The police precinct was a world of fluorescent harshness and institutional grime, a brutal antithesis to the Hale Grand’s curated opulence. Xavier paced the scuffed linoleum of the waiting area, the two family lawyers—Steadman and Rice—a silent, looming presence at his flank. They were not here to help Isabella. They were here to contain him, to ensure the Hale interests were protected, which in this moment meant distancing the family name from the “criminal temp.”
“Mr. Hale, we strongly advise you do not attempt to see her,” Steadman said, his voice a low, practiced murmur. “Any contact can be misconstrued as coercion or conspiracy. It feeds a narrative we must control.”
“She didn’t take that brooch,” Xavier bit out, the words tasting of venom.
“The evidence says otherwise,” Rice repli
