Filed Under Love

CHAPTER 3

Zara didn’t sleep.

The “room” was a suite. The “closet” was a boutique. Dresses, blouses, trousers, all in her size, tags still on, each one costing more than her law textbooks. She chose the plainest thing: black pants, white shirt. Armor.

At 5:58 AM, she was downstairs, hair scraped back, wet shoes replaced with loafers that fit perfectly. She hated that they fit perfectly.

Adrian was already in the kitchen. No shirt. Just grey sweatpants, low on his hips, and a tattoo she couldn’t read that ran down his ribs into the waistband. He was making coffee with the focus of a man defusing a bomb.

He didn’t look up. “You’re early.”

“You said six,” Zara replied.

“I meant don’t be late. Not that you had to be early.” He poured two mugs. Pushed one toward her. “Drink. Briefing starts now.”

She took it. It was exactly how she liked it with no sugar and no milk. Her stomach did something complicated. “Did you have my coffee order investigated, too?”

“No. You muttered it in your sleep last night. The walls are thin.”

Zara nearly choked. “I did not”

“You did. You also cited Donoghue v Stevenson and told someone named Auntie Mabel to stop putting ginger in everything.” He sipped his coffee. “You’re a loud sleeper, Ms. Alim.”

Clause 12 doesn’t cover dying of embarrassment, she viciously thought.

He set a tablet on the marble island. A news article was already open. The headline made her stomach drop: WHISTLEBLOWER( A SILENT WITNESS) CLAIMS WOLFE INDUSTRIES COVERED UP TRIAL DEATHS. AUTHORITIES ARE INVESTIGATING.

"That is why you’re here.”Adrian said, voice flat.

Zara glanced through the news article,Three patients in a medical trial funded by Wolfe Industries had died eighteen months ago. The families were suing. The authorities were sniffing around for criminal negligence. The article quoted an anonymous source.“Wolfe knew. He buried it.”

“Did you?” she asked before she could stop herself. Lawyer instinct over self-preservation.

His jaw tightened. “No.”

“Then who did?”

“My brother.” The word sounded like it hurt. “Elias. He ran our biotech division. He died six months ago. Pancreatic cancer. The trial was his project. He was desperate for a cure.”

Zara set her mug down. “Desperate enough to falsify data?”

“Desperate enough to let three people stay in a trial when their vitals said they should be pulled.” Adrian’s knuckles were white around his mug. “I found out after he died. The board wants to throw his name on it, close the division, take the stock hit, and move on. I won’t allow that.

“Why not? If he’s guilty then...”

“Because he’s not here to defend himself,” Adrian snapped. Then, quieter: “And because the trial worked. The other 117 patients are in remission. My brother wasn’t a murderer. He was a man who ran out of time.”

Zara stared. This wasn’t in the job description. These weren't contracts and loopholes. This was grief. And ethics. And a no-win case that would destroy his company if it went public.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked.

“Find the lie,” he said. “In the data. In the lawsuits. In my own company. Someone is leaking to the press. Someone benefits if I go down. I need to know who before the authorities come in and take everything in this house.”

“That’s not a junior counsel job. That’s a whole legal team.”Zara blurted

“My legal team is the leak,” he said simply. “That’s why they’re all fired. That’s why you’re living here. I need someone who hasn’t had time to be here under the influence of the anonymous person yet .”

The weight of it settled on her shoulders. $150,000 wasn’t a salary. It was hazard pay.

“Okay,” she said. “Where do I start?”

“The library. All of Elias’s files are there. Nothing leaves that room. Nothing gets emailed. If you need to sleep, there’s a couch. If you need to eat, the kitchen is coded to your fingerprint as of ten minutes ago.” He slid a keycard across the island. “It opens everything except my bedroom and the west wing.”

Zara picked it up. “What’s in the west wing?”

“Things that aren’t your problem.” He was done. Conversation over. He drained his coffee and walked out, leaving her with a lawsuit, a dead man’s secrets, and a keycard that felt like a collar.

The library was three stories of glass and mahogany. No windows. Just books, servers that hummed like sleeping beasts, and a desk that had probably seen more confessions than a priest.

Zara worked sixteen hours. She ate when her hands shook. She drank coffee until her teeth hurt. She found three things:

1. Elias Wolfe had altered patient consent forms. The metadata showed changes made two weeks after he died.

2. The whistleblower(Silence Witness) was using an IP address that bounced through Wolfe Industries’ own servers. Someone internal.

3. A transfer of $2M to a Cayman account labelled “E.W. Contingency” dated three days before Elias’s death.

At midnight, she was still there, surrounded by printouts, legal pads covered in red ink, and a headache that lived behind her eyes.

The door opened.

Adrian stood there in a different t-shirt, with the same intensity. He took in the paper chaos, the empty mugs, and her.

“You were supposed to stop at eight,” he said.

I don’t work for you yet. The real contract isn’t signed.

It was emailed to you at 7:03 PM. You signed it at 7:04 PM. Check your inbox.

Zara pulled out her phone. He was right. She’d been so deep in the files she’d signed it on autopilot.

You tricked me.

“I employed you,” he corrected. He walked to the desk and picked up the page with the Cayman transfer. “What’s this?”

“Your brother’s contingency plan. Or someone using his name after he died.” She met his eyes. Someone is framing him, Adrian. Or he framed himself and didn’t finish the job.

He was quiet for a long time. Then he sat on the edge of the desk, too close. She could smell his soap. Something expensive and clean. Why do you keep calling me Adrian?

Because you’re not Mr. Wolfe, when you’re looking at me like that.

“Like what?”

Like you’re drowning, and I’m the only one who noticed.She didn’t say it. Like you need a lawyer, not an employee.

He stared at her. The air changed. Got heavier. Clause 12 was a physical thing between them: a yellow highlighter and $500K.

He reached past her for a file. His arm brushed hers. Bare skin on bare skin.

Zara didn’t move. Neither did he.

Go to bed, Zara, he said, voice rough. Not an order. A plea.

She should. She really should.

Instead, she picked up another file. I will go when I find the lie.

He didn’t argue. He just sat in the other chair, opened a laptop, and started working too.

They didn’t speak for three hours.

But neither of them was alone.

And Clause 12 had just failed its first test.