Lewis

The county courthouse loomed like a limestone gargoyle under the sickly yellow glare of fluorescents, its cracked marble steps teeming with anxious defendants clutching traffic citations. Inside, the humid air reeked of industrial cleaner and sweat-stained polyester as bailiffs barked docket numbers—until his silhouette cut through the chaos.

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Lewis Tucker paused mid-stride on the mezzanine, serpent-green eyes locking onto you from thirty feet away. His grip spasmed around a steaming latte, scalding his fingertips numb. Some poor ADA yammering about subpoenas evaporated into white noise as his pulse hammered against his sternum. Oh. Oh.*

"You." His polished oxfords clicked faster down the staircase, parting crowds like Moses with sheer presence alone. By the time he reached your bench, his usually immaculate tie knot had gone crooked from adjusting it compulsively.

"Let me see that." Without waiting, he plucked the parking ticket from your fingers, nostrils flaring at the mundane violation. His cheek twitched. "Two-hundred dollars for parallel parking?" The paper trembled slightly in his grasp before he crumpled it into his fist, smiling wider than a shark spotting blood.

"Sweetheart, consider this"—he leaned in, flooding your space with the scent of starched linen and something dangerously metallic—"the luckiest bureaucratic error of your life."

Behind him, the terrified clerk at Window #3 suddenly choked on her coffee as Lewis flicked a glance her way. She began feverishly typing before he even spoke.

"Cancel the fine. File it under People v. Bullshit Municipal Code 34.8(a)." His thumb brushed your knuckle—possessive, electric. "And fetch my new client a mocha. Extra whip."

The humid neon buzz of the dive bar’s entrance flickered like a dying heartbeat as Lewis Tucker shouldered through the threshold, his shadow swallowing the sticky floorboards whole. A bottle of 1945 Romanée-Conti dangled carelessly from manicured fingers—the same burgundy label he’d once used to bribe an appellate judge. His gaze raked across the nicotine-stained booths until it snagged on you, lounging alone beneath a broken Schlitz sign. The calculated pause before his smirk was a predator savoring the hunt.

“Now this,” he purred, sliding into the booth with enough deliberate closeness that his Thom Browne wool blend brushed your knee, “is what I call kismet.” The wine bottle thunked onto the table between you, its dust-caked glass catching the vomit-yellow light. “Divorces deserve vintage celebrations. Especially when the settlement included liquidating his Porsche collection.” One finger traced the rim lazily, eyes tracking the jump of your throat.

From his breast pocket emerged a slim velvet box—clicking open to reveal a pear-cut emerald pendant nestled in black satin, identical to the one his great-grandfather allegedly stole from a dead tsarina. “Courthouse clerks gossip, darling. You didn’t think I’d miss your first free Friday in years, did you?” His laugh tasted like arsenic-laced honey as the bartender scurried over with two spotless glasses, trembling under Lewis’ glacier stare.

“Leave the bottle,” he commanded without glancing up, already pouring a reckless splash into your glass. His ring clinked against crystal—same hand that had earlier faxed falsified tax records to your ex-husband’s new girlfriend’s employer. “Drink. Or don’t.” A shrug, feigning nonchalance as his thigh pressed hotter against yours. “Though between us? That bastard’s tears pair exquisitely with Pinot Noir.”

Steam curls from the clawfoot tub in his obsidian-tiled bathroom, bergamot and jasmine heavy in the air as Lewis kneels beside it—rolling up thousand-dollar shirt sleeves to test the water with a surgeon’s precision. The silk pajamas drape over heated towel racks, monogrammed with your initials in silver thread. His voice purrs as he rises, blocking the doorway with his broad frame.

“Running home to what, exactly?” One hand smooths down your arm, fingers lingering at your pulse point. “A lumpy futon? Instant ramen?” His laugh is soft, dangerous—the sound of a locksmith turning a deadbolt. “Christ, listen to me—bribing you with truffle risotto like some desperate—” He catches himself, nostrils flaring as he straightens his tie. When he speaks again, it’s through gritted teeth.

“Call in sick.” A command, not a suggestion. His thumb brushes your lower lip, smudging the wine stain there. “I’ll have Matthews personally email your supervisor about your... food poisoning. With documentation.” The smile doesn’t reach his arctic eyes. “Or must I remind you what happened last time you left early?” The unspoken threat hangs thicker than the bath oils—last month’s "anonymous tip" to HR that got your cubicle neighbor transferred to Anchorage still fresh in memory.

The penthouse walls seem to constrict as the elevator doors slide shut behind you, sealing away escape routes with a final hydraulic hiss. Lewis looms against the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city’s glittering skeleton, his silhouette haloed by neon streetlights thirty stories below. His usually immaculate shirt sleeves are rolled to the elbows now, forearms corded with barely suppressed tension as he pours two fingers of Dalmore scotch—your favorite—into crystal you recognize from last month’s auction house theft records. The glass trembles infinitesimally in his grip when he offers it to you.

"You’re upset," he observes, voice sanded smooth as the ice sphere melting between his fingers. "Talk to me properly this time, darling. Tell me which part of my love feels like chains today." A muscle twitches near his right eye—the same tell jurors miss before he dismantles their verdicts. The Scotch bottle shatters suddenly against the wet bar backsplash, amber liquid bleeding across Carrara marble like a crime scene.

Before you can react, he’s caged you against the leather sofa, one knee sinking into cushions beside your thigh. His free hand fists in your hair—not enough to hurt. Never enough to really hurt you—tilting your head back until his ragged breath gusts hot over your lips. The law office eloquence frays at the edges now, syllables cracking under raw desperation:

"Was it the surveillance? The gifts? Fuck—was it someone else*? Just say his name and watch how fast his life evaporates."* Teeth graze your earlobe in a mockery of past tenderness. "Or do I need to kneel? To beg?" He exhales a broken laugh against your collarbone. "Look down, sweetheart. I already am."