the central staircase. You couldn’t read it yet, but you knew it wasn’t for you.

You’d just won the most brutal international criminal defense case of the year. Three months of hell. You should’ve been the reason for the champagne. But no one even looked at you.

Then his voice came from behind you. Low, smooth, amused.

“Didn’t get the invitation?”

You turned. Lloyd Hansen was already walking past you, the bastard smirking like he owned the place. His hand brushed yours—deliberate, taunting—and then he was swallowed by the crowd. People greeted him immediately. Laughs. Claps on the back. Someone even handed him a drink like he belonged here more than you did.

Of course he’d steal the room. He always did. He didn’t even work here, and still they circled him like moths to a fire.

Your jaw clenched. You adjusted your blazer, forcing the tremor out of your hands. You just won a fucking case that saved the firm’s biggest client from a death sentence—and yet Lloyd Hansen got the applause.

“Y/N!”

You turned sharply. Katarina stood a few steps away, one hand holding a glass of champagne, the other skewering a shrimp with a toothpick. Her lipstick was perfect, her smile too tight.

“You’re back! How’d the case go?”

“I won.” Your voice was flat, controlled.

“Like always,” she said with that scoffing little laugh that pretended to be a compliment but wasn’t. The jealousy in her tone was like perfume—cheap and obvious.

Your gaze swept the room again. “What the fuck is happening here?”

Her brows lifted. “You didn’t know?”

“I’ve spent three months in court,” you said, each word edged. “So no, I didn’t exactly have time to read every internal memo.”

Katarina tilted her head, the sympathy in her expression as fake as the diamonds in her ears. “It’s Holt’s son. James. He just got appointed as the new partner.”

For a moment, you couldn’t breathe. “What?”

“James Holt,” she repeated, half-whispering like it was gossip, half-smirking because she already knew what it meant to you. “They just announced it. Grayson made the statement ten minutes ago.”

Your pulse hammered in your ears. You stared past her to the stage area where a crowd surrounded James fucking Holt—shaking his hand, congratulating him like he’d just rewritten constitutional law instead of leeching off his father’s name.

Grayson had promised you. Three months ago. He said once you closed the case, he’d make it official. Partner. The first woman in a decade to earn it by merit, not bloodline.

Instead, they handed it to the sponge cake in a suit who couldn’t argue his way out of a parking ticket.

You forced yourself to keep your face straight, shoulders square. But your nails were digging crescents into your palm. Every instinct screamed to shout, to throw the glass nearest to you at the marble floor.

Instead, you swallowed it. You always did.

And somewhere across the lobby, Lloyd Hansen was watching you. Smiling. Like he’d been waiting to see you break.

He was exactly what you expected: tailored suit cut like his father’s ego, a face that had never seen a deadline he couldn’t ignore, the polished entitlement of every rich kid whose last struggle was choosing which charity to fund. James Holt smiled like someone handing out applause.

“You got four years? Too bad,” he said, that slow, mocking tilt to his voice. He leaned in, as if proximity might teach you humility.

“Four years in custody at a private facility,” you replied, teeth tight. “Five-star treatment, private suites, better food than most of the city—he sleeps, he eats, and the rest of the world keeps spinning. That’s a win.”

James nodded, pleased with the exchange like he’d passed some invisible exam. “My father will be proud. We’re lucky to have someone like you at the firm.” He said it with the sweetness of someone delivering charity.

You scoffed. The sound was sharp enough to cut through the cluster of laughter between him and the partners. He took the cue, preening, and drifted back into the crowd where hands found his shoulder and cameras flashed small, hungry lights.

You watched him go like you’d watched a fly crawl across a wound. Fury bubbled under your ribs, hot and steady.

You turned and walked to the elevator without looking back. Your feet were too loud for the lobby; everyone’s smiles felt like knives. By the time you crossed the polished hallway to your office, your jaw was raw from clenching.

