By the time the undergrads finished butchering their cross, I’d already rewritten their closing in my head and mentally sentenced three of them to remedial evidence.
“Stop.”
My voice cut across the practice courtroom like a gavel. Two dozen pairs of eyes jumped to me—pre-law tourists in cheap blazers, trying not to look terrified of the terrifying TA.
Too late.
The witness on the stand—a volunteer from Civil Procedure—froze mid-fidget. The would-be advocate at counsel table swallowed so audibly it echoed under the high ceiling of Sterling Law’s smallest courtroom.
“Ms. Patel,” I said, stepping down from the back row. My heels clicked on the worn wood, each sound precise. Controlled. “When a witness volunteers you a hearsay exception, you don’t swat it away like a mosquito.”
She stared at me, eyes wide behind tortoiseshell frames. “I—I thought it was nonresponsive, so—”
“It was nonresponsive.” I stopped at the edge of the well, close enough to see her notes shaking in her hand. “Which is why you smile, say ‘move to strike,’ and then use what she just told you to build your next question. You don’t argue with the gift horse. You ride it.”
A few of the students laughed, too loudly, grateful for something that wasn’t panic.
“Reset from the last question,” I said. “This time, listen to the answer instead of your own voice.”
I stepped back, folding my arms. The familiar geometry of the courtroom settled around me: judge’s bench hunkered like a watchful mountain, counsel tables forming a battlefield, gallery whispering in the dim. This room made sense. Your performance was your power. Your preparation, your shield.
Your ethics, your weapon.
I watched Ms. Patel try again—better, not great—and let the rhythm of questioning dull the frayed edges of my mind. The dean’s email sat like a live coal in my inbox, ignored but burning through the lining of my bag.
We’ll discuss an urgent assignment in my office at four.
An assignment that couldn’t wait until after my scheduled ethics board meeting, my TA conference, or, apparently, my ability to breathe.
“Okay,” I said finally, when the cross limped to a close. “We’ll stop there before this witness confesses to a parking ticket and three unpaid library fines.”
More nervous laughter. I allowed myself a small, surgical smile.
“Read chapters five and seven again before next week. If anyone comes to my office hours without having done the hypotheticals, I will make you object to your own existence on relevance grounds. Dismissed.”
They scattered, a flurry of casebooks and messenger bags. A couple stayed behind to ask questions. I dispatched them efficiently—no, you can’t cite Wikipedia; yes, Advanced Trial Advocacy will eat you alive if you don’t practice; no, Professor Locke does not curve.
By the time the room was empty, the quiet had a physical weight. Sunlight from the high windows had gone soft and amber, turning dust motes into slow galaxies.
My phone vibrated again.
Dean Harrell: 3:55. Don’t be late, Ms. Maddox.
I locked the screen before the anxiety could crystallize into anything recognizably human and gathered my files. Trial notebooks, color-coded tabs blooming like bruises—my comfort objects.
The corridor outside smelled faintly of old coffee and printer toner. Students flowed past, their chatter ricocheting off the stone walls: clerkships, OCI offers, gossip about who’d flamed out in Locke’s last cold call.
I walked at a measured pace, not fast enough to look eager, not slow enough to be disrespectful. My reflection flashed briefly in the glass of a display case—dark hair pulled into a severe knot, black blazer, red lipstick like a warning sign. Vera the Blade. That was what the 1Ls called me when they thought I couldn’t hear.
I’d heard.
The dean’s suite sat at the end of the hallway like a quiet threat. Frosted glass, tasteful wood, the school crest engraved on the door: STERLING LAW. Pursuit of Justice Since 1874.
Justice. Right.
The receptionist smiled in the neutral way of people who take their coffee with political calculus. “She’s expecting you, Vera. Go right in.”
I smoothed my blazer, squared my shoulders, and stepped into the office.
Dean Marianne Harrell stood by the window, backlit by the city skyline. Late-afternoon light traced the edges of her silver-streaked hair and immaculate navy suit. On the wall behind her, degrees and donor plaques glowed.
At first I thought we were alone. Then my eyes adjusted.
Someone sat in the leather chair opposite her desk, long legs crossed, posture slouched in an artful kind of defiance. A dark suit that probably cost more than my entire semester aid package. Carelessly knotted tie. Profile sharp enough to file a motion on.
Dorian Kade.
My stomach went cold.
You didn’t have to follow campus gossip to know who he was. The Kade family name was carved into a wing of the business school, the corporate law center, and a nauseatingly modern glass library that screamed tax write-off.
He was the antihero of a hundred whispered Sterling stories: the guy who’d destroyed a student government candidate with one anonymous tip, who’d turned a professor’s offhand comment into a meme that haunted RateMyProfessor for years, who always seemed to skate right up to the line of what you could prove.
