Howl for Justice

A Glimpse of Darkness Part 1

Crystal shivers on the edges of the too-long silence between us. I search Derek’s face as we eat, my eyes skipping over his proud nose and chiseled jaw, noting every flicker of emotion that might tell me why this evening feels different. He smiles, but it’s an empty gesture that doesn’t reach his eyes. I’ve won the biggest case of my career, yet each time I speak, his fingers tighten on his wine glass as if he wishes it were my neck.

"More wine?" I offer, reaching for the bottle of Bordeaux. My hand brushes the dark mahogany table, and I think of how he insisted on it—how he always insists on everything looking just so.

He nods, the motion clipped. "Of course. We should celebrate."

There’s something strained beneath his smooth voice, a subtle undertone that frays at the edges. I study him as I pour. He swirls his glass with too much force, his movements betraying a tension I pretend not to see.

I spear a bite of roasted lamb, letting the rich flavors settle on my tongue before I speak again. "I wasn’t sure I’d win until the very end. This judge—he’s not usually favorable to our type of clients."

Derek raises his eyebrows, feigning interest, but his eyes slide toward the phone resting beside his plate. "And you were brilliant, I’m sure. Now that this is behind you, will things calm down at the firm?"

I catch the hint of hope in his voice, the way it threads through his words like a poison. He’s waiting for me to falter, to fail, but I won’t give him the satisfaction. I refuse to let this unease creep in, pushing it aside like the watercress salad that goes untouched on my plate.

"Probably not," I say, keeping my tone light. "In fact, I’m thinking of expanding."

He doesn’t respond right away, and I take in the dining room around us. The crystal chandelier above gleams coldly, reflecting in the polished surface of the table. Everything feels like a stage set for a show that only I care to perform. Derek’s fingers tap against his phone, a syncopated rhythm that grates on my nerves.

I breathe in, pulling the cool air deep into my lungs, letting it steady me. My senses sharpen instinctively, and I catch the slightest shift in Derek’s scent, an acrid undercurrent beneath the smooth exterior. It stirs something primal in me, something restless and uneasy.

"I’m sure you’ll succeed," he says finally, but there’s a brittleness to the words. "You always do."

I’m about to press him, to dig deeper, when his phone vibrates loudly against the wood. He glances at it, his mask slipping for the briefest second, replaced by something raw and unguarded.

"Do you need to get that?" I ask, fighting to keep the edge from my voice.

"It can wait." But he’s already turning it over, eyes scanning the message with laser focus.

I watch the tension creep into his posture, the way his shoulders tighten and his mouth pulls into a thin line. He hesitates, then sets the phone back down with a deliberate slowness.

"You should take it," I say, softer now, trying for a note of understanding that feels false even to me.

He stands abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor, a sound that sets my teeth on edge. "Excuse me for a moment," he murmurs, already moving toward his study.

I’m left in the heavy silence, the scent of lamb and expensive leather lingering like ghosts in the air. The wolf in me paces, unsettled, but I force myself to stay seated, to hold onto this facade of normalcy even as it crumbles beneath my hands.

For a moment, I just sit there, staring at my reflection in the glass of wine. The woman who looks back at me is composed, polished, everything I’ve fought to become. I want to believe the doubts nibbling at my confidence are nothing more than paranoia, old instincts clawing at the edges of my mind.

But it’s impossible to ignore the way his voice seeps through the walls, low and urgent. I strain to listen, letting my senses expand, catching fragments like dust motes in the air.

"Not now," Derek’s voice floats back to me, thick with irritation. "She doesn’t suspect anything."

The wine is sour on my tongue, my pulse a steady drumbeat of betrayal. I should have known better. I’ve lived this life long enough to recognize the signs, the subtle cracks that splinter the surface until everything comes crashing down.

I wait for him to return, steeling myself against the storm that I know is coming. But as the minutes tick by and he stays hidden away in his study, doubt creeps in like a fog. Maybe it’s not what it seems. Maybe it’s exactly what it seems.

When he finally reappears, his expression is a careful reconstruction of calm. He pauses in the doorway, hesitating just long enough to let me know he’s weighing his options, calculating his next move with the precision of a man who never leaves anything to chance.

"Sorry about that," he says, slipping back into his chair with an ease I can’t trust. "Where were we?"

I force a smile, feeling the wolf inside me snarl in frustration. "Just talking about the future."

The look he gives me is unreadable, a polished surface that reveals nothing and reflects everything back on me. I think of his words—"She doesn’t suspect anything"—and wonder which of us is truly in control.

I reach for my wine glass, feeling the weight of the crystal and the weight of the silence between us. "Maybe we should just enjoy the moment," I suggest, though the moment is slipping through my fingers like sand.

"Absolutely," he agrees, raising his glass with a conviction I don’t believe. The sound of crystal meeting crystal rings hollow in the elegant room, echoing off the pristine walls and settling heavily in my chest.

We finish dinner in silence, each of us prisoners of our own unspoken thoughts. I catch him watching me when he thinks I’m not looking, his gaze calculating, as if he’s assessing whether I’ve caught on or if he still has time to cover his tracks.

But I’m not the naive girl he married. I know what I’ve heard, and I know that trust is a luxury I can’t afford.

By the time he stands to clear the plates, I’ve already made up my mind. I’ll confront him soon, but not yet. Not until I’m sure.

"Thanks for dinner," I say, my voice even, controlled, though I feel anything but.

He smiles, but it’s the same empty gesture as before. "Anytime."

I watch him disappear into the kitchen, my heart a drumbeat of doubt and determination. He thinks I don’t suspect anything, but he doesn’t know me nearly as well as he thinks.

And I intend to keep it that way.

The next day, I decided to work late at the office. The office is empty and echoing around me, and I savor the silence like a forbidden indulgence. My eyes skim over endless rows of case files, my mind focused and sharp, when the front door clicks open and breaks the spell. I glance up, surprised to see Derek standing there, takeout bags in hand and a calculated smile on his lips. It’s late, even for me, and his sudden appearance smells like something other than dinner.

"I brought you something," he says, a touch too casual, as if he expects me to question his presence here, in my domain.

I set the papers aside, forcing my features into a mask of pleasant surprise. "You didn’t have to do that."

"Thought you might be working late." He steps inside, his movements careful, and I catch the tang of ambition in the air, mixed with the spicy scent of our favorite Thai place.

I wave him in, watching as he arranges the food on the small conference table, spreading out cartons with a precision that’s more practiced than spontaneous. The sight of him here is unsettling, a reminder that our worlds overlap more than I sometimes like.

"It smells amazing," I say, trying for lightness. "I guess I should work late more often."

He looks up, meeting my eyes with a studied warmth. "I’d hate for you to make a habit of it."

We sit across from each other, the files around us like sentinels of my dedication. I pick up my chopsticks, poised to enjoy the meal despite the tension coiling between us.