BEYOND REASONABLE DOUBT

chapter 3

Sienna POV

Day 2: The Trial of the Century

I wake up with a plan, and the plan is simple: no coffee shop, no Declan Cross, no repeat of yesterday's nonsense.

Showing up would be unprofessional at best and a walking conflict of interest at worst, and I refuse to be the reporter who trades access for flirtation. So instead of my usual routine, I shuffle into the kitchen in yesterday's oversized T-shirt, drop a hazelnut pod into the machine, and stand there in socked feet while it hisses to life, thinking about the exact man I've

sworn not to think about.

If I were a different kind of journalist, I'd already be halfway to that coffee shop, notebook in hand, using whatever

chemistry exists between us to squeeze out a quote. That's not who I am, though, and it's not the kind of story I want my name attached to. Nobody respects the reporter who got her scoop by getting undressed for it, and Declan Cross might

be insufferable, but I'm not interested in becoming a punchline in my own byline.

Mug in hand, I settle onto my kitchen stool and pull up this morning's column the way I do every morning after publication half expecting to cringe, occasionally getting my wish. Today, thankfully, the piece holds up. There wasn't much to work with yesterday: opening statements, a sharp exchange between counsel, a judge who lost patience and hauled both sides into chambers before adjourning early. Still, I managed to pull something out of it texture on the judge's demeanor, a read on how the jury was leaning, my own take stitched through the reporting instead of buried under it. I ended with this:

The prosecution walked in promising a monster wearing a billionaire's face. The defense walked out having sold the jury a victim instead. It's a familiar script, except for one variable nobody accounted for: charisma. Declan Cross doesn't just argue reasonable doubt, he performs it, and the room bought every second of the show. Meanwhile, the prosecution's opening leaned so hard into theatrics it bordered on melodrama, which means they'd better have evidence sturdy enough

to survive the letdown once the performance wears off. We'll see.

Sienna

What I left out entirely: that I'd already met Declan Cross in a coffee line, decided he was insufferable, and then spent an embarrassing chunk of the afternoon wondering what he'd look like out of that suit. I don't know what possessed me. Men exactly like him have derailed me before, and I know better. If the prosecution hasn't clocked how dangerous he is yet,

they will by the end of the week.

Purely for professional reasons, I tell myself, I pull up his name and start building a file. I jot the highlights into my

notebook:

Age: 35

Yale Law, class of eight years back

Unmarried

Undefeated record, still standing

It reads like a résumé built from spare parts of every man who's ever wrecked my judgment my father, two of my brothers,

and Derek, my ex, who had the same shining credentials and the same total inability to keep his hands off his own paralegal. Funny how a perfect record in the courtroom rarely translates to a perfect record anywhere else. I close the laptop on that cheerful thought and go get dressed, telling myself firmly that there will be no detour past the coffee shop,

no white mocha, no second round with a man I've already labeled trouble.

By the time I step out of the shower, the certainty is already cracking. Did I overcorrect? In trying so hard to look

professional, did I actually make things worse by standing him up on something that was never technically a plan? I hadn't agreed to anything. It wasn't a date. And yet I'm going to want an interview with him eventually, and men like Declan Cross

don't tend to grant favors to women who ghost them over coffee.

I dress fast after that fitted charcoal suit, hair twisted back and pinned, blazer, boots grab my bag, and I'm out the door with considerably more urgency than the morning called for. I'm crossing the lobby toward the street when my phone

rings, and I dig out to see my best friend Nina's name on the screen.

I wave at Frank, the doorman, push through the revolving door, and answer. "How's the bump?"

"Depends which one you mean," Nina says. "The one in my belly, or the six-foot-three one currently hovering in my

kitchen."

"You are the only woman alive who refers to her husband, a former federal agent, as a bump."

"Fair. Overprotective menace might be more accurate. He's worse than my last obstetrician. You remember what that

phase was like."

I do remember. She lost a pregnancy last year, and her husband hasn't fully recovered from it, not that I blame him.

"Weston can't be that bad."

"He is that bad, and so are both of his brothers. I fully expect a tracking chip by Friday."

laugh despite myself. “That would be a lot. How are you actually feeling, though?"

"Nauseous, apparently in a good way. Anyway, I'm not calling to talk about my husband's control issues. I have a client in

ten minutes, but I thought you'd want to know Weston got a call from your defendant.”

I stop walking. "Nelson Ashcroft wants to hire Weston's firm?"

"He's unhappy with the security team he's currently using."

"And Weston said "

“No. Immediately. He doesn't love the idea of protecting a man accused of killing a pregnant woman, especially not with a

baby of his own on the way."

"Can't really argue with that logic.”

"Neither can I, but for what it's worth, I know Declan. I don't think he'd have taken this case if he thought his client actually

did it."

rounded the corner, phone pressed to my ear, dodging a cluster of tourists. "You know Declan Cross?"

“I've told you that. We've crossed paths on cases before."