NOVPUBFor the next quarter hour, the conversation shifted from pleasantries to probability — and none of it good.
Miss Claire spoke with the ease of someone used to threading legal needles while staring down the barrel of ruin. Her fingers occasionally traced the stem of her wine glass as she laid out the situation in neat, brutal lines.
"If this goes to court without hard evidence," she began, "you're looking at more than just a public relations disaster."
Don said nothing. He listened.
"The death toll alone will put most judges on edge. A non-sanctioned intervention turned slaughter, tied directly to two powerful young heroes."
Don leaned back slightly, letting the glass beneath them creak just enough to be noticed. The view below was the same — ocean waves breaking against a shore that didn't care who was on trial.
Claire continued, "Now, if the investigation pulls through and uncovers credible evidence — you have a shot at full exoneration. But that window is razor-thin."
She tilted her head, expression unreadable beneath the rim of her hat.
"If no evidence surfaces… things get complicated. Very."
She let the silence linger before finishing the thought.
"You could be looking at life."
She said it like a weather report.
Cold. Unshaken.
"And that's best-case scenario, assuming they don't dig up anything else while dissecting the case. If you plead guilty early, there's a slight chance they'll reduce the sentence — pin the planning on Charles, frame you as a reactionary participant. It's weak, but better than nothing."
Don exhaled slowly, his fingers drumming once against the side of his chair. He looked down at the railing — polished, curved, too clean.
Finally, Claire asked, "Are you sure the investigation will back your innocence? It's not only your reputation on the line."
He didn't answer right away.
There was a certain weight to her question — one that came not from concern, but from calculation. From needing to know what kind of game she was playing.
Don looked her in the eye.
"No," he said. "I'm not sure. Mostly because there are people who would rather see me fall. That kind of motivation doesn't need facts. Just opportunity."
He paused, then added, "So trust your own judgment. If you think it's not worth the risk... don't take it."
Claire didn't blink. She reached for her wine, took a measured sip, and said calmly, "You misunderstood me."
Her eyes didn't leave his.
"Whether or not you're guilty doesn't matter to me. It's not in my nature to drop clients I've chosen. I'll represent you regardless. I simply wanted to know your stance, given all the facts."
Don nodded slightly. "I see. My mistake."
She slowly placed the glass back onto the table. Clink.
Then — for the first time — the corner of her mouth twitched.
A smile.
Tiny. Controlled. But real.
"For someone whose life might be over," she said, "you're awfully at ease about the whole situation."
Don scoffed lightly. "I wouldn't want to give my enemies the satisfaction of seeing me worried."
Claire's smile sharpened, almost impressed.
"I see."
Then, without warning, her gaze shifted — not to him, but over his shoulder.
A waiter had arrived.
She turned back toward her glass, and the brief humanity vanished. Her posture returned to statuesque, gaze cool once more.
The two of them ate in silence.
No words, no side-glances. Just quiet clinks of silverware against porcelain and the slow melody of a violin echoing from somewhere inside the restaurant.
The food was minimal — high-end, small-portioned. Pretty more than filling. But it didn't seem to bother either of them.
When the plates were cleared, neither of them stood.
The sun dipped lower behind the waterline, streaking the sky with hues of burnt orange and bruised purple. The glass beneath them reflected it faintly, soft warmth shimmering beneath their shoes.
Claire watched the ocean like it might confess something.
Don watched her — just briefly — and thought. 'She's really an enigma. I should ask Sylvia more about her one of these days.'
Then the thought soured slightly.
'No point if I end up in jail. First things first... Deal with Barclay. And this whole mess.'
By the time the sun had fully slipped beneath the horizon, the sky was a deep bruised violet, shot through with scattered stars.
The waves below glinted faintly in the soft moonlight, their crash against the rocks now muffled beneath the low hum of ambient music drifting from the main hall.
Miss Claire turned away from the sea at last.
As if on cue, the waiter reappeared, clutching a small digital pad in one hand, posture impeccably straight.
"Are you ready to order your main course?" he asked, keeping his tone formal, but not without the weariness of someone too professional to show boredom.
Don glanced briefly at the cleared table. 'So that was the appetizer. That makes more sense.'
Miss Claire nodded slowly. "Yes. I am."
Her gaze slid to Don, perfectly measured. "Do you eat lobster?"
He nodded. "Yes, I—"
**Bzzt**
His phone buzzed sharply. At the same time, his wristwatch gave a subtle pulse — a setting he'd linked to only one contact: Winter. Any message flagged urgent would trigger both.
He gave a quiet exhale. "One moment."
With a flick of his thumb, he pulled up the message.
From: Charles
We have a problem. Meet me at my place as soon as you can.
The message was bare. No flair. No drama. Just the kind of direct brevity that made Don frown.
Miss Claire noticed immediately — the subtle shift in his posture, the slight narrowing of his eyes. She tilted her head just slightly.
"Something the matter?"
Don locked his phone, already slipping it away.
"I'm not sure," he said. "But I need to find out."
His eyes met hers again. "Unless there was anything else you wanted to discuss... I'll need to go."
Miss Claire regarded him for a breath, then gave a single, slow nod.
"No. I think we've gone over all we need to." She lifted her glass again. "Should anything else come up, I'll be in touch."
Don stood, pushing his chair back with a soft scrape of wood on glass.
"Alright. Thank you," he said, then turned toward the waiter who was still standing awkwardly at the side.
Don pulled his wallet from his back pocket and held out a black card.
"You can charge the meal to me."
Before the waiter could move, Miss Claire set her glass down with a faint clink.
"That won't be necessary," she said smoothly. "The food here can be... elevated in price. Though I do find it worth it."
Don handed over the card anyway.
"Please. I insist."
There was the smallest pause — then that smile again. Fleeting. Amused. A little sharper than kind.
"I won't deny a free meal."
Don returned the expression with one of his own, subtle but present.
"Good. Can I get my card from you tomorrow, if you won't be too busy?"
Miss Claire reached for her cigarette case, flipping it open as she replied, "I'll leave it with your mother. I'm stopping by your new home to pick up Sylvia — she's visiting your sister."
Don nodded. "Alright then. Take care. Enjoy your evening."
He turned and walked away, hands back in his pockets, shoulders relaxed but purposeful.
Miss Claire watched him go, fingers lightly tapping the cigarette against her palm, not yet lighting it.
She took another sip from her wine, slower this time. 'What a peculiar but interesting young man. I can see why Sylvia's so fond of him. If only he weren't so dangerous...'
She smiled again — faint, introspective. The sort of expression that meant nothing and everything. 'But I suppose that too has its charm.'
Don's figure faded from view, swallowed by the architecture of the restaurant's upper floors.
Only once he was gone did the waiter clear his throat awkwardly, his voice brittle with the kind of anxiety that came from witnessing something far beyond his pay grade.
"So... Lobster, will it be?"
Miss Claire turned toward him, the expression already gone.
"Yes. I'll have the chilled lobster tail poached in saffron butter, served with citrus foam and truffle-seasoned risotto."
The waiter blinked, nodded, and scurried off to relay the order.
Miss Claire reached for her cigarette again, this time lighting it with a long, silver lighter. The flame hissed briefly — fshh — then vanished.
She leaned back in her chair, exhaled once, and stared out at the sea again.