And he was currently in the dean’s office, looking like he’d wandered out of a cologne ad and into a disciplinary hearing.
“Ms. Maddox,” Harrell said, turning. Her smile was warm but measured, like a judge about to issue a ruling she knew would be appealed. “Sit, please.”
I sat in the chair beside him, keeping a deliberate inch of space between our armrests.
Dorian’s gaze flicked to me. Up close, his eyes were an unsettling gray—storm-cloud pale, framed by lashes that would’ve sold mascara if he weren’t busy selling moral ambiguity.
“Vera,” he said, like we knew each other. Like we were peers.
I did not offer him my hand.
“Mr. Kade,” I replied, crisp as new paper.
Harrell moved behind her desk, steepling her fingers. “I’m glad you both could make time. We have an…unusual situation.”
Understatement. The dean did not summon her favorite ethics board attack dog to chat about anyone’s career goals.
“Mr. Kade has been referred to the Academic Integrity Council,” she continued. “Serious allegations: use of ghostwriters, coercion of classmates, potential blackmail.”
I kept my expression neutral, but something twisted under my ribs. Ghostwriters. Blackmail. The exact kind of rot I’d built my life around burning out with surgical fire.
“I assume,” I said carefully, “the Council will appoint a student advocate from the usual rotation.”
I was already running through names. People I trusted. People who would tear him apart.
“Yes and no,” Harrell said. “Given the…visibility of this case, and given Mr. Kade’s family’s relationship with the university, I think we can agree this has the potential to become messy. I need someone unimpeachable representing him. Someone whose integrity is above question.”
I knew before she said it. The dread was a taste in my mouth, metallic and old.
“Vera,” she said. “I’d like you to serve as Mr. Kade’s student defender.”
The room went slightly out of focus.
I heard the city beyond the glass: a siren far below, the rush of traffic. My own pulse in my ears.
“Respectfully, Dean,” I said, each word measured, “that makes no sense.”
“On the contrary,” she said. “You are the Legal Ethics board’s most trusted member. You’re Professor Locke’s TA for Advanced Trial Advocacy. No one will accuse the Council of favoritism if you are seen arguing vigorously on Mr. Kade’s behalf.”
I almost laughed. Or screamed.
“You want to use my reputation to launder his,” I said. “I applied to be on the prosecutorial side of Council assignments this term, not defense.”
Dorian shifted slightly, the leather beneath him creaking. I refused to look at him.
Harrell’s mouth tightened fractionally. “And I approved you for both, Ms. Maddox, because flexibility is part of leadership. This is not a request.”
There it was: the line between mentor and user, drawn in institutional font.
“Dean Harrell,” I said, struggling to keep the edge out of my voice, “with respect to the Council’s independence—”
“This is not about independence. It’s about stability.” Her tone sharpened, then smoothed again. “The Kade family has been generous. If this devolves into a public spectacle, we risk more than one student’s record. I am asking you to ensure the process is fair. That is what you care about, isn’t it?”
Fair. Not just.
I thought of my father’s face the night he’d come home after Sterling’s pet corporation tanked his firm’s pension fund, hands shaking too hard to untie his own tie. I thought of the woman from Kade Holdings who’d sat across our kitchen table during the so-called settlement negotiations, explaining why their behavior was
legal
.
Legal was not the same as fair.
“I care about the rules being applied equally,” I said. “Assigning the Ethics Board’s own member to defend the heir of the school’s largest donor doesn’t exactly scream equal application.”
For a moment, I thought she might actually reconsider. Then I saw the flicker in her eyes: something like regret, quickly submerged.
“Your objection is noted,” Harrell said. “But my decision stands. You will have full access to the case file and time to prepare before the preliminary hearing next week. I trust you will give Mr. Kade the same zealous representation you would anyone else.”
She said it like a compliment. To me, it felt like a dare.
I finally looked at him.
He’d been watching this verbal tennis match with a detachment that was almost insulting, head tilted slightly, like he was cataloging my reactions for later use. When our eyes met, something like curiosity sparked in his.
“So,” he said softly, breaking his silence for the first time, “I get the Blade for my defender. I’m flattered.”
I stared. “Don’t call me that.”
A corner of his mouth curved. Not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. “Oh, I didn’t invent the nickname.”
“I know who invented it,” I snapped. Locke, half-amused, half-proud, after a particularly brutal moot performance last semester. The 1Ls had picked it up like it was gospel.
Harrell cleared her throat. “You’ll have to work out your…terminology elsewhere. I have another meeting in five minutes. Ms. Maddox, you’ll receive the full case file by tonight. Mr. Kade, I expect your full cooperation. No theatrics.”
