The whispers followed Vincent like shadows, clinging to every step he took through the courthouse halls. His name was no longer spoken with admiration—it was muttered with suspicion, laced with contempt. The scandal had done its work. Clients had withdrawn. Colleagues had distanced themselves. Every case he touched now carried the stain of controversy.
The worst part? He didn't even know the full extent of the damage yet.
He stepped into his office and shut the door behind him, but the walls felt tighter than before, the air heavier. Piles of case files sat untouched on his desk, his inbox flooded with messages—some from clients demanding answers, others from journalists circling like vultures. He had spent the last decade building a reputation, only to watch it erode overnight.
Collapsing into his chair, he reached for the newspaper folded on his desk, his jaw tightening as his own name stared back at him in bold, damning print.
"LAW FIRM IN CRISIS: VINCENT LAFLEUR UNDER SCRUTINY."
He barely skimmed the article—he didn't need to. He already knew what it would say. Conflict of interest. Questionable ethics. A once-respected lawyer now entangled in scandal. They wanted to crucify him, and he had given them enough rope to do it.
The phone rang, sharp and jarring. He let it go to voicemail. Whoever it was, whatever they wanted—it could wait.
But the knock at his door couldn't. Three sharp raps.
Before he could respond, the door swung open, and his secretary stepped in. Claire was usually unshakable, but today, she hesitated, her fingers tightening around the file in her hands.
He exhaled. "What is it?"
She cleared her throat. "You've been summoned."
Vincent stilled. His grip on the newspaper tightened. "By whom?"
She hesitated. "The court."
Silence thickened between them.
He leaned back, forcing his expression into one of indifference. "On what grounds?"
She placed the file on his desk, but she didn't answer. She didn't need to.
Vincent flipped it open. His name was printed in bold at the top. A formal summons. A hearing. A demand for answers.
Of course.
He let out a slow breath and closed the file, running a hand through his hair. He had seen this coming. The moment he got tangled up in her, in Katherine, he knew it would cost him something. He just hadn't realized how much.
Slowly, he rose to his feet, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves with practiced precision. His thoughts were already working through the legal complexities that lay ahead—how to defend himself, how to protect his reputation, how to distance himself from the growing storm without betraying the one person who had become his obsession.
"Cancel my afternoon meetings," he said.
Claire nodded. "Do you want me to—"
"No." His voice was calm, steady. "I'll handle it."
He grabbed his coat and headed for the door. His fate had been decided long before this moment, he would face it.
The courthouse felt different this time. The polished floors, the cold marble walls—once symbols of justice and order—now felt like barriers closing in around him. Vincent had walked these halls for years, standing on the right side of the law, wielding his knowledge like a weapon.
Today, he wasn't a lawyer. He was the accused.
Every glance that met his was heavy with meaning—some filled with curiosity, others with judgment. He didn't slow his stride, didn't acknowledge the murmurs that followed him. He had learned long ago that hesitation was weakness, and weakness had no place in a courtroom.
Claire had arranged for a private meeting room. He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. The silence was brief.
A moment later, the door opened again, and District Attorney Charles Renard walked in.
Vincent didn't move. "I assume this isn't a social call."
Renard smirked. "You always did have a way with words, LaFleur." He sat down across from Vincent, pulling a thick manila folder from his briefcase and placing it between them. "Let's skip the formalities, shall we?"
Vincent leaned back, his expression unreadable. "By all means."
Renard flipped the file open. "You've been under scrutiny for weeks now, Vincent. Your connections to a certain… woman of interest haven't gone unnoticed." His gaze lifted, sharp and knowing. "Katherine."
Vincent didn't flinch. "You'll have to be more specific. I know a lot of women."
Renard chuckled. "Cute. But this isn't a joke. The court wants answers. Your professional integrity has been called into question, and frankly, I'm inclined to agree with them."
Vincent's jaw clenched. "You don't have a case."
"Don't I?" Renard slid a photograph across the table. A grainy shot of Vincent and Katherine outside his apartment. Another one—at the docks. Another—her slipping out of his office. "These don't look good, Vincent. The whispers aren't whispers anymore. People are asking why a high-profile attorney is entangled with a courtesan who's knee-deep in criminal affairs."
Vincent stayed silent, his mind turning over the legal intricacies. Renard's tone was dripping with implication. If there was one thing Vincent knew well, it was the law. He understood the fine print, the loopholes, and how a well-placed accusation could bring down the strongest man.
Renard's smug expression faltered as Vincent didn't react. He slid the photographs aside and leaned forward. "Look, I'll give you one chance to control this before it spirals. Cooperate. Tell me what you know about Katherine's dealings with Madame Dupont. Denounce her, cut ties, and maybe—just maybe—you walk away with your career intact."
Vincent's fingers tightened against the edges of the table. "You think I'd throw her to the wolves to save myself?"
Renard's smile faded. "I think you don't have a choice."
Vincent's grip on the table tightened. He knew what Renard was doing—dangling his career in front of him, giving him an out. But it wasn't that simple. Katherine wasn't just some mistake he could erase. And if Renard was pressing this hard, it meant the walls were closing in faster than he thought.
He exhaled, slow and measured. "If you have enough evidence to bury me, Renard, do it. Otherwise, this meeting is over."
Renard studied him for a long moment, then shook his head with something almost like pity. "Suit yourself." He gathered his papers, stood, and straightened his tie. "But don't say I didn't warn you."
As the door shut behind him, Vincent leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes.
This wasn't just a scandal anymore. It was a war.
And he had just made himself the enemy.