Love Burns Bright

Excerpt

Love Burns Bright
Rien Gray © 2022
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One

Justine

“All rise. The Honorable Judge Matthews presiding.”

I stand, but my heart doesn’t come with me. It lingers in my stomach like a lodestone, every beat a nauseous pulse as the judge walks into the room. Matthews looks to be in his sixties, white and heavyset, trapping a pair of sharp blue eyes behind too-small glasses. He takes his high seat with the reserved poise of a man who has done it a thousand times before, and that should comfort me. People come to this courthouse every day—there’s nothing strange about it.

They just don’t do it for the same reasons I am.

“Good morning, everyone,” he says, plucking the first file off the stack on his bench: mine. “Relax, sit down. Let’s get our petitions going for the day. Starting with Ms.…Cattaneo. I don’t think I’ve seen you in my court before.”

“You haven’t, Judge.” Sofia stays standing, reflecting his early-riser cheer with her own, utterly at ease. I’m glad to be in the chair again, one hand under the desk and gripping my thigh tight, grounding myself in the moment. “I’m from New York, like my client, so I’m only serving in an advisory capacity. Mrs. Fortin asked me to attend as a favor.”

Actually, Sofia offered representation pro bono. She said it was an olive branch, extended after mistaking my intentions. Her phrasing was both far too loaded and far too vague to be anything but Campbell’s intervention. I’m used to their bloodless reserve, but Sofia is a paragon of serpentine charm, warm as the sun one moment and venomous the next. The two of them are close friends, so if she wants to be on my good side, this is a pretty clever way to go about it.

I wish Campbell could be in here with me, but bringing a gun into the courtroom is out of the question, and ever since I was kidnapped in Paris, they’ve refused to go unarmed. At least I know they’re waiting outside, ready to drive Sofia and me away the moment this is over.

I tighten my fingers again, nails biting through the black drape of my dress. Sofia said to dress as if I was in mourning, which meant a conservative length and high collar, concealing the marks Campbell left in bed last night. The garter belt I’m wearing isn’t standard funerary issue, but it’s not like the judge will know any better.

“Very well,” Matthews murmurs, flipping to the next page in the file. “This is a petition to change your client’s surname?”

“To restore her maiden name,” Sofia corrects, tone light. “The paperwork should already be in order.”

The judge nods, only to frown as he starts reading through the forms. “I see a marriage certificate here. Did you file for divorce from your husband, Mrs. Fortin?”

Instinct clenches my jaw; I have to steal a breath, force myself to relax. “No, Your Honor.”

He raises a gray brow. “Does that mean you’re still married?”

The phrasing was “till death do us part,” so I certainly don’t consider myself to be married anymore. “No, Your Honor.”

What I want to say is he’s rotting in the ground, Your Honor. Richard abused me in every way he could think of for a decade, and I knew the so-called justice system would see a successful man cast against an ungrateful woman, despite the fact that I’d funded everything from his master’s degree to the particular brand of bourbon he liked to drink. So, I took matters into my own hands and hired the best assassin I could find to cut him out of my life.

Who I found was Campbell—a consummate killer. They’re the poison slipped into your favorite cup of coffee, the knife cutting brake lines in perfect silence, a fire started in the house while you’re peacefully asleep. Fluid and deadly as mercury, quicksilver gorgeous. The person who saw their own pain reflected in the broken mirror of my life and stepped closer to help pick up the pieces.

I love them more than I’ve ever loved anyone else.

Which is why I look Judge Matthews in the eyes, calling up the first hint of tears to my own, and lie without an ounce of guilt. “Richard committed suicide last year.”

It’s so easy to say, vindication outweighing the truth. I’ve been free ever since, no one the wiser, save for this last important detail.

“Ah.” He clears his throat, suddenly awkward. “My condolences.”

“Richard Fortin’s death certificate is at the bottom of the file,” Sofia adds, breezy in her helpfulness. I barely stifle my surprise—she must have done that on purpose. “Justine has experienced undue grief and no longer maintains contact with his side of the family. She would be far more comfortable using her maiden name on documentation and ID.”

“I see you filed a motion to waive the publication clause.” Matthews gestures with the form. He has the entire file spread across his desk now, clearly keen to avoid a second round of embarrassment. “Is there a reason your client doesn’t want her name change to become public record?”

