The courthouse hall smelled like paper and old coffee and the sleep of men who think rules will save them. We met there at nine: Dad in a suit that made him look younger than he felt, Dominic in rolled sleeves with the bruise under his jaw still purple, Tyler with an anxious smirk that didn’t reach his eyes, and me with my hands shoved deep in my coat pockets because the world felt too loud.
Julian Rowan was already there, late and immaculate, his hand resting on Orla’s wrist the way a man who buys things keeps hold of receipts. He brought with him a small battalion of lawyers and a contract printed on too-white paper that promised tidy ends.
Orla walked to the middle of the room and stood tall, shockingly vulnerable for someone who’d become a public weapon. When Julian’s attorney opened
