I was flipping through the papers, not really reading—just passing time—until a photo made me stop. That face. I knew it. A dancer from the club. I remembered the way she moved, not for show, but like survival was stitched into her bones.

Now? She was in jail. For murder.

I didn’t even think twice. I called my assistant over and handed her the bail money. Something about her… it felt different. This case—it was worth something. So was she.

Later, I showed up at her door, heels clicking against cracked concrete. I knocked. She opened.

And then she slammed it in my face.

I blinked. Once. Twice. Then my jaw locked.

The nerve.

I knocked again. Louder. Then again. And again. Let her hear it. Let her feel it. The door finally swung open and she glared at me like I was just another problem.

“What do you want from me?” she snapped.

I didn’t flinch.

“You want something from me, not me” I said, calm but firm. “I’m Camille Hartwell. I bailed you out. I’m an attorney—and I can help with your case.”

I handed her my card, sharp and clean.

“Call my secretary. Come to my house. Then we’ll talk.” I looked her straight in the eye, voice low.

“And maybe... I’ll get you out of this place.”