“Illinois law requires three weeks of publication in a newspaper with the declaration, Judge. That’s three more weeks of stress for Justine and could attract reporters or other media attention, especially when you consider the circumstances of her husband’s unfortunate passing.”

Sofia slips a note of sympathy around the word “unfortunate,” pitch-perfect yet utterly false. Damn, she’s good. “If Justine had divorced him, the court wouldn’t require any public notice to restore her maiden name.”

“A fair point.” The judge acknowledges it with a tilt of his head before his attention recenters on me. “Do you have a criminal record, ma’am? Have you ever been convicted of a felony in this state or any other?”

Committed, yes. Convicted, thankfully not. Conspiracy comes with the territory while dating someone like Campbell. “No, Your Honor.”

“Then this appears to be in order.” Matthews picks up his gavel and strikes it once. “Petition granted. File these forms with the circuit clerk, and you’ll have the legal right to reclaim your name.”

God, I can breathe again. “Thank you so much.”

“Have a good day, Ms. Zhang.” His eyes fall to the bailiff. “Next case!”

Sofia escorts me out to the courthouse proper after recovering the paperwork, shuffling the forms into order before examining the judge’s signature at the bottom. She hums in satisfaction, smile nothing short of bloodthirsty.

“That catch at the end there was impressive,” she says. “He must have really felt guilty. Putting pressure on the sad little wife.”

“You set him up for it,” I answer quietly, marking the pair of attorneys walking past us.

“I’m of the firm belief that every case should come with insurance. It was the same reason I dragged you out here so early. Judges never look at their first case the night before unless paparazzi or a prosecutor is hounding them.” She flips the manila folder shut and offers it to me. “The circuit clerk is a formality, so relax. We’re done here.”

We have to wait in line for a good twenty minutes, but the woman behind the desk doesn’t even look at me before stamping the papers in triplicate. She scans my driver’s license and hands back forms for the DMV and Social Security, noting that I can start using my birth certificate again for any verification with government agencies. No more having to flash around my dead marriage every time I want to fill out a form. I can finally get rid of the damn wedding ring, which has been collecting dust for months in my bedside drawer.

“How are you feeling?” Sofia asks as we step outside, away from the tall column of glass and iron that makes up Daley Center.

A burst of Chicago wind knocks my hair out of order, then promptly whips it the other way. I brush the few chaotic strands from my face and come to terms with the truth: “Like I got away with murder.”

Her laugh would make hyenas jealous, a snap like teeth crushing bone. “A bit of a rush, I imagine. I’m so used to it by now.”

She escorts me down to Randolph Street, where a slate-blue sedan is parked along the sidewalk. Campbell leans against the car, feigning anonymity behind a pair of designer sunglasses, their castaneous hair cut short and slicked with pomade to ward off the breeze with faultless composure. A massive bouquet covers their hands, exploding with vivid color: the wide bloom of dark-red dahlias entwined with yearning hyacinths, almost pink in comparison to the feather-shaped petals of the crimson carnations underneath.

They smile, real and open, which almost makes me forget about the flowers entirely. “How did it go?”

“Justine is a free woman,” Sofia answers, “barring whatever you two did that left bruises on her wrists.”

Heat rushes up the nape of my neck. She must have noticed a mark or two when I was adjusting my sleeve. “They were teaching me how to get out of handcuffs last night.”

“Literally,” Campbell confirms, deflecting Sofia’s suspicion with flat affect. “What happened afterward, I can’t say.”

They step forward and push the bouquet into my hands, leaning down so I can see over the dark lenses and into the gray storm of their eyes. “These are for you. I thought we should celebrate, considering.”

Without thinking, I kiss them. The gesture comes easy as breathing, but more than that, I want to stake my claim on them in public. My name—my life, my future—doesn’t belong to Richard anymore, and there’s no need to hide that I’m in bed with someone else.

Campbell answers my affection with a soft hum, one arm slipping around my ribs to keep me close. The sweet perfume of flowers is crushed between the clean, familiar scent of their skin and a whiff of cold cologne, bergamot and amber clinging to poivre rosé. I breathe deep, tasting them, and break away with a happy sigh.

“What kind of celebration?”

“The flowers, of course,” Campbell teases, “but also breakfast at D’Winters. I have reservations. And yes, Sofia, you’re invited.”

