The moment Eleanor Sterling stepped into the courtroom, December sunlight sliced through the stained-glass windows, casting a sharp golden streak at her feet. The hem of her black cashmere skirt swept through the light like a judge's robe brushing against the scales of justice.
"All rise!"
As the bailiff's voice rang out, Eleanor thumbed open the cap of her fountain pen—a Montblanc Heritage Collection rose gold edition, the gift she had bought herself for her twenty-fifth birthday. The nib tapped against the solid oak desk in perfect rhythm with the first four measures of Pomp and Circumstance.
The air vent above let out a sudden, almost human whimper.
"Per Uniform Commercial Code Section 2-207," her voice cut through the room like liquid nitrogen poured into a boiling beaker, freezing the courtroom in an instant, "when a written confirmation contains additional terms—"
She paused mid-sentence, catching the sound of rustling paper from the gallery. Not the idle flipping of casual observers, but the rapid, purposeful shuffle of a designer reviewing fabric swatches backstage at Fashion Week.
"—my client has never accepted these terms through 'conduct implying assent.'" She turned sharply toward opposing counsel, her pen tracing an invisible line in the air. "Unless you sincerely believe that 'failing to immediately dispute an invoice' equates to 'consenting to fraud'?"
The freshly minted Ivy League lawyer across from her swallowed hard. Behind him, three rows of senior partners from Palladium & Sigil snapped open their alligator-skin binders in unison, seven platinum cufflinks clinking coldly against the brass railing. At the front sat the silver-haired legend who had spearheaded the Diamonds & Ink Act amendments in the nineties, now idly tapping his glasses chain against a 1991 arbitration commemorative coin—his trophy from forcing Crown Aurora to disgorge $300 million in damages.
Then, from the back of the courtroom—snap.
Eleanor didn't turn. But she knew it was Xander Cole breaking his pen, and the realization sent a shiver down her spine like cool silk dragged along bare skin. Three days ago, Capital & Couture had devoted its entire front page to how the editor-in-chief of CRASH magazine had sent Crown Aurora's stock into a 2.3% nosedive with his "Legal Vandalism" runway show. He should have been in Milan right now, lounging in some private box in Vicolo dell'Oro, not crammed into a spectator seat for this dry contractual dispute.
Yet she knew.
Knew those storm-gray eyes were fixed on the sliver of exposed nape beneath her chignon. Knew those fingers—once dubbed "The Million-Dollar Hands" by The Gent's Quarterly—were now toying with the shattered pen fragments. And she absolutely knew that beneath the impeccably tailored Sartoria Ombra three-piece suit, he was wearing another pair of those absurd socks—last week at the Bar Association gala, they'd been deep velvet embroidered with Objection Overruled; the month before in the Supreme Court gallery, retina-searing neon pink.
When the judge's gavel struck, the pearl in Eleanor's ear gave a faint pulse. Her custom-designed victory alert—the tiny recorder embedded in the right pearl emitted a specific frequency upon favorable rulings. As she tucked a stray hair behind her ear, the motion finally brought her gaze into direct collision with the gallery.
Xander's sketchbook lay open on his knee, its margins crammed with her cited case law between wild fashion sketches. Most glaring was the phrase circled in red ink: "See Contract Law §12.3: Non-written promises may still be legally binding."
The sunlight shifted without warning.
At 11:42 AM, when the judge declared "Judgment for the defendant," a golden blade of light split Xander's sketchbook down the spine, cleaving his hasty rendering of Eleanor into two versions—the razor-edged litigator in court, and the heavy-lidded stranger in his margins.
The courtroom had emptied like a sinking ship abandoning its passengers. Eleanor took her time organizing files, counting the rhythmic tap of her Montblanc pen against the oak table—one, two, three—until at seven, the crunch of designer soles on shredded paper announced his presence.
"Under Federal Rule of Evidence 612," she said without looking up, "destruction of evidence constitutes contempt of court."
Xander Cole's voice warmed the nape of her neck like fingertips on bare skin. "It was just a pen. Unlike you, Counselor Sterling—" He plucked the judgment from her hands, the edge catching on her pale tan line where a wedding band should sit. "—might explain why footnote seven cites Crown Aurora v. Shadow Holdings. That opinion was written by my baby sister."
