Her Guilty Secret

I wait outside the classroom feeling like a stalker, pretending I’m busy checking something on my phone when every twenty seconds my eyes are obsessively scanning the corridor for the sight of long blonde hair and enormous blue eyes.

Ten minutes after the hour, I accept the fact she isn’t coming.

It’s probably a good thing. I don’t know what the hell I want to say to her, anyway... Hey. I really liked watching you touch yourself. Round two later today?

I wince.

I can’t let it happen again.

I don’t think I can stop it from happening again.

There’s an inevitability that is pulling me to her. And I think I know why.

It’s the Donovan case. I wasn’t expected to win; the press coverage was immense. I’m not comfortable with plaudits in the media. I do what I do not to defend criminals but to defend the law. I have the utmost respect for the law and I do what many won’t.

But I’m tired of it. Dirtied by it. And I need a break. Just a small break, to remember what I love about the simple application of the law. That’s why I’m here. Teaching, talking about the principles of our legal system, about what makes it robust. The passion and energy—the pursuit of importance and goodness—that drew me to this job in the first place.

I could hardly breathe in Dublin. I couldn’t handle the new business the win had attracted. Every crim who has money wants me to defend them—like I’m some kind of magic genie who can wave a wand and keep them out of jail.

I needed a break after Donovan. I needed to unwind. I’ll be better able to practise after I’ve taken some time off.

But, instead of relaxing me, I’m suddenly wound tighter than a spring. Did I actually watch Olivia Amorelli get herself off in the middle of a recently vacated classroom?

What if someone had come in and seen us?

I have to tell her in no uncertain terms that we can’t let that happen again.

We’re both adults. We know what’s at stake. We should be able to negotiate a ceasefire in the war of desire, right?

CHAPTER THREE (#uf780a859-fb6c-5244-a4d0-575897a46485)

I FEEL AMAZING in my dress. The Astra Vivien creation is something out of a fantasy, all pale beige silk, beaded heavily on the skirt so that it shimmers in the light. The sleeves fall in bells to below my wrists but at the back it dips low, down my spine, showing off a tan that is always golden but that darkens to mahogany over these glorious summer months.

The dress is classy and discreet and, oh, so beautiful—and all the more so because I found it in a charity shop down Kensington High Street. It was just sitting in the window, glittering and soft, begging me to buy it. So I did, and I feel like I can do anything and, vitally, face anyone with Astra on my side.

I am armed and ready to see Connor again. And, if I’m honest, that’s what I’m most nervous about tonight. Not the dozens of industry heavyweights who’ve come to the law school’s annual summer ball, looking to hand-pick their interns for next year. Sure—that’s thrilling, but it isn’t why I’m studying law.

The Crown Prosecution Service haven’t sent anyone that I know of, and that’s where I want to end up. Opposite men like Connor, all smooth-talking and aiding and abetting criminals. I want to stare them down and ensure real justice is served.

I straighten my spine as the doors of the lift ping open and step out into the swirl of dresses and suits. Piano music reaches my ears from far away, mixing with the din of conversation and the clinking sound of glasses. The Level 10 viewing terrace at Tate Modern is a blank canvas kind of space. Architecturally interesting walls that lean inwards yet don’t impede the sense of light and space, and the view is, as you would expect, sensational.

The room is alive with my colleagues and friends.

I step into the party, feeling great about the night ahead.

Feeling great in general.

Until I see him—and I see him instantly, despite the fact he’s in the middle of the press of guests. My blood hitches up a gear, rushing through me, loud and impatient, fast and desperate. He’s talking to Dean Walters and, heaven help me, he looks so good. Not Dean Walters.

Connor Hughes.

He’s wearing a tuxedo, of course, like every other man here. Except not like every other man here because he looks, on the one hand, as though the suit was bespoke, stitched to his body, and on the other as though he could burst out of it at any moment. There is a latent savagery to him that emanates in waves. It fascinates me.

I want him to savage me.

The thought comes out of nowhere and a little tremble of warning runs down my spine. The last time I had thoughts like that I acted on them. And I wouldn’t have stopped, if he hadn’t regained his sanity.

If you play with fire, you’re going to get burned.

His hair is close-cropped, almost shaved, and it’s a dark brown. I imagine what it would feel like to run my hands through it and my fingers itch by my sides.

A waiter passes with a tray of drinks and I swipe a flute of champagne with a tight smile, turning my attention away from Connor for only a moment. It’s a prop. I don’t drink at university functions. It’s a personal policy developed after seeing a few too many of my colleagues get wasted and make tits of themselves in front of the faculty. I don’t want to mix business—or study—with pleasure.

‘Well, this isn’t fair.’ Louise Patel smiles as she approaches, wearing a black cocktail dress that falls to her knees. She’s got a blinging necklace on—though I’d say the ‘diamonds’ are more high street than high cost—and her shining black hair has been braided around her head like a crown.

She chinks her champagne flute to mine once she’s close enough.

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s not enough to wipe the floor with us academically—now you’ve got to steal the show with that bloody dress as well?’

I grin. ‘It’s actually from a charity shop.’

She nods. ‘Obviously. Student budget, right?’

I nod. Between rent, utilities and groceries, money’s always tight. I’m just lucky my mum and dad are so supportive—even though it’s a stretch for them, they’ve always prioritised our education and I love them dearly for that. I intend to more than pay them back, one day.

‘Everyone here is going to want to talk to you, you know.’

We scan the room together, surveying the hundred-strong crowd. The pianist changes songs, moving to another jazz number, and it’s at that moment Connor looks up, his eyes—so like the ocean, so like the sun—piercing me with an ease that makes me wonder if he knew exactly where I was standing. Or does he have the same skill I possess, of being able to locate him with radar-like precision?

‘I’m not interested in mingling, really,’ I say with a shrug.

Louise shoots me a look of frustration. ‘Working for the CPS is all very noble but these guests are serious big-hitters. Why not at least talk to them? Earn yourself a tidy fortune and then go save the world?’

I smile across at her. ‘Because it would kill my soul, and you know it.’

She rolls her eyes. ‘I think the money Bernstein Brown pays would revive it.’

‘Not for years, though.’

‘No one pays anyone anything for years, really.’

‘It’s not about the money.’ I sip my champagne, my eyes flicking to Connor once more.

He’s staring at me.

As if no one else is here.