Page 4 of Wistful Whispers
Marcella
Eight Weeks Later
FinneyCooperisn’talaw firm.
It’s a war machine.
We’re the lawyers you call when you’re done playing fair and ready to ruin reputations.
I didn’t claw my way to partner in a firm like this by being nice.
I did it by winning.
By making damn sure no one questions whether I belong here.
Despite my confidence in the courtroom, I stand in front of the full-length mirror in my office, buttoned into a bespoke power suit—tailored, sharp, commanding—wishing I could shrink myself to fit a world built for someone else.
I feel rage simmer beneath the surface. Rage at every sideways glance, every softened smile. Rage at the way the world measures worth in inches.
Even more rage at the part of me who still cares.
I smooth my hands down the silky fabric and adjust my blazer. I can see the way the fabric pulls at my hips and doesn’t quite cover the bulge of my stomach. Despite the custom fit, my ample curves always make everything feel a size too tight. If I didn’t wear constrictive shaping undergarments, I probably couldn’t even zip up my skirt. My thighs would rub together and chafe.
I know I’m objectively attractive. I have a face people notice—sharp cheekbones, full lips, long, brown hair gleaming in the right light. I take care of myself. I buy the expensive skincare. Go to the finest salons. Never miss a mani/pedi. Work out at the gym three times a week with a trainer.
I put in the effort.
Yet, I’m still a big girl. Alone. Thirty-seven. No prospects. Haven’t had sex in two years.
Let’s be honest, I’m past my prime.
A knock at my door snaps me back. I exhale sharply, forcing my lifelong insecurities down and locking them where I keep all the things I don’t have time for.
Deep, deep inside of me where they can’t be touched.
I call out, “Yes?”
My assistant, Cora peeks in, all efficiency in her crisp navy dress. “The Blacks are here.”
Showtime.
I stride down the hall to the conference room, my heels clicking against the polished floors. My spine is straight and my expression is deliberately composed. The weight of the case and what I’m about to ask these grieving parents to relive, settles over me. I don’t let it show, though. This is about them, not me.
Pushing open the door, I step inside and immediately see Myra and Daniel Black sitting stiffly at the conference table. Their hands are clasped together, fingers knotted so tightly it looks painful. Myra’s eyes are puffy. Exhaustion lines her face. Daniel’s jaw clenched so tightly it looks like he’s going to grind his teeth to dust.
Their grief and anger twist together in the space between them, raw and festering.
God, there’s something about parents in situations like this—the way they hold on to each other like it’s the only thing keeping them from falling apart. It breaks my heart and reminds me why I became a lawyer in the first place.
They may not want to be here.
To receive justice, theyneedto be.
I offer them a steady, reassuring nod as I sit across from them and open their daughter’s case file in my laptop. “Mr. and Mrs. Black, I’m Marcella Delgado. I’m so incredibly sorry for what you’re going through. It’s too much for any parent to endure.”
Myra swallows hard, her fingers grip and regrip her husband’s. “We don’t know what happens next.”
“I’ve reviewed the medical records, and based on what I’ve seen so far, you have a strong case. What happened to Miranda never should have happened.” I make sure to look at both of them, they need to trust me to seek justice for their daughter.