Eleanor finally looked up. Of course he was wearing those stupid socks again—neon pink with "See §1.1"—the contract formation clause.
"Let me guess," she pointed to the sketchbook where his rendering of her face was bisected by a gilded shadow. "This is payback for that interview where I said fashion people don't understand contract law?"
"Nah." He stepped close enough that his Tom Ford Oud Wood cologne mixed with printer's ink. "For your lie." His finger landed on the red-circled §12.3 in her notes. "Three years ago at Harvard, you swore all oral agreements were unenforceable. Yet today you cited the exception that proves otherwise."
The gavel's echo still trembled in the hallways when Eleanor checked her phone—three emails, two missed calls, and a Capital & Couture alert: "CRASH Editor Fined $5K for Courtroom 'Antics'", featuring Xander tearing a check before cameras.
She deleted it with a swipe, then froze.
There, in the photo's blurred margin: a model on the courthouse steps wearing a scarf with the exact Devore silk pattern of the one she'd shredded yesterday mid-cross.
"So that's why you came," she muttered, snapping her briefcase shut. "Not to watch. To collect evidence."
Beyond the tempered glass, rain exploded against windows as a stylist shouted: "Xander! Make the noose prop look more lived-in!"
The downpour fell like judicial censure—cold, absolute, permitting no appeal. Eleanor cinched her Burberry trench tighter when his voice cut through the storm:
"Congratulations, counselor. You've murdered my composition."
Xander stood ankle-deep in runoff, ruining shoes worth more than her first-year associate salary, directing a model in a Thom Browne coat. The photographer—his Leica probably cost more than her student loans—barked: "Channel financial ruin! Your yacht just sank! More existential dread!"
She turned to leave.
His umbrella materialized overhead. Rain darkened the left half of his Sartoria Ombra suit, fabric clinging to the hard planes of his torso. "Sue me," he said, nodding to where the model wore her scarf knotted like a noose.
"Theft?"
"Criminal neglect of structural perfection." His smile belonged on wanted posters. "That jawline deserves our June cover. Headline—" His breath warmed the raindrops on her temple. "Lady Justice Loses Her Blindfold."
His scent enveloped her—sandalwood and ink undercut by something dangerously close to fragility, all nearly masked by the metallic tang of the new pendant weighting her scarf: a silver scale engraved "See §12.3".
Her phone buzzed with a Google Alert: "CRASH Magazine Faces Legal Action Over Unauthorized..."
Xander stole it, tucking the device against his chest. "Relax," he murmured, "the complaint's already drafted. Section 12.3 covers 'Force Majeure and Inevitable Attraction'."
Across the street, a camera flashed. The photographer had pivoted to capture them—Eleanor half-sheltered under his umbrella, his damp sleeve brushing her briefcase, their mingled breath ghosting between them in the downpour.
Xander didn't retreat.
Neither did she.
Beneath the drumming rain, her pearl earring emitted a soft, approving hum.
---
11:37 PM. Eleanor's penthouse smelled of chamomile tea and impending litigation.
She circled the offending magazine spread with her red pen—the same shade she used to mark up doomed contracts. There she was, mid-objection, labeled simply: "Model: E.S. (Uncredited)"
"Bullshit," she muttered, reaching for her legal pad. Then the copyright page caught her eye:
DISPUTE RESOLUTION OPTIONS:
1. Bottle of '82 Lafite
2. Editor's personal apology (dinner required)
Her phone buzzed. Unknown number. The photo made her choke on her tea—her scarf's missing emerald clasp dangled from Xander's bedside lamp, glowing like evidence in a crime scene. The caption:
Section 12.3: When material evidence demonstrates willful attraction...
The TV flickered on by itself—damn smart home system. Entertainment Tonight blared:
"CRASH Editor's New Muse? Insiders say Xander Cole and 'The Courthouse Princess' were spotted—"
The freeze-frame showed his cashmere coat draped over her shoulders, his hand resting possessively at her waist.
The kicker?
She hadn't even fucking noticed.