I stayed in his office, reading cases using his iPad, drinking his overpriced coffee, and scribbling notes like a diligent student on a caffeine high. Brent was right. I needed to keep my pride. If I was going to work with Andrè, I needed to be smarter. Sharper. Colder.
"Alis na ko," I told Brent.
He just nodded, too engrossed with whatever murder case he was untangling. Typical. Criminal law king.
As soon as I stepped out, my soul left my body. Andrè was there. Just standing. Like a guilt-wrapped statue.
Kanina pa ba siya naghihintay? I wanted to ask. But I didn’t want familiarity. I wanted distance. I needed a ten-foot pole between us. Emotionally and legally.
"Atty. Santiago," he called.
That name. That dull ache. Always there. Like leftover hangover.
"Atty. Laurel told me—"
I n
