Page 1 of Free to Judge
PROLOGUE
SEVEN YEARS AGO
I should focuson the pomp and circumstance occurring in Holmes Field and the Tercentenary Theatre at Harvard University, but instead, I’m captivated by the chocolate brown eyes that bore into mine when I allow my gaze to sweep past his every few minutes. The face they’re attached to is distracting—chiseled jaw, light beard, dark, thick hair that begs a woman torun her hands through it. He screams “heartbreaker” and “take me home tonight” without saying a single word.
If today wasn’t my last day in Cambridge…
If today wasn’t the start of a future I’d been born into…
Hell, if my life wasn’t perfectly planned down to the minute after I cross the stage, I might take him up on the invitation he’s openly throwing in my direction.
It’s too bad, really. He checks off all the boxes that make my insides quiver—tall, dark, with an air of danger. After all, who could blame me? I grew up around men who embodied those attributes like a second skin. With a mental shrug of my shoulders, I bidadieuto a man who I’ll tuck away in the recesses of my memory. Someone who’ll have a starring role in my fantasies later.It’s too bad you weren’t around in the last six months. I could have used a distraction as I waited for this day to arrive.
After all, despite the hard work and long hours, it felt like the beginning of the rest of my life would never get here. And now? I’m so eager for it I can barely remain seated as I wait for my name to be called.
Allowing myself a moment of weakness, I sneak a glance to my left. Yep, he’s still checking me out. Well, to be fair, so is everyone else who is sitting, standing, or remote viewing the temporary stage set up near Widener Library.
Slowly, my heartbeat increases as time inches closer to my moment in the spotlight—a moment delayed because I was running after a different dream.
During our commencement, we are honored when the current Director of the National Counterterrorism Center—a Harvard Law graduate herself—urges us to use our power and influence to make a difference in the world. I feel drawn in by her background—a military father and a mother who suffered great abuse at a young age.
Much like my own.
Still, when the director returns to her seat to resounding applause, her closing comments of, “No matter what you face in the future, utilize the wisdom you learned within these hallowed halls. Judge carefully. Rule righteously. Ensure your heart, your mind, your expertise, and above all, the law you’ve studied to uphold will ensure future generations can live the life they deserve,” ring on repeat in my mind.
Judge carefully.
My eyes stray to the dark-haired man again. I’m an exceptional judge of character. Between that and the arc of electricity racing along my skin every time our eyes meet, I don’t need something notarized to tell me we’d burn up the sheets if there was time to make a move.
Too bad my schedule won’t allow for it.
My lips twist in a smirk my mother swears I was born with—a fraction of my Marshall heritage. A legacy that’s had me judged since the moment I arrived on campus, if for nothing more than my last name and the extended family I was born into.
Marshall. Freeman. The blood of both runs through my veins. To the outside world, our family is the epitome of the American dream—wealth, privilege, influence. To those who are let in, they understand we’re about pride and determination. Family first.
Family always.
The love of all our extended family names is imprinted onto the core of who I am—much like the Amaryllis legend tattoo I sport on the arch of one foot. A tattoo inspired by a different legend resides on the other.
A legacy I alone am a part of, even among the elite.
Early on, it was impressed upon me that not everyone has had the comfort and security I’ve been blessed with every day. As the first-born daughter of Keene Marshall and Alison Freeman-Marshall, I understand their overprotective natures. They suffered through individual traumas before being able to set them aside long enough to fall in love.
Almost a quarter century later, my father can still barely tolerate letting my mother out of his sight. Twisting away from the eye candy that’s captured my attention, a quick glance into the audience shows Daddy has Mama wrapped protectively in his arms, even with the agents from the investigation agency he co-owns with my Uncle Caleb hiding in plain sight around the perimeter of my graduation ceremony.
Let’s face it, nothing my dad does shocks me anymore. Our eyes meet and hold. I catch the sheen in his, even as his lips curve. His free fist presses against his heart.
I lift mine in a similar salute before rising along with my classmates, readying to cross the stage. My attention is once again grabbed by the face in the crowd. His lips curve upward as I approach the stairs. My heart thunders in my chest, and I’m not certain if that’s due to excitement over getting my degree—finally—or because of the sexual charge between me and Mr. Unknown.
Two more people, then it’s my turn.
I inch closer and catch a high-powered external flash unit illuminate—preparing to add brightness to what the news media must feel is an insufficient light source. Internally, I let out a sigh despite the smile plastered on my face.
The paparazzi. There isn’t one single moment of my life where they’re not invading my space. Not anymore.
To the vast number of people who read about me in the tabloids, I’m glorified as a product of privilege—an heiress to a legacy I hadn’t truly earned. But they don’t have a right to cast aspersions on me—on any of us.
People don’t appreciate how my family got where we are today. Me and my cousins? We’re a legacy of love more valuable than the billions we stand to inherit. But, much like the scales of justice I am prepared to uphold, there’s an equal amount of tragedy that shaped who we are.