Amusement gives green eyes a viper’s glint. “Good. I’m starving.”

Campbell’s fingertips draw a low, possessive circle along the small of my back before they pull away. I shiver, remembering the promise they made me last night, the confirmation whispered against my lips this morning as they helped me get dressed.

Chivalrous as ever, Campbell holds the passenger side door for me and pops the rear open for Sofia once I’m settled with the bouquet in my lap. They get in the driver’s seat and start the engine, sending a near-deafening blare of heavy metal through the speakers before turning the volume down to a low roar. I swallow a laugh, but Sofia’s distaste radiates in a palpable aura.

“Your taste in music is mystifying,” she declares.

“Who doesn’t love a little mystique?” Campbell counters, looking over their shoulder as they back out onto the street. “Everyone expects people like me to brood over Tchaikovsky and von Bingen. A dark meditation on the human spirit.”

“And screaming Armenians are better?”

“Absolutely.”

This time I do laugh, draping my hand over Campbell’s when it relaxes off the wheel. They hook two fingers around mine, eyes locked on the road while evading the ever-present hostility of Chicago traffic. Sofia retreats into her phone, answering texts so fast the taps start to overlap one another.

D’Winters is one of those high-rise brunch places that juts out over the city as if daring gravity to intervene. The hostess matches the interior, wearing an ivory sheath dress dappled with gold paint-like splashes and half a dozen loops piercing her ears, their demure construction downplaying the expense of the design. A lot of local artists would strangle one another to get their work displayed inside this restaurant; the average patron likes to show up for a fifty-dollar pitcher of mimosas and walk out with a new piece expressly shipped to their front door.

“Do you have a reservation?” the hostess asks.

“Yes. Three for Zhang,” Campbell answers.

My heart rises, warm and weightless. I can’t stop smiling to myself as we’re escorted to our table, a neat little setup by the balcony. Campbell relaxes in their seat with privileged ease, as if they’re just another rich and oblivious guest holding keys to a gilded cage. They dressed for the occasion, too, breaking the formal line of their black button-up with stark white floral print, dark leaves and roots disappearing into the folds of fabric at each elbow where the sleeves have been expertly tucked. I should send whoever tailored their trousers a bouquet of my own, with the way the herringbone fabric cradles the muscle in their thighs.

“Hungry?” they ask, snapping my attention upward.

Caught by their gaze, desire threads a loop around my neck and pulls. “Very.”

Sofia ensnares me in turn with a wry look as I sit, her menu already in hand. “You two really are made for each other.”

“Is that criticism or approval?” Campbell deflects, linking my fingers with theirs as they skim what’s available.

“Neither,” she admits, shrugging. “You don’t need my approval. But it’s a bit like seeing a Javan tiger loping down the sidewalk. Your first thought is, I didn’t think any of those were left.”

“That wouldn’t be my first thought seeing a tiger,” I say under my breath.

“Sofia’s playing coy.” After setting down their menu, Campbell summons the waiter with a light wave. “But speaking of predators wandering the city, I wanted to bring up your trip home to New York.”

“Mine?” She frowns, but the server’s approach interrupts her desire for clarity.

I order the bird’s nest soup, dreadfully curious if it’s the real thing, while Campbell stays traditional with steak, eggs, and a cup of black coffee. Ninety percent of the price is in the sirloin, although I have to be honest and say most beef tastes exactly the same to me. Sofia asks for espresso with the solemn authority of a food critic and adds Balik salmon on toast like it’s an afterthought.

“You were going to fly out tomorrow, right?” Campbell asks once the waiter falls out of earshot.

Sofia nods. “That’s the plan. I do have to be in the office again by Monday at the latest, unless there’s an emergency I don’t know about.”

“Not an emergency.” They give my hand a light squeeze, which I return. “But if you wait a day, Justine and I can come with you. We’re going to New York to meet her parents, and I thought we could make a trip out of it.”

Green eyes shoot wide in surprise, and Sofia has never struck me as a woman easily knocked off guard. “You’re going to meet her family?”

My stomach does a hard flip. I’m nervous about it, too, but after a decade of being kept from my mother and father—another aspect of Richard’s brutal intervention—it’s become one of the only things I can think about. If Campbell and I are going to be together, seeing the other side of my life is essential.

No matter how many secrets I have to keep to make that happen.