Page 3 of Painter's Obsession

I flip open my briefcase and spread Byron Lopez’s case file across the table.

The clatter of porcelain jolts me as hot coffee spills across my papers.

“Shit—fuck, I’m sorry!” Sandra stammers, scrambling for napkins.

I arch a brow, more amused than annoyed. “Are you alright?”

She sets the pot down, exhaling shakily. “No… I—uh, that’s my ex. Byron Lopez. I guess you’re his lawyer.” Her voice drops, tinged with something I can’t place—fear, regret, disgust?

Perfect.

“I guess I am,” I reply coolly, though a strange hum settles in my chest. This is no coincidence. Fate doesn’t deal coincidences to men like me.

Sandra’s gaze lingers a moment longer, searching for something I don’t offer, then she walks away.Good. I finish my breakfast in silence, the hour slipping past as I wait, hoping to catch a glimpse of my little flower. But she never comes. Disappointment gnaws at me like a stray dog, but there’s no time to dwell. Duty calls.

Byron Lopez awaits me in chains.

The courthouse smells like sweat and stale paper. I nod to the officers by the metal detectors, their greetings blending into white noise.

“Good morning, Mr. Sato.”

“Morning, fellas,” I reply, flashing a hollow smile. They watch the briefcase scan through the X-ray—black leather, hard edges, hiding sharp intentions. But nothing out of the ordinary, only files for an endless stream of criminals. Grabbing it, I make my way up the stairs. Elevators? Never. Some phobias die hard.

Ten minutes later, the familiar sounds of rattling chains, curses, and heavy boots fill the hallway.

Showtime.

I adjust my cuffs and open the door to the small, sterile office space. The guards bring him in—a presence so sharp it cuts through the room like a blade. He drops into the chair across from me with all the grace of a caged animal. Buzzed hair, light brown skin, scar splitting his Cupid’s bow and muscles straining against the orange jumpsuit. The chains clink with every breath he takes. He radiates defiance—rage barely contained beneath his scarred skin.

Beautiful.

“You must be Byron Lopez.” My voice is steady, detached. “I’m Ren Sato. I’ve taken your case pro-bono.”

He grunts, jaw flexing. I place a manila folder in front of him and slide it across the table like a loaded gun.

“The prosecutor’s offer is two years in state prison, mandatory classes, and therapy,” I say, calm as a priest delivering last rites.

Byron’s lip curls. “I ain’t doin’ therapy.” His voice is like gravel dragging across concrete.

I lean back, studying him. Men like him only understand one thing: leverage. I smile faintly, like I’ve already won.

“You were caught with enough cash and product to bury you for five years. Take this deal, Byron, or wait for trial. By then, your family will be wondering if they’ll ever see you again.”

The word “family” hangs heavy between us, twisting his scowl into something darker. Good. I push the pen in front of him, watching him wrestle with it like a weapon he doesn’t know how to wield.

He hesitates. His chains rattle against the metal table, each sound sharpening the heat pooling in my gut.

I watch. I wait.

Struggle for me.

Finally, he snatches the pen and scratches his name across the bottom line.

As soon as it’s done, he shoves the file back and calls for the guard, like the air in this room is suffocating him. He doesn’t look back.

Coward.

I linger for a moment, my fingers brushing the spot where his hand had been. My cock stirs with the faintest throb, my mind painting him stripped, bound, and helpless. A masterpiece begging to be finished—my Achilles, brought low.

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