Moments later, Julian was back in the interrogation room. He slouched in the chair, his hands now locked in cuffs on the table in front of him. He stared past Peterson, looking utterly, profoundly bored.
Peterson, sitting opposite, flipped through a file, his eyes darting up at Julian now and then. He leaned his chair forward.
"Let's get started—" Peterson said, his voice calm.
"I need to talk to a lawyer," Julian cut him off.
Peterson blinked, thrown for a second. "What?"
Julian leaned back, throwing his feet up onto the metal table as if he owned the place. The cuffs jangled. "I need to talk to my lawyer," he repeated, his voice nonchalant.
Through the one-way glass, Alina watched, intrigued.
"Your lawyer?" Peterson echoed, baffled.
---
That same morning, Damon stood in his mansion. He was dressed in a sharp suit, the tie pulled tight against his throat. He was studying his reflection in a large mirror like it was an opponent he was about to face.
In the mirror's edge, a man in his fifties slipped into the room. Damon didn't turn, just crooked a single finger.
The man, Samwell, crossed the room to him, a nervous energy in his step. "Yes, sir?"
"Get him bail," Damon said, speaking to his own reflection.
Samwell nodded. "Yes, sir."
As Samwell turned and walked away, Damon leaned in, his attention fixed on the mirror. He licked his lips at the man looking back at him.
---
Back in the interrogation room, Julian was staring at his own faint reflection in the one-way glass. Peterson was staring at Julian, his expression growing tired.
The door burst open, and Samwell walked in. He clapped his hands together once, his eyes landing immediately on Julian.
Peterson stood up, his chair scraping, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Mr. Samwell?"
Samwell turned to Peterson, bending his neck slightly. "Yes?"
"Are you here to represent Julian?"
Samwell smirked. "Is that a question?"
Peterson faltered. "But how?"
Samwell pointed a manicured finger at Julian. "Well, 'cuz my client is filthy rich."
Peterson looked at Julian, then back at Samwell, a fog of disbelief clouding his eyes.
"And also," Samwell continued, "I got him bail." He slammed a paper down on the table.
Peterson just stared at the document, completely lost.
Julian rose from his chair, a grin spreading across his face. He held out his cuffed wrists. Peterson, his movements reluctant and stiff, unlocked them.
Julian rubbed his wrists, then let out a long sigh. He looked up at Peterson. "I overestimated you."
He and Samwell walked through the door.
---
They walked side by side down the corridor, both men fixing their eyes straight ahead, their footsteps echoing in the hall.
"What are his conditions?" Julian asked, his voice low.
"Well, a meet."
Julian smirked. "Meet? Cute."
"So, what do you say?"
Julian shook his head. "No."
Samwell halted, turning to face him, his professional calm unruffled. "Are you serious?"
"That's my answer."
A pause. "You do know that this will have consequences, right?" Samwell said, his tone a mild, factual warning.
Julian groaned and stepped in close to the older man, his voice suddenly sharp. "Spare me the bullshit talk, grandpa." He held the man's gaze for a beat. "No."
Samwell shrugged, as if it was no skin off his back, and started walking again.
"Mr. Samwell!" Julian shouted.
Samwell glanced back over his shoulder.
"Tell him I'm not a pussy anymore!"
Samwell didn't answer. He just kept moving.
Julian watched him go, his jaw tight. He stood there for a moment, the bravado fading, and then turned—
Alina was standing a few steps away, arms folded, her eyes filled with a deep, tangible concern.
Julian's hard expression immediately softened. He offered a small, awkward smile. "Um... Hi?"