Chapter 2 — The First Meeting

Lydia

Lydia March adjusted her rimless glasses with a precise motion and tightened her grip on the leather-bound file in her hand as the guard led her through the labyrinthine corridors of the city jail. The chilly air bit at her skin, carrying the faint scent of antiseptic and damp concrete. The narrow halls felt claustrophobic, their starkness gnawing at her sense of control. She glanced briefly at her obsidian wristwatch—its sleek black face reassuring in its quiet order. Time remained constant, at least, even when everything else threatened chaos.

"Through here, Ms. March," the guard said, his tone clipped and impersonal as he unlocked a heavy metal door.

The room beyond was cold and sterile, stripped of anything that could lend it warmth or humanity. A single table and two chairs sat under the harsh fluorescent light, the buzz of the bulb filling the space with a faint, maddening hum. Lydia’s heels clicked sharply against the linoleum floor as she stepped inside, the sound echoing like a gavel striking wood.

Rowan Black was already there.

He sat on the far side of the table, his hands cuffed and resting loosely in front of him. His sandy blond hair was unruly, as though it had been combed half-heartedly with his fingers, and his steel-blue eyes lifted to meet hers with an intensity that was almost startling. Despite the stubble shadowing his jaw and the exhaustion etched into his face, there was a self-assuredness about him, a defiant charm that seemed to mock the oppressive room around them.

"Ms. March," he greeted, his voice smooth and laced with sardonic amusement. "I was beginning to think you weren’t coming."

Lydia didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she placed the file on the table and slid into the chair opposite him with deliberate precision. Her green eyes, sharp and unyielding behind her glasses, studied him. She kept her expression neutral, her tone crisp when she finally spoke.

"You’ll find I’m rarely late, Mr. Black," she said. "But I don’t waste time, either. Shall we begin?"

Rowan’s lips curved into a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Straight to business. I can respect that."

Ignoring his comment, Lydia opened the file. The mugshot staring back at her mirrored the man before her—defiant, almost insolent. A con artist accused of orchestrating a multimillion-dollar heist. The details were damning on the surface, but the glaring inconsistencies in the prosecution’s evidence—and the name Victor Steele buried in the case notes—had kept her from dismissing it outright. A faint unease stirred within her at the name, tugging at unwelcome memories of past cases gone awry, but she pushed it aside, relying on her professionalism to steady her.

She folded her hands on the table, her gaze unwavering. "Let’s start with the basics. In your own words, why do you believe you were framed?"

Rowan leaned forward slightly, the cuffs on his wrists clinking softly against the metal table. The shift in his posture was subtle but deliberate, and Lydia caught the flicker of bitterness in his expression.

"Victor Steele," he said, his voice quieter now, edged with something colder. "He’s the reason I’m here."

Lydia’s stomach tightened, though her expression remained composed. Victor Steele. The name carried weight—too much weight. A man with far-reaching influence and a reputation for dismantling anyone who crossed him. Memories surfaced unbidden: a key witness disappearing days before trial, evidence inexplicably discredited. Steele’s handiwork was like a shadow that never lifted, a threat that whispered in the silence of every courtroom.

"You’ll need to be more specific," Lydia said, her tone cutting through her unease. "I don’t deal in vagueness, Mr. Black. Facts only. Spare me the theatrics."

Rowan let out a short, humorless laugh. "Facts. Sure." His steel-blue eyes narrowed as he regarded her, the smirk fading slightly. "Victor and I… we have history. A long, messy history. He doesn’t take betrayal well, and I betrayed him. I walked away from his little empire years ago. Thought I was safe. Thought I could keep my head down. But…" He gestured with his cuffed hands toward the blank walls surrounding them. "Here we are."

"How poetic," Lydia said dryly, her voice sharp. "But none of that explains how you ended up accused of this heist. A vague anecdote about your falling out with Steele doesn’t absolve you of the charges against you."

Rowan’s smirk disappeared entirely. He leaned forward again, his stare locking onto hers with unnerving precision. "You think I’m lying."

"I think you’re a con artist with a documented history of deception," Lydia countered, her tone even, measured. "Forgive me if I require more than your word to stake my reputation on your innocence."

For a moment, the room hung in silence, the tension taut as a wire. The hum of the fluorescent light filled the void, a constant reminder of the sterile, impersonal setting. Then Rowan shifted, his shoulders relaxing just enough to suggest exasperation rather than defensiveness.

"Let me guess," he said, his voice quieter now, almost resigned. "You’ve already made up your mind. You think I’m guilty, and you’re just here to justify walking away. Is that it?"

Lydia’s jaw tightened, but her expression didn’t falter. "If that were the case, Mr. Black, I wouldn’t be here at all. There are inconsistencies in the prosecution’s evidence, and that’s the only reason I’m considering this case. My job isn’t to pass judgment. It’s to uncover the truth."

Rowan studied her in silence, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. His smirk and charm had cracked, giving way to something raw, unguarded. His steel-blue gaze held hers for a moment longer before he leaned back, his cuffs clinking softly.

"Fair enough," he said. "But here’s the truth, Ms. March: I didn’t plan that heist. I didn’t steal anything. Victor framed me because he wants me out of the way. And if you take this case, you’ll be putting yourself in his crosshairs right alongside me."

Lydia’s fingers tightened briefly around the edge of the file, though her face betrayed no reaction. The mention of Victor’s name carried an almost tangible weight, pressing down on the room. She had seen the aftermath of his schemes before—careers destroyed, livelihoods ruined, lives ended. He didn’t play games; he played wars.

"You should know, Mr. Black," she said, her voice cool and steady, "I don’t respond well to threats."

"It’s not a threat," Rowan replied, his tone soft but insistent. "It’s a warning. Victor doesn’t leave loose ends, and if you dig into this case, you’ll become one. Just like me."

There it was again, that flicker of sincerity beneath his words. It was in the way his shoulders stiffened slightly, the faint tension in his jaw. For all his slick charm, there was something real in the warning, something that sent an involuntary chill down Lydia’s spine. She glanced at her wristwatch, momentarily grounding herself in its quiet constancy before addressing him again.

She closed the file with a sharp motion and stood, smoothing the front of her tailored suit. "I’ll review the case further and make my decision," she said. "But let me make one thing clear: if I take this case, I will expect full transparency from you. No lies, no omissions. If I find out you’ve withheld anything, I’ll drop you as a client without hesitation. Understood?"

Rowan’s smirk softened, almost genuine now. "Crystal clear, Ms. March."

The guard stepped back into the room, ready to escort Rowan out. As he stood, he glanced over his shoulder at Lydia, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and something more thoughtful.

"You know," he said lightly, "you’re a tough one to read. I can’t decide if I should be impressed or terrified."

Lydia didn’t respond, instead gathering the file and walking out of the room with measured steps. But as the heavy door slammed shut behind her, the air of control she had cultivated felt suddenly less certain.

Her wristwatch sat snug against her wrist, its quiet weight grounding her, yet her thoughts raced ahead. Victor Steele. The name was a storm cloud on the horizon, dark and dangerous, and Rowan Black was standing directly in its path.

And yet, beneath the unease simmering in her chest, something else stirred—curiosity, insistent and undeniable.

The truth had a way of pulling her forward, no matter how treacherous the ground beneath her feet might become.