Page 150 of Sin

“At him? Yes.”

“At me?”

Tate doesn’t answer fast enough. That tells me plenty.

“Right,” I say. “Cool. Love that.”

“No one has the full story.”

“They don’t need the full story to judge me.”

“No,” he says quietly. “They don’t.”

After we hang up, his text comes through.

Tate Sinclair

Mara Ellison

Ellison, Bray & Michael Attorneys at Law

312-215-0000

She can see you today at noon.

Seriously, stay offline.

I will. Thank you.

Naturally, I immediately check social media again because I am a woman of discipline and intelligence.

The video of Jenna’s mom has been clipped into pieces now. People have added captions. Reaction videos. Outrage stitches. One woman with perfect eyeliner is explaining why powerful men always prey on women at work, which is probably true in a broad sense but feels deeply unhelpful when I am the woman and my life is being discussed by strangers who think nuance is a type of French cheese.

I toss my phone onto the couch like it bit me. Then I get dressed because if I sit here in pajamas, I will dissolve. I choose black slacks, a gray sweater, and the kind of coat that says I am a professional adult woman attending a serious legal meeting and definitely did not cry while brushing my teeth.

My fever has settled into that annoying phase where I can function but every bone in my body has filed a complaint. By eleven-thirty, I’m in a rideshare heading downtown with sunglasses on even though the sky is the color of wet cardboard. People get coffee. Buses hiss at curbs. Someone walks a golden retriever in a tiny raincoat. Life continues, apparently uninterested in the fact that mine is on fire.

Mara Ellison’s office is on the twenty-second floor of a building that smells like printer toner. Her assistant offers me tea. Then Mara comes out herself. She’s in her late forties, maybe early fifties, with dark hair cut sharp at her jaw and glasses that make her look like she has ended men professionally and enjoyed it.

“Laurel Cross?”

I stand. “Yes.”

“Mara Ellison.” Her handshake is firm, warm, and terrifying. Excellent.

She leads me into her office, closes the door, and gestures for me to sit.

“I understand you’re having a difficult day.”

A laugh comes out of me. It sounds slightly unhinged.

“That is one way to put it.”

Her mouth softens by half a degree. “I’ll be direct. I do not represent Mason Sinclair nor SINsual Adult Toys. I do not represent any board member, shareholder, executive, spouse, or emotionally wounded relative with internet access.”

Despite everything, I smile.

“I represent you,” she says. “Only you. If you hire me, my advice will be based solely on protecting your legal, professional, and personal interests. Understood?”