Chapter 209: Help
The office smelled faintly of old leather, paper, and something sharper — maybe Jonathan’s cologne or the ghost of a cigar smoked long after hours. The walls were lined with shelves heavy with thick, somber books: criminal law, forensic psychology, procedural codes. A single window let in a reluctant wash of late afternoon light, smudged by city grime.
Ethan sat in the boss’s chair.
Jonathan had gestured to it when he arrived, a stiff flick of the wrist, the kind of silent deference men made to one another when stakes were high and alliances shifting. The chair was too big for him. Swallowed him whole. The high back loomed behind his shoulders, and as he leaned forward, his elbows sinking into the worn leather desk pad, it creaked like a warning.
His phone buzzed again.
Steph.
Ethan’s jaw flexed as he answered, not bothering with a greeting. "Ethan, are you sure you wanna represent Maria yourself? I’m telling you, Jonathan can handle this. Hell, anyone else could. You don’t have to—"
"I’m sure," Ethan cut in, his voice rough. His gaze drifted to the thick manila folder Jonathan had pushed toward him. The one marked Maria-Isabel. He’d barely touched it, but its presence on the desk felt like a stone on his chest.
Jonathan, a big man with salt-and-pepper hair and a perpetual scowl, gave a small shrug from across the room. "We could get her a lesser sentence," he offered quietly, hands stuffed into his pockets, watching Ethan with something like pity — or maybe warning.
Without another word, Ethan picked up the folder.