Chapter 59
"But what, Gilbert?" I interrupted, my voice sharp with frustration. "Three attempts on my life in two weeks doesn't strike you as suspicious?"
He sighed deeply, rubbing his forehead with a weary gesture. "We'll continue the investigation. In the meantime, please be careful, Jane."
"Always am," I replied coolly, gathering my Hermès portfolio. "Contact me when you have something concrete."
As I strode out of the precinct, a chill ran down my spine. Someone was growing desperate, which could only mean I was inching closer to the truth.
The following evening, I reluctantly allowed Chelsea to persuade me into attending our class reunion, despite my absolute aversion to such gatherings. She insisted it would provide a brief respite from the mounting pressure, if only for a few hours.
The moment I stepped into The Velvet's exclusive private lounge, my gaze landed on Hunter, lounging effortlessly on a supple leather sofa. Our eyes met briefly before we both deliberately looked away, the weight of our convoluted history hanging tangibly in the air between us.
"Jane! You actually came!" Mike's voice cut through the ambient jazz as he approached with two glasses of Bordeaux. He offered one to me with a knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "We'd placed bets on whether you'd show."
"I wasn't planning to," I admitted, taking a measured sip of the exceptional vintage. "Chelsea can be remarkably persuasive when she wants to be."
Mike gestured toward the seat beside Hunter. "We saved you a spot."
I took the seat but pointedly shifted away, creating as much distance as the limited space allowed, my body language conveying what words didn't need to.
Ryan raised his crystal tumbler in acknowledgment from across the custom marble table. "Jane, how's your father's case progressing?"
I took another deliberate sip before responding. "It's advancing."
"Any leads on who's actually orchestrating it?" Ryan pressed further.
"I don't discuss active litigation at social gatherings," I replied with practiced detachment, effectively terminating that particular line of inquiry.
One of our former classmates, Hermione, who had always exhibited an excessive interest in others' affairs, leaned forward eagerly, her eyes glittering with undisguised curiosity.
"Let's discuss something far more intriguing," she said with barely contained excitement. "What was it like being intimate with Attorney Huxley?"
The room fell into immediate silence. I sensed Hunter tense beside me, though he remained perfectly still, his legendary self-control on full display.
I maintained my composure, taking a deliberate sip of wine before answering. "Completely unremarkable. Nothing worth elaborating on." The fabrication flowed with practiced ease.
Hermione's eyes widened in evident disbelief. "You can't be serious! Everyone at Sullivan & James was talking about how you two—"
"If you're so curious," I interrupted, my voice silky yet razor-sharp, "why not experience it yourself? I'm certain he wouldn't decline the opportunity."
Hunter remained utterly motionless beside me, methodically swirling the aged Macallan in his glass, his expression an impenetrable mask.
Isaiah, another classmate, laughed uncomfortably. "Jane, wasn't it you who declared you would sleep with him precisely once before orchestrating a spectacular dismissal? Yet you returned for a second encounter, didn't you? Once proved insufficient?"
The observation struck uncomfortably close to reality. I had indeed made exactly that declaration, and I had indeed returned, unable to resist the inexplicable magnetism between us.
"I concede defeat," I stated simply, reaching for my phone with practiced nonchalance.
Everyone stared, visibly startled by my unexpected admission. I opened our class group chat and transferred five substantial red digital envelopes, the modern equivalent of admitting I'd lost our longstanding wager.
"There," I announced, placing my phone on the table with finality. "Consider this my formal declaration that I will not be sleeping with Hunter Huxley again. Ever."
The gathering erupted in exclamations and laughter as they reached for their phones to claim their portion of my concession. I risked a fleeting glance at Hunter. His expression remained inscrutable, though something flickered momentarily in his eyes—disappointment or perhaps amusement, impossible to determine with certainty.
"In all seriousness," Isaiah persisted, "you two obviously possess extraordinary chemistry. Why not pursue an actual relationship? You're both eminently successful, undeniably attractive, clearly compatible..."
Hunter set down his crystal tumbler with meticulous precision. "It was merely casual entertainment," he stated, his voice measured and detached. "Nothing more substantive."
"Precisely," I concurred, forcing a smile that failed to reach my eyes. "Just a diversion. We slept together, and now it's concluded."
An uncomfortable silence descended upon the group. Someone swiftly changed the subject, and the conversation meandered to other topics. I found myself drawn into increasingly frequent toasts, each requiring me to drain my glass, which was promptly replenished by attentive staff.
After my fifth—or perhaps sixth—glass of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, I felt the alcohol compromising my judgment. The room seemed warmer, the ambient lighting more intense, the conversation more cacophonous. I began laughing at remarks I would typically find pedestrian, sharing anecdotes I customarily kept confidential.
Hunter leaned closer, his distinctive cologne teasing my senses as his voice dropped to a register that ensured only I could hear. "Have you had sufficient libation? Will Lucas be arriving to escort you home?"
The mention of Lucas triggered something visceral within me. I turned to face Hunter directly, maintaining my voice at an equally low volume but infused with glacial determination.
"Why does it concern you? My affairs no longer fall within your purview. From this moment forward, don't address me, don't approach me, don't even direct your gaze toward me. Let's operate under the pretense that we never encountered one another, never collaborated professionally, and categorically never shared physical intimacy."
His expression remained unchanged, though I detected a subtle tightening around his eyes, a momentary fracture in his otherwise flawless facade.
"Regarding my father's case," I continued, the words flowing with arctic precision, "I won't solicit your assistance again. I'll vindicate his reputation independently. I have no need of you, Hunter Huxley. I never did."
These assertions tasted acrid on my tongue, contradicting fundamental truths I refused to acknowledge even to myself. Yet my pride demanded this ultimate declaration, this proclamation of independence from the one man capable of inflicting profound emotional damage.
I rose, experiencing slight unsteadiness. "I need to visit the restroom."
In the corridor outside, the thunderous music from our private room had mercifully diminished to a tolerable level. I proceeded toward the facilities, my steps deliberately measured. The alcohol had dulled my reflexes, but not sufficiently to overlook the two figures walking ahead of me—Mary and Sean, engaged in intense conversation.
My cognitive functions instantly sharpened, adrenaline cutting through the alcoholic haze. I pressed myself against the textured wall, observing their progression, their heads in close proximity, their postures suggesting both intimacy and conspiracy.