BEYOND REASONABLE DOUBT

chapter 5

Sienna POV

1 get to the courthouse a full hour early, which turns out to be exactly enough time to fight through a wall of picketers and satellite trucks before I even reach the doors.

Someone's holding a sign with Nelson Ashcroft's face crossed out in red marker, and a woman beside them is shouting something about justice for Jennifer that gets swallowed by the crowd noise before I catch the whole sentence.

By the time I claim a seat, I've landed right back in yesterday's spot, back row, aisle side, which might actually work in my favor. Low profile feels like a smart play until I figure out what to do about the

Declan Cross situation.

Situation.

That's a generous word for whatever this is.

I pull my journal out and flip to yesterday's notes, wincing at a half-formed idea scrawled in the margin about women who fall for men accused of murder. Not exactly Declan's category, technically, but the concept still has legs, so I leave it and start a fresh page focused on Nina's tip instead who else might have wanted Jennifer Wright gone, if not the man sitting at

the defense table.

I'm three pages deep when the room stirs to life around me, and Declan takes his seat up front. My brain, unhelpfully, replays his voice from this morning. Come find me again. Come for me. There was a look in his eyes when he said it, deliberate and entirely too pleased with himself, like he knew precisely what kind of image that phrasing would plant in my head. Cocky doesn't begin to cover it. And infuriatingly, when he crosses the room to greet the judge, half the gallery

seems to physically lean forward. I hate that I notice. I hate it more than I understand why.

None of that matters, I remind myself. His face isn't the story. His performance is.

The prosecution picks up where they left off, still selling the same tired portrait of a billionaire who wanted a wife at home and a mistress on the side. The narrative is ugly enough to hold attention, but the delivery is sloppy, full of gaps their evidence can't fill dramatic pauses where facts should be, a lot of implication standing in for anything concrete. Declan, meanwhile, spends the morning dismantling every witness they put up, methodically and without breaking a sweat,

circling each inconsistency until it's the only thing left standing in the room.

By the lunch recess, I've fully abandoned Nina's glowing character reference and returned to my original read on the man: exactly the type who will burn you down to nothing, professionally speaking, unless you get there first. Which, to be clear,

is an objective observation from someone who has not personally tested that theory.

He proves my point without even trying. His final witness of the morning, a woman claiming to have seen Nelson Ashcroft with his "alleged" mistress, dissolves under his questioning into a fidgeting, blushing mess who can no longer commit to what she actually saw. By the time she steps down, the prosecution requests an early lunch, and the judge grants a full hour, which tells me he expects this witness list to drag well into next week.

The gavel drops and the courtroom empties fast, but my row is jammed and I'm stuck watching the front of the room instead of joining the exodus. The prosecution retreats to a side room. Declan stays behind, leaning in close to talk with his client, and something about the posture protective, invested makes me think Nina might be onto something. Either he

genuinely believes Nelson Ashcroft is innocent, or he's simply devoted to anyone who pays his hourly rate without

blinking.

The room keeps draining until I'm one of maybe six people left, and that's exactly when he turns his head and his eyes

land directly on mine.

The woman from the coffee shop. Sitting in his courtroom. Staring.

I feel like I've been caught doing something significantly worse than journalism. He doesn't react, doesn't blink, doesn't so

much as pause before turning his attention back to his client, and I can't decide if that's better or worse than being

noticed.

"Ma'am, I need you to step out."

Ilook up to find a security guard planted directly beside me, radiating patience he clearly doesn't feel. I want to point out that I couldn't have left thirty seconds ago even if I'd tried, given how packed the aisle was, but I swallow the comment

and stand instead. "Of course.”

He herds me toward the exit like I might make a break for the witness stand if left unsupervised, and that's how my morning ends escorted out of a courtroom by a man old enough to be my grandfather, courtesy of Declan Cross, a.k.a.

Suit Guy, a.k.a. Counselor Crush. So much for keeping a low profile.

Declan's POV

I follow Nelson out the side door, Elena and Grant flanking me on either side, my head somewhere else entirely for a man

in the middle of a murder trial. Namely, on a woman.

We reach the room where lunch and strategy are waiting, and I watch my client and co-counsel file inside before I peel off in the opposite direction.

“Declan.”

Elena's voice stops me at the threshold. She's sharp, capable, and objectively attractive in the kind of way that should register with me and simply doesn't. Never has. It isn't the decade between us. It's that Elena has the personality of a

legal brief flawless structure, zero heat.

Sienna has heat. I knew that within about four seconds of her yanking on my sleeve in that coffee line, green eyes

flashing, entire personality announcing itself before she said a word. I wanted her the moment she looked at me like I was something she'd scraped off her shoe, and I've spent every hour since trying to talk myself out of how much I liked it.

Then I find out she's been sitting in my courtroom taking notes on me the whole time.

Reporter. Of course she's a reporter. That's the only explanation that fits the pieces the coffee shop, the questions, the convenient appearance in my trial. It's a good angle, I'll give her that. Get close enough to the defense attorney to get a

quote nobody else can. Smart, if that's actually what this is.

"Ten minutes," I tell Elena, already moving down the hall before she can respond.

The corridor is clear once I hit the main hallway, security doing their job well enough to keep the press at a respectful distance, though I doubt that distance survives much longer if Sienna has anything to say about it. I scan the crowd and spot her almost immediately, that same blonde head cutting through the foot traffic to my left, and I don't bother talking

myself out of following.

She turns right. I close the gap, closer than I probably should be given where I'm supposed to be sitting down for lunch with my client in less than ten minutes. The path leads to a stairwell in a quieter corner of the building, her footsteps echoing above me until I reach the top landing just in time to watch her disappear through a door on my right.

I'went in after her without hesitation. She played me, whether she meant to or not, and I don't particularly care that the room turns out to be a bathroom. Empty, judging by the silence, aside from the one person I actually came looking for. This ends now, on my terms, and I'm done pretending I'm not the one who chased her here, done pretending I give a damn what it looks like if someone walks in and finds the city's most talked-about defense attorney standing in a courthouse bathroom instead of eating lunch with his client