The courtroom was cold.

Not by design—just in atmosphere. Even the whisper of voices sounded brittle, like frostbite forming between the words. Callum Virelli sat beside his defense attorney in that glassy quiet, hands folded in his lap, eyes lowered. He had not looked up once since entering the room.

He wore charcoal gray, his shirt buttoned to the collar. His hair was pulled back, tied low at his nape in a gesture of control. Every inch of him looked composed. But beneath the polished surface, a tremor sang in his blood.

He had not asked who the opposing counsel was. He hadn’t cared.

His attorney leaned in, whispering some last-minute procedural reminder. Callum gave a slow nod without looking up. The bailiff called the court to order. The judge entered. The shuffle of papers began.

Then a new voice cut through it all.

“The prosecution is ready, Your Honor.”

Callum’s breath stalled in his throat.

He knew that voice. He had known it through darkness, through gasps in the early morning, through angry, whispered fights in a kitchen lit only by the refrigerator door. That voice had once said I love you with more venom than sweetness. That voice had once stopped him from jumping off a bridge. That voice had once promised to always come home—and never did.

He looked up.

Julian Averre stood at the other table, spine straight, gaze forward, not even glancing in Callum’s direction. His hair was shorter now, more severe, and his cheekbones looked sharper than Callum remembered, like grief had chiseled them out. But the cold elegance was still there. The prosecutorial precision. The untouched perfection of him.

Callum felt heat rise in his chest. Not anger. Not yet. Something worse. A pang like hunger. Like shame. Like every unfinished sentence they'd never spoken aloud had just walked into the room and sat beside him.

His attorney, noticing the sudden tension in Callum’s posture, whispered again. “Are you alright?”

Callum didn’t answer. He watched Julian take one step forward, speaking to the judge, voice smooth and controlled.

And then—finally—Julian looked at him.

It was brief. A flick of the eye. But it landed like a stone in Callum’s stomach.

Julian didn’t blink. His gaze was ice. Unmoved. Impenetrable. But Callum saw something.

Behind that professional mask, there was a fire. A sick sort of relief. A satisfaction that was almost… gleeful.

You knew, Callum thought. You knew it was me.

And Julian gave the faintest tilt of his head, as if to say:

Of course I did.