He looked up. Just once.

April was there—composed, unreadable. He caught her eye for half a second, then dropped his gaze back to the page, pretending to make a note. The corner of his mouth twitched before he could stop it. He flipped through the documents, slower than necessary, careful not to look again. But when her chair shifted and a soft rustle of fabric followed, he couldn’t help it—his head turned, just slightly, before he forced it back forward. His pen tapped once against the desk.

Then again. He exhaled, low and controlled, and waited for the session to begin, every nerve alive with the memory of the night before.

Married women didn’t represent a limit for Angelo Santino. In truth, that was never something that concerned him—vows, rings, whispered promises made in the dark. They were all illusions to him, fragile things that people clung to out of duty rather than desire. Desire. That was real. It was the way they lingered too long in his presence, the way their breath hitched when his fingers brushed against theirs, the way they hesitated just enough to let him know they were already thinking about it. About him. Angelo never had to chase. He never had to ask. They always came to him. There was a certain thrill in it—the game, the unspoken rules, the delicious knowledge that they knew what they were doing was wrong but still couldn’t stop themselves. He wasn’t the one who made them stray; he was simply the excuse they had been waiting for. And he never apologized for it, because at the end of the day, when they slipped back into their cold beds beside husbands who didn’t know how to touch them, they weren’t thinking about their vows. They were thinking about him.

He had set his sights on a woman: Abigail. A stunning redhead whom Angelo had longed to fuck ever since he was introduced to her by her husband, Richard. Of course, to Angelo, Richard wasn’t worthy of a woman like her—not when he knew the man was nothing but a fool. They had planned a dinner together as business partners to discuss matters as usual. But for Angelo, the meeting was nothing more than a façade—an elaborate excuse wrapped in pleasantries and expensive wine. His true intentions lay elsewhere. The setting was carefully chosen, the kind that encouraged hushed conversations and lingering glances over candlelight. Angelo played his role with ease, the effortless charm in his words laced with something more deliberate. His focus, despite the business talk filling the space, remained unwavering.

Josie stepped off the small stage. She was about to go on, and the usual nerves were rolling throughout her stomach. She walked to the bar, smiling softly "Can I have a glass of water, just to keep the mouth working." She said softly, chuckling a little.

It wasn't the first time she had played here, and honestly, it was probably one of her favourite places to play.

Howard was always quite easy to talk to, and he really gave her a shot when she asked if she could play some nights at the bar.

"Theres quite a crowd tonight." She breathed. "Makes me a little nervous."

💋 —— "Faye," she corrected, straight off. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips, shoulders rising in a shrug. "It's well after hours, no need for the formalities. And honestly? Ms. Brookes outside of work makes me feel old as fuck, so," she let out a soft chuckle. "Please, call me Faye, until office hours, of course." Pushing herself off her seat, she walked over to her wet bar, grabbing two glasses. "And good for you. Whisky good for you? I got the good stuff, uncle of mine..." she paused, opening the bottle before pouring. "Owns a bar back home. Sends me a bottle of his finest. Honestly the best."

"Thanks again for helping with dinner," he said, his voice a touch rougher than intended to shake himself.

"Should I open another bottle?" he asked, an offering for a moment to relax together, and he popped the cork, making a loud noise. "Bloody hell! Thank god your mother takes those pills. She's dead asleep by now. I'd guess," he chuckled, looking over at her.

"Don't tell her I'm encouraging you to drink. She thinks I might be a bad influence on you."

He wiped a stray drop of water from his jaw, finished tying his tie in one swift motion, and leaned closer to the mirror, his eyes sharp and sure. There was no hesitation tonight—no second-guessing. This wasn’t a first date; it was a long-awaited collision. He grabbed his phone, typed back without pausing, Relax. You’ll know it’s worth the wait, and slip it into his pocket as he reaches for his jacket. One last glance in the mirror confirmed it.

Henrik looked ready, the kind of ready that promised trouble. He grinned, locked the door behind him, and stepped into the night.

She met his steady, sharp look—the same one she always wore when they sparred in court—and Oscar felt that familiar electric tension ripple between them. He took a slow sip of his drink, feeling the warmth spread, matching the quiet heat building under his skin. “Most days, court feels like routine—arguments, objections, the usual dance. But with you, it’s different. You make it complicated, in a way I can’t ignore.” His voice softened, almost careful. “That friction between us… I’m curious if you’d be open to addressing it somewhere other than the courtroom.”