Finn's POV
I sit in a corner booth at Marlowe's, a café on the far side of the city where no one from Howell Capital would think to look for me. The coffee in front of me has gone cold twice. I ordered a third cup twenty minutes ago and have not touched it.
Tim is late.
I check my phone again. No message from him. No explanation for why he is not sitting across from me with the evidence I asked him to find.
I told him exactly what I needed. Specific accounts. Specific amounts. Specific dates. The pattern that forms when you lay those three elements side by side and let them speak for themselves.
The Bar Association does not open investigations based on hunches or accusations. They require documentation. They require proof that cannot be explained away or buried beneath a mountain of legal jargon and procedural delays.
One credible complaint with real evidence behind it, and Daniel Palmer's any possible career ends with a single phone call.
And I will be watching when it happens.
My phone buzzes against the table, and for a moment I think it is Tim finally explaining his absence. Instead, Gwen's name fills the screen.
Gwen: Mother has moved the seating chart meeting to Sunday brunch. Also, the florist needs final approval on the centerpieces by Wednesday. Can you send me your thoughts on the orchid arrangements vs the peonies? I've attached photos
I stare at the message until the words reform into shapes that have no meaning.
Orchids or peonies.
As if that is the question keeping me awake at night.
The engagement to Gwen was never about love. We both understood that from the beginning, standing in my father's study while our parents discussed merger timelines like we were subsidiaries being folded into a larger portfolio.
"You built something impressive on your own, Finn," my father had said, his hand heavy on my shoulder. "But legacy is something you inherit and expand. The Henderson alliance will position us for the next fifty years."
Impressive.
As if he had not spent years telling me the opposite. As if he had not watched me leave the family business with barely concealed contempt, convinced I would crawl back within the year.
Everyone expected me to fail—my father loudest of all.
Everyone except Aubrey.
"You are going to build something that terrifies them," she had said once, cross-legged on my dorm room floor with highlighter ink on her fingers and absolute certainty in her voice. "And when you do, they will pretend they believed in you all along."
She was right.
They were right too, in their way. Gwen has never once asked me for anything I could not provide. She has never demanded affection or manufactured jealousy or tested the boundaries of our arrangement with emotional ultimatums.
She has also never made me feel like I was standing at the edge of a cliff, willing to jump just to see if the fall would feel like flying.
Aubrey does that. Aubrey has always done that.
I type a response to Gwen, my thumbs moving automatically across the screen.
Me: Peonies are fine. I trust your judgment on the rest. See you Sunday.
The message sends, and I set the phone face-down on the table so I do not have to look at the conversation thread.
A shadow falls across the booth, and I look up to find Tim sliding into the seat across from me. His expression carries a satisfaction so complete that I feel the tension in my shoulders release before he has said a single word.
"You look pleased with yourself," I say, pushing the untouched coffee toward him. "I assume that means you found what I asked for."
"Found it, documented it, and watched the dominoes start falling."
He picks up the coffee and takes a long drink despite its temperature.
"Daniel Palmer has been under investigation by his own shitty little firm since five this morning. I was there when they opened his office and started pulling files."
The relief arrives sharp and specific, lodging beneath my ribs like a splinter of light in a dark room. "Tell me everything. Start from the beginning and do not leave out a single detail."
Tim sets down the cup and leans back against the booth, crossing his arms over his chest.
"This guy cooked the books on three separate clients. Kept the amounts small, spread them across several years, figured nobody would bother connecting the dots. He figured wrong."
"How much are we talking about?"
"Collectively, just under two hundred thousand dollars." He watches my reaction with careful attention. "Not enough to attract attention on its own, but more than enough to trigger a formal inquiry once the Bar receives a complaint with supporting documentation."
I exhale slowly, feeling the air leave my lungs in a controlled release. "And the complaint has been filed?"
"As of seven o'clock this morning." Tim reaches into his jacket and pulls out a folded document, sliding it across the table toward me. "This is the confirmation. The Bar has opened a preliminary investigation, which means Daniel Palmer is about to have a very bad week."
I unfold the document and scan the contents, absorbing the formal language and procedural timestamps. The ink is crisp, the letterhead official, the language bloodless in the way only legal documents can be.
This is the beginning of the end for Daniel Palmer.
"What happens next?" I ask, setting the paper down.
"The internal review will likely turn up additional irregularities, I am sure of it." Tim retrieves the document and tucks it back into his jacket. "His partners will distance themselves to protect the firm's reputation. And by the time the dust settles, Daniel Palmer will be unemployable in any legal capacity in this state or any other."
"How long?"
"Hard to say with certainty. These things can drag on for months if the accused decides to fight, but the evidence is solid enough that most attorneys would advise surrendering the license voluntarily."
He studies my face, and I watch him make the calculation I have been avoiding.
"You are going to tell her today, aren't you?"
"I have meetings until six." The frustration surfaces before I can suppress it, tightening my jaw. My molars press together hard enough to ache. "I do not know if I will make it back to the office before she leaves for the day."
"Then call her. Send a message."
"She asked me to stay out of it." The words taste bitter, even now. "She made it very clear that she did not want my interference."
Tim laughs, a short bark that carries no humor whatsoever.
"And you ignored her completely, and are now worried about the etiquette of how to deliver the good news?" He shakes his head. "You are such a fool in love, Finn. It would be embarrassing if it were not so predictable."
I do not object.
The truth sits between us, obvious and undeniable, and I find I have no interest in pretending otherwise.
"I need to see her face when I tell her," I say quietly. "I need to be there when she understands that he cannot touch her anymore. That she is free."
Tim sighs, long and slow, and pushes himself out of the booth. The vinyl releases him with a soft exhale. "Then finish your meetings and get back to the office before she disappears again."
He drops a twenty on the table and walks toward the door, leaving me alone with my cold coffee and the folded document and the image of Aubrey's face when I tell her the man who hurt her is finished.
I check my watch. The hands tick forward with maddening indifference. Three hours until the Alderton presentation.
Three hours until I can start counting down the minutes to seeing her again.
Hold on, Aubrey. I am coming.