Your assistant hovered at the threshold, eyes wide, lips pressed together like she was measuring every word. She’d seen you at your worst in long depositions and late-night briefings — her caution told you she could sense you were close to a line.

“Do you—” she started, then stopped, the question evaporating.

You didn’t answer. You closed the door, latched it, and the click sounded enormous. You dropped your bag by the desk and let it slam. The sound made the hanging files tremble.

“Argh!” The scream ripped out of you, more animal than human. You grabbed the edge of the desk and shoved until your hands ached, as if the wood could bear the weight of the thing inside your chest.

Your breathing came out in hard, jagged pulls. You pressed your palms to your temples until tiny stars bloomed behind your eyes. Anger tasted metallic. It felt like theft—the firm had stolen what you earned and then smeared a ribbon across it for someone else.

This isn’t fair. It’s not right.

You imagined the building burning: glass shattering, gold lettering raining down, every smiling face turned to ash. The thought didn’t calm you. It made your fingers go numb with the possibility.

You let out a long, shuddering breath and forced your shoulders down. You were a lawyer. You knew how to mask a body, how to rearrange facts until they bled a different color. For now, you’d hold it together, like always. But the holding felt different—heavier, like coals pressed under your sternum.

From beneath the desk came the small sound of your assistant’s retreating footsteps. The door clicked softly closed again.

You sat. You replayed Grayson’s promise in your head, the contract you’d been bargaining with for months. You’d won the case. You’d saved the client. You’d expected the rest to follow.

Instead, nepotism walked onstage and swallowed the ovation.

You let the anger sit with you, warm and patient. It was a thing you could use.

The door burst open, slamming against the wall. You didn’t even look up. “Who dares?”

Then you saw him.

Lloyd leaned against the doorframe like he owned the building. No knock, no courtesy, just that lazy grin that said he knew he could get away with anything.

“You seem tense,” he said. “What happened, sweetheart? Someone steal your spotlight?”

You straightened, eyes narrow. “Leave me alone, Lloyd.”

He stepped inside, ignoring the warning in your tone. “Just kill him.”

The words hit like a punch. You froze, eyes widening. It wasn’t a metaphor, not from him. He meant it. He always did.

“No. No, no, no,” you said, shaking your head. “Yes, I’m angry, but not to that extent.”

He smirked, voice dropping into something low and infuriatingly calm. “Ahh… even now, Miss Lawyer still clings to her precious morals.”

“Not everyone solves problems with a bullet.” Your voice was sharp, but it trembled slightly.

Lloyd took another step forward, slow, deliberate. The air between you tightened. He was too close — close enough that you could smell the faint scent of whiskey and cedar clinging to his suit, close enough to feel his gaze slide over your face like a touch.

“You know,” he murmured, “I’ve always known you’d crash eventually.”

You hated how steady his voice was. How certain. How his eyes lingered on your mouth when you inhaled too sharply. You hated that he looked like he understood you better than anyone in this goddamn building.

Your throat went dry. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He tilted his head, the faintest curve on his lips. “That one day, you’ll stop pretending. And I can’t wait to see it happen.”

You forced yourself to breathe, to not give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “Right now, please leave.”

He shrugged, casual as ever, and turned toward the door. His hand was already on the knob when he said it — that final push.

“If you ever need a hand hiding the body…”

“Lloyd.”

“You have my number.” He winked, then closed the door behind him.

You stood frozen, the room still humming with his presence, the faint echo of his cologne taunting your sanity. Your pulse wouldn’t slow down, and you hated that. You hated that his voice was still in your head.

You exhaled hard, the sound tearing out of you like something you’d been holding for too long. Why would he even offer you that? You didn’t need it. You weren’t that kind of person. You wouldn’t kill James… right? You were a lawyer. You defended people; you didn’t destroy them.

You should have asked yourself that question a million times.

Because one week later, Lloyd stood in your doorway, eyes dark, voice low and deliberate as he said, “I know your bloody secrets, Miss Lawyer.”

And in that moment, your heart almost stopped.

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