“No promises,” he murmured, rising with lazy grace. Then, louder: “Of course, Dean. I’m deeply invested in clearing my good name.”
The way he said
good
made it sound theoretical.
I stood as well, clutching my folder so tightly the edges dug into my palm.
“Vera,” Harrell said, as we turned toward the door. “This will reflect on you. Handle it well, and certain clerkship doors might open a little wider.”
There it was. The carrot after the stick.
“I’ll handle it,” I said. “Properly.”
Her gaze lingered on me, a fraction too long. Then she nodded. “Good. You’re dismissed.”
We stepped into the hallway. The door shut behind us with a quiet click that sounded like a verdict.
For a moment, we stood side by side in a corridor suddenly too narrow. Students passed at a safe distance, their eyes skimming over us, unaware that the gravitational field of Sterling had just shifted a few degrees.
“So,” Dorian said eventually. “Is this the part where you tell me you believe in my innocence?”
I turned to face him. Up close, the polished veneer faltered just enough to reveal something else: a tension in his jaw, a faint tightness around his eyes. He wasn’t as untouchable as he wanted me to think.
“I don’t know if you’re innocent,” I said. “Yet.”
He arched a brow. “And if you decide I’m not?”
“Then I’ll still give you the best defense this place has seen in years.” My voice surprised me with its certainty. “And if you’re lying to me, I will make sure the Council buries you so deep your father’s money won’t buy a ladder.”
His gaze sharpened, interest flaring. “Threats on the first day. We’re off to a promising start.”
“This isn’t a start,” I said. “It’s triage. My office. Tomorrow, eight a.m. Don’t be late.”
He laughed, a soft, disbelieving sound. “You do realize I don’t take 8 a.m. meetings.”
“You do now.” I began to walk, leaving him to either follow or not.
He did.
His footsteps fell into pace with mine. “You know, the dean said she needed someone unimpeachable. Not necessarily the best.”
I stopped dead.
He took another step before realizing, then turned to face me, amused.
“Excuse me?” I said.
He shrugged one shoulder, like this was all some interesting sociological experiment. “I’ve seen you in Locke’s class. You’re precise. Textbook. That’s cute. But textbook doesn’t beat instinct.”
The words hit harder than they should have. Years of making myself into a weapon, dismissed like I was a particularly sharp study guide.
“And you think you’re instinct?” I asked, heat rising under my collar.
“I
know
I am.” His gaze drifted over my face, assessing. “Look, I’m very grateful the dean picked someone with clean hands to hold mine. But if we’re discussing who’s the best in the room?”
He leaned in just a fraction, enough that I caught the faint scent of expensive cologne and something colder underneath.
“It’s not you,” he said.
The hallway tilted.
For one split second, something pulsed between us—raw challenge, yes, but also something dangerously electric. Like we’d stepped onto opposite ends of a live wire.
I smiled, slow and sharp, letting the sting turn to steel. “Then we’ll consider this an opportunity, Mr. Kade.”
“An opportunity for what?”
“To prove you wrong.”
He held my gaze for a beat too long, gray eyes unreadable. Then he laughed again, softer this time.
“Eight a.m.,” he said. “I’ll bring coffee. I have a feeling we’re going to need it.”
He walked away before I could decide whether to be impressed or offended.
Probably both.
I watched his back recede into the crowd, the sea of students parting unconsciously around him. A golden boy, haloed by money and myth.
My new client.
My new problem.
The Academic Integrity Council hearing would be in less than a week. Somewhere in between, I had to read a case file that might confirm every suspicion I’d ever had about men like him—about families like his—or force me to admit the system I served was balanced on rot.
Instinct versus textbook.
Enemy versus defender.
I adjusted the strap of my bag, feeling the old anger settle into something colder. Sharper.
If he thought he’d already won the first round, he’d forgotten one critical rule of trial work.
Openings were just that.
The real damage came in the cross.
And I was very, very good at cross.
I pulled out my phone, thumb hovering over my inbox as I headed toward the library, pulse finally steadying.
The dean’s promised case file had arrived.
Subject: Kade, Dorian – AIC Referral Packet.
I opened it, eyes scanning the first page as the heavy doors swung closed behind me.
Halfway down the allegations list, my steps faltered.
There, tucked among the claims of ghostwriters and coercion, was a name I recognized far too well.
Complainant: Sienna Rowe.
My fellow ethics board star. My supposed ally.
My fingers tightened around the phone.
So this wasn’t just about Dorian Kade.
It was about my board.
Which meant that whatever game we’d just been conscripted into, the battlefield was bigger than either of us.
And whether I liked it or not, I was now standing back-to-back with the one person on campus I’d sworn I’d never defend.
