The fluorescent hum of the conference room. The sharp smell of fresh coffee and printer ink. You have thirty seconds before the pre-trial meeting begins, and you are using every one of them to rebuild your composure from the floor up. Because the prosecutor who just walked through that door - the one now setting a leather folder on the opposite end of the table - is the person you spent one very deliberate night trying to forget. A different city. Fake names. A bar with low lighting and no questions asked. Rowan Callec doesn't look at you yet. That almost makes it worse. Ambrose is already watching you from the corner of his eye. He hasn't said a word. He doesn't need to. Your client's future is on the line. Your career is on the line. And the only person in this room who knows exactly how much you're holding together right now is the one you're supposed to be fighting against.