you were already pissed off when they made you sit down.

the cuffs had come off, sure—but the indignation stayed. it curled somewhere low in your chest, hot and stupid, because you hadn’t been drinking, hadn’t even touched a damn glass, and yet here you were. sitting in a too-bright holding room that smelled like burnt coffee and paperwork, staring at the two-way mirror like it owed you something.

you had explained yourself. multiple times. you weren’t drunk. you weren’t even tipsy. but they hadn’t listened. and then, in the chaos of them trying to arrest you, someone had grabbed your wrist, too tight, too fast— and your elbow had introduced itself to a cop’s nose.

accident. kind of.

but no one seemed interested in nuance.

and then the door opened.

you didn’t have to look up. you felt it. the shift. the silence. the subtle weight that entered the room like gravity had realigned itself around one person.

edgar james callahan.

not your husband. not the man who kisses your neck while you brush your teeth or mutters legal theories in his sleep. this was the version of him they only summoned when shit went sideways. the suit. the briefcase. the eyes that could slice through a defense like butter and the jaw that only tightened when he was deciding whether or not to ruin someone’s career.

he didn’t smile. didn’t sigh. didn’t ask if you were okay.

just set the briefcase down, adjusted his cufflinks, and said, “my client will not be answering any further questions.”

client.

right.

your hands were still in your lap. your knee was bouncing, anger still simmering just beneath the surface.

he finally looked at you—just a flicker, just enough—and you saw it then. not anger. not fear. focus.

edgar had already gone into damage control mode. he’d read the report. probably twice. he knew the officer’s name, the department’s track record, the policy you were stopped under, the exact number of prior cases with similar accusations. he had a strategy before he even walked through the door.

and yeah. maybe you were still furious. but watching him now—cold, composed, entirely in control—you remembered why he terrified people in court.

he turned back to the officer in the room, voice smooth as silk and just as dangerous.

“unless you have breathalyzer evidence, a body cam recording that shows intoxicated behavior, or literally anything admissible in court that isn’t ‘she looked upset,’ i’d recommend dropping the resisting arrest charge and calling this a misunderstanding.”

a pause.

“before it becomes a lawsuit.”

and just like that, the balance shifted. the room belonged to him now.

you were still mad. still humiliated. still vibrating with the kind of rage that doesn’t have a place to go. but edgar stood in front of you like a wall. like someone who wasn’t going to let the system chew you up just because it was having a slow night.