Love was Never in the Contract

Chapter Four: The Last Torres

Life has a way of taking unexpected turns.

Leah never dated Caleb—Jake Matthews remained her boyfriend throughout high school. But Caleb joined the varsity racing team as a freshman, his natural talent behind the wheel already apparent. He and Leah ran in the same popular circles, while I remained on the periphery, collecting academic awards that no one but teachers cared about.

Then, during my junior year, everything changed. Mom was diagnosed with cervical cancer, already stage four by the time they found it. The prognosis was not pretty.

School became secondary as we rearranged our lives around hospital visits and home care. Rhett, by then twenty-four and running his own garage, moved back home. Leah deferred college to help with Mom's care.

I threw myself into research, reading medical journals, calling specialists, desperate for a solution that didn't exist.

Mom died three months after diagnosis. I was sixteen. The funeral was a blur of black clothing and Filipino traditions—candles, prayers, food I couldn't taste.

Life settled into a new normal. Rhett became our legal guardian, though Leah at eighteen barely needed one. I retreated further into academics, determined to win scholarships that would ease our financial burden.

Two years later, just as I was preparing for college, lightning struck twice. Leah was diagnosed with the same cancer that took Mom. The doctors spoke of genetic predisposition, of BRCA mutations, of increased vigilance for the surviving female Torres.

This time, the battle was longer. Leah fought for three years—through my undergraduate studies at Berkeley, through my first year of law school. She had periods of remission where hope bloomed, followed by recurrences that crushed it.

I spent weekends commuting between law school and hospitals, studying in vinyl chairs while chemo dripped into my sister's veins.

When she died, I was twenty-two and halfway through law school. The funeral was smaller this time—many of Leah's friends had moved away, started careers, families. Rhett and I stood alone by her grave, the last remaining Torres family.

"It's just us now, Junie," he said, his large hand engulfing mine.

I nodded, unable to speak. Just us—and the ticking time bomb in my genes.

⸻

I threw myself into law school with renewed fervor, graduating at the top of my class. I specialized in defense, particularly cases involving wrongful accusations and miscarriages of justice. There was something deeply satisfying about fighting for people who'd been unfairly defamed, their reputations destroyed by circumstances or deliberate sabotage.

By twenty-seven, I'd made junior partner at Hartman & Wyatt, a prestigious San Francisco firm. I had my own office with a view, a wardrobe of designer suits, and a reputation for ruthless efficiency in the courtroom.

I also had a regular schedule of medical check-ups, scans, and genetic counseling appointments. The shadow of my mother's and sister's deaths hovered constantly, informing decisions both professional and personal.

Speaking of personal—that area of my life was a carefully maintained disaster.

After years of being overlooked, I'd developed a talent for attracting men who saw me as a project or a conquest. The most significant was Lucas Kane, CEO of a rival firm and eleven years my senior. Our relationship lasted two years and ended in restraining orders and therapy.

Lucas was charming, successful, and emotionally abusive. He loved the "before and after" story I represented—the ugly duckling turned successful attorney. He took credit for introducing me to the right people, for suggesting subtle improvements to my appearance, for making me "worthy" of the circles we traveled in.

It wasn't until he hacked my email, confronted a male client I'd been messaging about a case, and left threatening voicemails that I finally saw the relationship clearly. Ending it nearly cost me my career—Lucas spread rumors about ethical violations, poached clients, and once showed up in the parking garage of my building, waiting beside my car.

The experience left me wary and focused on the one area of life I could control—my appearance.

If I'm being honest, I've spent more money than I care to admit on becoming someone visible. Monthly appointments for hair extensions. Regular Botox and fillers. A personal trainer who costs more than my first apartment's rent. Clothes that signal success and competence. Makeup techniques that contour my face into something closer to Leah's effortless beauty.

Some might call it shallow but I call it armor.

⸻

As for Caleb West? He disappeared from my radar after high school. While I was burying my mother and then my sister, he was ascending to racing stardom. First regional competitions, then national, then the global stage of Formula 1.

I occasionally saw his face on billboards or magazine covers—that same lopsided smile, now worth millions in endorsements and sponsorships. I'd feel a flutter of that old crush before dismissing it as childish nostalgia.

Until three months ago, when his face was suddenly everywhere for all the wrong reasons.

The headlines were brutal: "F1 Star Caleb West Accused of Impregnating Woman, Leading to Suicide." The story was a tabloid writer's dream—a famous athlete, a vulnerable woman, a tragic ending, and a viral suicide note that painted West as a callous playboy who ignored pleas for help.

I followed the case with professional interest—it was the kind of reputation assassination I'd seen destroy careers. The court of public opinion had already convicted him, sponsors were pulling out, and his team had suspended him pending investigations.

Then came the twist—security footage from the Monaco hotel showing Caleb unconscious during the time of the alleged encounter. A nurse coming forward with testimony that she'd seen another man—later identified as fellow driver and Caleb’s best friend Damon Cole—with the woman who'd later accused Caleb.

The case against him collapsed, but the damage was done. In today's world, being legally cleared and publicly rehabilitated are two very different things.

⸻

Which brings us to six weeks ago.

I was working late, finishing a brief for a high-profile case. Our firm occupied three floors of a gleaming financial district tower, and I was headed down to the parking garage when the elevator stopped at the forty-second floor.

The doors opened, and there he was—Caleb West, older and more polished than the boy next door, but unmistakable. He'd grown into his features; what had been boyishly handsome was now chiseled and mature. He wore a tailored navy suit that screamed money, but his posture spoke of exhaustion.

He stepped in, nodded politely without really seeing me, and pressed the garage button that was already lit.

We descended in silence for several floors before curiosity got the better of me.

"Tough meeting?" I asked.

He glanced over, surprised. "That obvious?"

"You're clenching your jaw so hard I can hear your teeth grinding from here."

That earned a tired smile. "Just lawyer things. No offense if you're one."

"Senior associate at Hartman & Wyatt," I said, extending my hand. "June Torres."

He shook it, then froze, studying my face. "Torres... from Woodlands? Next door neighbors?"

The shock that he remembered nearly made me miss my reply. "The same. Though it's been a while."

"June," he repeated, as if testing the name. "Wow. You look... different."

I raised an eyebrow. "So I've been told."

"No, I mean—good different. Really good." He rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture I remembered from when he was nervous in school. "Sorry, that came out wrong."

"It's fine. Fifteen years and a good skincare routine will do that to a person."

The elevator reached the garage, doors sliding open.

"This is weird," he said, not moving. "But would you want to grab a coffee? Catch up? It's been a hell of a few months, and seeing a familiar face is actually the best thing that's happened in a while."

I hesitated, professionalism warring with that dormant teenage crush suddenly awakening. "Sure. There's a place around the corner still open."