Page 4 of Salem's Fall
Still, no excuses. It was a careless mistake, and it was mine.
Luckily, a senior paralegal flagged it and brought it to Quinn’s attention. The case never truly went sideways, but the damage to my reputation? That was already done.
I’ve been climbing uphill ever since.
“Morning,” I say to Quinn, feeling a bit jittery—not just because of him, though that’s part of it. The guilt of disappointing him still lingers, but so does the weight of today. It’s not every day I’m thrown into the deep end of one of the most high-profile murder cases Boston has ever seen.
Quinn’s eyes flick over me, assessing, and I’m glad I took a few extra minutes to look presentable before running out the door. My blonde hair is tucked into a chic French braid andmy makeup is tasteful. It’s just enough to make my blue eyes pop and give my lips a soft pink hue, nothing overdone. I’d slipped into the nicest suit I owned: a pale pink tailored tweed that’s feminine yet professional. It isn’t designer, but the clean lines give it an expensive look. I know appearances are important to Quinn.
Plus, there’s our mysterious client. Quinn still hasn’t told me who it is.
“You look good,” he says, that charming half-smile I’d been missing now on his face, and a warm satisfaction settles in my chest at his approval. “Let’s go. The client is waiting for us inside.”
I follow him through the courthouse double doors and down the hallway, the heavy atmosphere of the building pressing in on me. Marble floors. Dark wood paneling. The faint scent of coffee wafting through the halls. The early morning bustle is minimal, a few clerks moving through the corridors, some security guards and police, unaware of the storm brewing. It’s unusually quiet, not just because of the hour, but because it’s Saturday—court opened solely for this emergency hearing, a rare weekend exception. By the time the media gets wind of things, it’ll be chaos in here.
We reach a small conference room just off the main hallway and take our seats. I glance up at the clock on the wall. The hearing is in two hours. Our client should arrive any minute, and I’m filled with anticipation as we wait.
“How do you feel?” Quinn asks me, his voice softening with a bit of concern. “You ready for this?”
“I’m fine,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. “Just nervous.”
Quinn watches me for a moment longer, as if weighing my readiness. There’s something else in his gaze—something more personal. It’s always there, simmering beneath the surface, but never quite acknowledged. The tension betweenus has grown over time, but neither of us dares cross that line.
“You should be nervous, Woodsen,” he says bluntly, his striking honey-colored eyes locking onto mine, their intensity unnerving. “The entire metroplex—hell, the entire state—is going to be watching us. This case could make or break your career and mine. Our client… he’s tricky.”
For the first time, his usual calm-as-a-cucumber demeanor betrays just a hint of tension as he adjusts his jacket. The way his fingers twirl around his designer Cartier cufflinks makes me realize that even the unshakeable Quinn Alexander Kensington can be rattled.
“Here, look for yourself,” he says and hands me the case file. At the very top is a name that sends shivers down my spine.
I gasp.
“Our client isDamien Blackhollow?”
“Unfortunately.” Quinn sighs, his jaw clenching before he continues, “I’ve known the man almost my whole life. There’s no other way to say this—he’s dangerous, James. Not just because of what he’s been accused of, but because of who he is. He’s got too much power and money. He’s grown up his whole life believing he’s untouchable, and perhaps he was. Until now.” He swallows hard. “He isn’t a good guy, and he plays by his own rules. He’s not someone you let your guard down around. Got it?”
A prickle of unease creeps up my neck. Damien Blackhollow isn’t just another client—he’s the newly minted CEO of Blackhollow Industries, a multibillion-dollar empire dominating venture capital, private equity, and cutting-edge tech across New England. His family’s legacy stretches back generations, built on cut-throat deals and ruthless precision. It had been big news when Damien had inherited it all after his father’s untimely death a few years ago.
His father, Ian Blackhollow, was found floating face down in the indoor pool of their sprawling Nantucket summer estate, still dressed in his evening attire. The official ruling was accidental drowning, that he’d slipped near the water on his way to a dinner party, but there’d been hushed whispers and rumors that perhaps Damien had something to do with it in order to seize control of the company. Nothing ever came of it, though.
“You think he did it?” I ask in a hushed whisper.
Quinn shrugs. “I met with him briefly last night after the arrest. He claims to be innocent, but I guess we’ll find out,” he says, his eyes flicking up to the clock. “He should be here any minute. Stay sharp.”
A moment later, in strolls Damien Blackhollow, as if he owns the place.
The man’s presence is magnetic and unsettling, impossible to ignore. His midnight-black hair is styled back with a precision that feels almost surgical, exposing the sharp angles of cheekbones that could cut glass. His eyes are a piercing, nearly black shade, holding an intensity that borders on predatory, as if he’s sizing up not just the room, but everyone in it. He’s impeccably dressed despite the night spent in jail. Dark suit, perfectly tailored to his muscular frame, and a shiny Audemars Piguet watch glinting on his wrist. It’s the kind of watch that costs more than most people’s annual salary.
“Ah, Quinn, good to see you,” he says smoothly, as if greeting a friend at a dinner party, his voice a rich baritone that rolls off him like silk. He takes the seat across from us and flicks his wrist, dismissing the two police guards at his sides. “And I see you’ve brought company.”
His eyes lock on mine and it feels like the air shifts. There’s something unnerving about the way he looks at me, a hint of amusement playing at the edges of his lips.
“This is James Woodsen,” Quinn says with a curt nod in my direction. “She’ll be assisting me today.”
Damien’s gaze continues to linger on me, a smirk forming. “James. Such a masculine name for a pretty girl.”
I meet his gaze, determined not to let him rattle me. “It’s unisex,” I say drolly.
“Of course.” His smirk widens, but there’s something cold in his eyes. “Would you be a dear and grab me a coffee, James? It’s been a long night, as you can imagine.”
