Thalia's POV
I arrive at the coffee shop ten minutes late on purpose.
If I'm late, I have control. I chose to come. I'm not desperate or eager.
Except my hands are shaking as I push through the door, and I've changed my outfit twice again, and I barely slept last night replaying Maria's words: Whatever's between you two is making the space unsafe.
The coffee shop is crowded—exactly what I need. Lots of people, lots of noise, lots of witnesses if this goes badly.
Damian sits at a corner table, two cups already in front of him. He stands when he sees me, then seems to remember I don't like sudden movements and sits back down quickly.
Hi, he says as I approach. I got you a latte. I remembered from... from the trial. You always had one during breaks.
The fact that he remembers what I drank three years ago should not affect me.
It does anyway.
Thanks. I sit across from him, putting my bag between us like a barrier.
For a long moment, we just stare at our coffee cups.
This is weird, I finally say.
Extremely weird, he agrees.
We don't have to be friends. We just have to figure out how to be in the same room without everyone feeling like the air is toxic.
Agreed. He wraps his hands around his cup. So how do we do that?
I don't know. You're the therapist.
So are you, technically.
I almost smile. Almost.
The silence stretches again, but this time it's less hostile. Just... uncomfortable.
Why did you really quit corporate law? I ask suddenly. And don't give me the short version you told Dr. Morrison. I want the truth.
Damian takes a long breath, his eyes fixed on his coffee. Because of you. And because of Isabelle.
Your sister.
Yeah. His voice cracks slightly. Two months after your trial, she called me. Begged me to quit law. Said I was becoming like our father—someone who uses people's pain as a weapon. I told her she was overreacting. Told her I was helping clients, not hurting people.
He stops, his jaw clenching.
What happened? I ask, even though part of me doesn't want to know.
She killed herself three weeks later. Left a note. He finally looks up, and the pain in his eyes is so raw it physically hurts to see. It said: 'I can't live in a world where people like Dad—and you—win. You were supposed to protect me, not become him.'
My breath catches.
She was twenty-four years old, Thalia. Brilliant and kind and she saw good in everyone. And the last thing she wanted me to know was that I'd become a monster.
Tears burn my eyes. I blink them back furiously.
I quit law the day I read that note. Spent a year in therapy trying to understand how I became someone who could destroy people and feel nothing. How I could watch you break on that witness stand and only think about whether I'd asked the right questions to win.
Why did you take my case? The question I've needed to ask for three years finally comes out. If you're so reformed now, why did you represent Marcus?
His expression darkens with shame. Because I didn't question whether it was true. Marcus came to my firm with evidence—financial records, witness statements, offshore accounts in your name. It looked airtight.
But it was all fake.
I know that now. But then? I just saw a case I could win. I didn't care if you were actually guilty. I didn't care about finding the truth. I only cared about dismantling your defense so completely that the jury would convict.
The brutal honesty should make me angrier.
Instead, it's almost a relief.
At least you're not lying about it, I say quietly.
I spent three years lying to myself, saying I was just doing my job. That it wasn't personal. But it was personal, Thalia. I researched your background. Found your father abandoning you when you were eight. Your fear of public humiliation. Your tendency to internalize blame. And I weaponized all of it.
My hands clench around my coffee cup. You asked about my father in front of everyone. You knew it would break me.
Yes. He doesn't look away. I knew exactly what I was doing. I crafted every question to cause maximum emotional damage. That's what I was trained to do. That's what my father taught me—find the weakness and exploit it until the person shatters.
And you were good at it.
I was excellent at it. His voice is hollow. That's what makes it unforgivable.
I stare at him across the table—this man who destroyed me, who's now sitting here admitting every terrible thing he did without making excuses.
Why are you telling me this? I ask. Why not just say you made mistakes and move on?
Because you deserve the truth. Because those six people in that group deserve facilitators who aren't lying to each other. And because... He hesitates. Because I need you to understand that I see what I did. I'm not the same person, but I can't erase who I was. The lawyer who broke you and the person sitting here now—they're both me.
Something in my chest cracks open.
I have panic attacks, I hear myself say. Still. Three years later. Certain things trigger them.
What things? His voice is gentle. Careful.
People standing behind me. I can't handle it. My whole body goes into fight-or-flight.
Because of how the courtroom was set up. Marcus and his legal team sat behind you during my cross-examination.
Yes. I'm surprised he remembers. And raised voices. Especially men's voices when they're angry. It sends me right back to that witness stand.
I'm sorry. The words are barely a whisper. God, Thalia, I'm so sorry.
And there's this voice you used in court. Cold. Analytical. Like I was a bug under a microscope instead of a person. You used it during the group session yesterday when you were explaining something to Devon.
His face goes white. I didn't realize
I know. But I need you to know that when you use that voice, I stop being able to think. All I hear is you asking if I embezzled money while three hundred people watched me fall apart.
He sets his coffee down with shaking hands. Tell me what I need to do. Tell me every trigger, every boundary, everything I need to change so I don't hurt you again.
Don't stand behind me. Don't raise your voice. Don't use that lawyer tone. And if I say I need space, give it to me immediately. No questions, no hesitation.
Done. All of it. He pulls out his phone. I'm making notes right now so I don't forget.
I watch him type, his brow furrowed in concentration, and something shifts inside me.
This isn't the cold lawyer from the courtroom.
This is someone who's genuinely trying not to cause harm.
Why do you care? I ask suddenly. You could've let your mother handle the group alone. You could've walked away when I refused. Why stay?
He looks up from his phone, and the honesty in his eyes steals my breath.
Because helping people heal is the only thing that makes me feel human again. Because those six people deserve the best support possible. And because... He swallows hard. Because you're the person I harmed most, and if I can help you—even just by staying out of your way—maybe I can prove to myself that I'm not the monster Isabelle thought I was.
I'm not your redemption project.
I know. But you're the person who shows me every day what real strength looks like. You survived what I did to you and built yourself back into someone extraordinary. How could I not want to protect that?
The words hit differently than I expected.
Not like manipulation. Like truth.
We sit in silence, the coffee shop noise swirling around us.
This doesn't mean I forgive you, I finally say.
I don't expect you to.
And it doesn't mean we're friends.
Understood.
But maybe... maybe we can figure out how to work together without poisoning the group.
Relief floods his face. Thank you. That's all I'm asking.
I drain my coffee and stand to leave.
Thalia. His voice stops me.
I turn back.
If I ever cross a boundary or trigger you, tell me immediately. Don't suffer in silence to be professional. Your safety matters more than anything.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
As I walk out of the coffee shop, my phone buzzes.
A text from an unknown number: Saw you having coffee with that lawyer. Interesting. We really should talk about your new project. - M
My blood turns to ice.
Marcus Vale is watching me.
And somehow, he knows I'm working with Damian.