BEYOND REASONABLE DOUBT

Chapter 1

Sienna POV

Day 1: The Trial of the Century

Caffeine isn't a beverage. It's a survival strategy, and today I need every ounce of it working in my favor.

I'm about to sit through the opening day of the biggest murder trial this city has seen in a decade, shoulder to shoulder with every reporter who owns a press badge, and I refuse to be the one yawning in the back row. That's the whole reason I'm wearing my charcoal pencil dress and the boots that make me feel two inches taller and infinitely more dangerous, strolling four blocks

through a crisp October morning toward the only coffee shop I trust to get my order right.

It sits one block from the courthouse, which means it's always packed, but I've built in enough time that the wait doesn't bother me. Two hours, to be exact, before I need to claim a courtroom seat. Plenty of time to caffeinate, plant myself at my

favorite corner table, and bang out the opening lines of today's column for Justice, Served before I ever set foot near a

judge.

The line is long, maybe a dozen people deep, inching forward at the speed of a Monday morning. I pull out my phone and search the defendant's name again, hunting for anything that broke overnight after I fell asleep mid-scroll. Headline after headline repeats what I already know, until one link stops my thumb cold: a gossip blog with a headline that reads

Billionaire Bad Boy: Guilty Of Being Gorgeous.

Given that the man in question is a strikingly good-looking billionaire accused of shoving his pregnant mistress down a staircase, the headline is exactly stupid enough to earn a click.

The line shuffles forward. I shuffle with it, eyes locked on

my screen, and start reading.

They warned me not to fall for a client. Nobody warns you what happens after. I walk into the office anyway, close the door behind me, and the air changes the second his eyes find mine. Neither of us says a word. We don't need to. Somehow I end up perched on the edge of his desk, his tie already loosened, his mouth an inch from my throat, and every rule I promised myself I'd keep dissolves the moment his hand slides beneath the hem of my skirt. I grip the edge of the desk

and stop thinking entirely

"Next, please!"

I snap out of it, cheeks warm, thoroughly annoyed with myself. I got worked up over what is very obviously fan-fiction dressed up as commentary about a man on trial for killing the mother of a baby that, as it turns out, wasn't even his. He wasn't sleeping with her either, according to his own defense.

He's sitting in a courtroom today because his fingerprints

happened to be on a doorknob.

"Sienna, you're up!"

jump at the sound of my name and step forward, only to have a man In a slate-gray suit slide directly in front of me like

I'm invisible. I frown, tap his forearm, and say, "Excuse me."

Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment, though there's no way he didn't feel that.

"Excuse me," I repeat, sharper this time.

Still nothing, and now I'm irritated enough to reach out and give the sleeve of what is unmistakably an obscenely

expensive suit jacket a firm tug. That gets his attention. He turns, and I'm hit with a face that has no business being that composed while looking annoyed strong jaw, dark hair that looks freshly rumpled on purpose, and a pair of eyes so blue

they look photoshopped.

"I was ahead of you," I say, before he can open his mouth. "Some of us don't have time to stand here scrolling."

"Scrolling." He says the word like it personally offends him. "Is that what you think I was doing?"

I open my mouth, reconsider, and settle for holding up a hand instead, because the last thing I need today of all days is to

end up detained for decking a stranger in a coffee shop. "Wait your turn like a decent human being."

Something shifts behind those absurd blue eyes amusement, maybe, or the promise of a fight he's decided not to have before he turns back to the counter. "One black coffee, large, and whatever she's having." He glances at me. "Consider it

a peace offering."

“That's not an apology.”

"No," he agrees easily. "It's a business decision. Faster than arguing, and I have somewhere to be."

“So do I, which is why I don't need you buying my coffee.” I step past him and address the barista directly. "My usual,

please.”

"Already on it," she calls back, and I thank her before I can stop myself from turning to face him one more time, because apparently self-control has left the building. "Free tip, since you seem to need one," I say. "Please’ and ‘thank you’ aren't

optional. Men who skip them tend to end up single. Or stay that way."

His mouth curves at one corner, which is objectively unfair given the rest of his face. He doesn't respond. He just watches me walk away, and I feel it the entire distance to the corner table I've claimed as mine for the better part of a year. I settle

in, pull my bag onto the seat beside me, and try very hard not to look back toward the register.

1 fail obviously

He's still there, phone pressed to his ear now, radiating the kind of unbothered, expensive confidence that makes every woman within twenty feet glance twice. Myself included, which irritates me more than the line-cutting did. Men like that are a Siennaegory I've already sworn off fine for one spectacular, forgettable night, and nothing more. I learned that lesson

exactly once, and once was plenty.

Naturally, it's the moment I decide this that he turns and finds me staring. Busted. I drop my gaze to my laptop and open a

blank document like it's the most fascinating thing in the room.

"Order for Sienna!"

I glance up, and instead of standing, I spot a regular a few tables over thirtysomething, recently unemployed, currently “consulting,” according to the last three conversations we've had against my will. "Marcus," I call. Nothing. "Marcus!"