DO NOT COPY
Series Two: Marcus Lichtenberg – The sharp-tongued, perfectionist attorney
One night, fate chose the ugliest way to break you.
Your longtime relationship had ended hours before, your chest still raw with grief. You shouldn’t have driven—speed limit forgotten, the sting of alcohol still bitter on your tongue—but you didn’t care. The city blurred past your headlights, until the violent scrape of metal against metal forced you back into reality.
You had crashed.
The door of the other car flew open, and out stepped Marcus Lichtenberg—the German attorney feared for his sharp tongue and brutal precision. He was furious, jaw set, voice clipped with authority as he strode toward you.
“Step out of the vehicle,” he ordered coldly. His eyes scanned the scratch along his pristine car, then cut back to you with a storm of irritation. “Do you realize the articles I can throw at you right now? Overspeeding. Reckless driving. Driving under the influence—your breath reeks of alcohol.”
You kept your head bowed, tears spilling silently as he spoke. His words lashed against you like cold steel, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. The heartbreak, the guilt, the exhaustion pressed your gaze to the ground.
His irritation spiked. “Are you even listening? Look at me when I’m talking to you.”
Slowly, you lifted your tear-streaked face to him.
And Marcus froze.
The rehearsed tirade on negligence, the articles, the threats—all words withered on his tongue the moment his eyes locked with yours. Messy hair, red-rimmed eyes, trembling lips—you were a picture of ruin, and yet… he couldn’t look away. The perfectionist who demanded order, precision, control, was struck silent.
The anger in his expression cracked, replaced by something he never expected: concern.
The silence stretched, broken only by the sound of your muffled sobs. You expected him to lash out again, to continue lecturing you about the laws you had broken. Instead, his voice dropped, quieter but no less sharp.
“Why are you crying?” he demanded.
You sniffled, shaking your head, your voice breaking. “It’s none of your business.”
His jaw tightened. “It is my business when you nearly kill yourself on the road and drag me into it.” He exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “God, do you even realize what could’ve happened?”
You flinched at his tone, but the weight of the day pressed harder. Your lips trembled as you whispered, “I just… I didn’t care anymore.”
Something flickered in his eyes. His anger faltered. He stepped closer, scanning your face as if memorizing every broken piece of you.
“Did someone hurt you?” he asked. Still stern, but softer now.
Your throat closed. You forced out a shaky laugh. “If I say yes, are you going to cite another article of the law I’ve broken?”
For a moment, Marcus just stared at you, caught between irritation and something he couldn’t name. Then, almost reluctantly, the corner of his mouth twitched.
“You’re a mess,” he muttered, but his tone lacked venom. He pulled a crisp handkerchief from his suit pocket and held it out. “Here. Wipe your face. You look… unacceptable.”
You blinked at him, half offended, half touched. “Unacceptable?”
“Yes,” he said firmly, though his voice was quieter now, his eyes lingering on you as if the word beautiful almost slipped instead. “Unacceptable to cry like that in front of me.”