Objection My Lord

The whiskey burned, but not enough. Daya Hepburn stared at the glowing screen of her phone, the last message from Daniel glaring at her like a closing argument she’d already lost. 'I don’t think this is working. Sorry.' No explanation. No phone call. Just seven words that unraveled two years of her life. She slammed the phone face down on the bar. The waiter, a young man with a too-bright smile, reappeared at her side. “Another?” She didn’t bother looking at him. “Obviously.” The smile faltered. He set the glass down a little too hard and walked away without a word. Daya muttered under her breath, “Fantastic. Add pissing off the help to my list of accomplishments tonight.” A voice, rich and smooth with the kind of confidence that carried over noise, drifted from two stools away. “Do you make it a habit to verbally abuse service staff, or is tonight special?” Her head snapped toward the source. He was tall, even seated, dressed in a dark suit that looked like it had been tailored by someone with very expensive taste. Dark well trimmed afro obviously defying gravity, sharp jawline, and eyes that studied her like she was evidence in an open case. Daya bristled. “Excuse me?” “You’re excused.” He took a slow sip from his glass, unbothered. “But it’s bad form to take your heartbreak out on the innocent. Especially when they’re the ones keeping your glass full.” She laughed once — sharp, humorless. “You must be fun at parties.” “Only the ones where the liquor’s worth my time.” He slid one seat closer, and she caught the faint scent of something smoky and expensive. “So, who’s the lucky guy that sent you spiraling?” Her eyebrow arched. “And why would I tell a stranger that?” He smirked. “Because strangers don’t matter. You can tell me anything, and I’ll forget it tomorrow.” There was something infuriating about him. And intriguing. Like a puzzle with edges that cut when you tried to solve it. Against her better judgment, she told him. Not the details — just enough for him to understand that Daniel was a coward with Wi-Fi. He listened without interrupting, just the occasional tilt of his head. By the third drink, they weren’t talking about Daniel anymore. They were talking about how she’d become a lawyer, why he preferred scotch over whiskey, the moral failings of reality TV, and whether or not pineapple belonged on pizza. By the fourth, her laughter was genuine. And by the time he suggested they “continue the debate somewhere less public,” she didn’t even hesitate. She didn’t ask his name. She didn’t care. Tonight, she wanted to forget — and the way he looked at her promised she would. An hour later, they were in his hotel room, a sleek suite overlooking the city skyline. Clothes hit the floor before the door fully closed. His hands were everywhere—confident, not fumbling—and Daya let herself drown in it. No texts, no exes, just heat and skin and the thrill of being wanted. He murmured something about her being “unforgettable,” and she laughed, biting his lip to shut him up. She didn’t need promises. She needed this. When it was over, she slipped out of his bed at 3 a.m., grabbing her dress and heels without a word. Ethan stirred, mumbling something, but she was already gone, the elevator doors closing behind her. Back in her SoHo apartment, she collapsed onto her bed, still buzzing from gin and adrenaline. For the first time that night, she felt like herself again. --- The courtroom was a battlefield, and Daya Hepburn was a general. At 9:00 a.m. sharp, she stood at the plaintiff’s table in Courtroom 12B—navy suit crisp, hair pulled into a sleek bun, case files arranged like a general’s war plans. The case was high stakes: her client, a promising tech startup, versus a corporate giant accused of breaching a multi-million-dollar contract. She’d spent weeks preparing, her arguments sharpened to a lethal edge. Nothing could throw her off. “Your Honor, the plaintiff will show that the defendant’s breach of contract caused irreparable harm—” Her voice was steady. Commanding. Until her gaze slid, just briefly, toward the defense table. Her heart stuttered. It was the guy from the bar last night, except, it wasn't just her one night stand, it was Hillary Fischer, third generation lawyer and heir of the Fischer firm. Same sharp cheekbones. Same dark, unreadable eyes. Only now he sat in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, tie a deep burgundy, hands resting lightly on a stack of legal briefs as though he had all the time in the world. And that smirk—God, that smirk—was exactly the same as it had been last night. She wouldn't have guessed that she would ever have anything to do with a Fischer, talk more to having s*x with one, not after what they did to her family. her fists clenched as she felt her heart beating faster. Hillary Fischer. Lead counsel for the defense. Her one-night stand. He rose smoothly, buttoning his jacket with unhurried precision. “Your Honor,” he said, his voice carrying the same lazy confidence that had coaxed her into a hotel room just hours ago, “the defense will show that the plaintiff’s losses were the result of their own negligence, not any alleged breach.” His eyes found hers—steady, unflinching. A flicker of recognition passed between them, gone almost as quickly as it came. Daya’s mind roared. No. Absolutely not. This cannot be happening. She straightened, forcing her pulse to steady. She was Daya Hepburn. She didn’t break. Not in court. Not ever. But as she launched back into her opening statement, her words crisp and deliberate, one question refused to leave her head: How had she not known who he was? THE Hillary Fischer. And worse—why, despite everything, did her heart still race at the sight of him?