The courthouse lights seemed to burn longer than the sun itself, their sterile glow holding time hostage. For Amara Von Strauss, who spent the better part of her day pacing the vast, silent halls of her family estate, the sight of the prosecutor's name in morning headlines had been both a point of pride and a quiet irritant. "Prominent Prosecutor Takes on Landmark Case"—a bold title for a man already drenched in his profession.

And alongside him in every mention, Amara had seen the name. Clara Jensen.

Clara Jensen, a rising legal prodigy with sharp wit and sharper looks—pale hair that spilled in practiced waves, too bright a smile for courtrooms, and a set of soft brown eyes that pretended sincerity but read opportunistic to Amara.

Amara's crimson nails tapped against the wheel of her car as she pulled up to the courthouse annex. She had dressed deliberately—a black satin blouse that kissed her skin, fitted cream trousers that cinched at her waist, Louboutin heels that clicked sharply when she walked. Her hair cascaded in perfect waves down her shoulders, framing the pointed elegance of her face.

The receptionist knew better than to stop her. Everyone did. The moment Amara Von Strauss entered a room, she owned it, her confidence as seamless as her silk. When she reached his office, it was ajar, and inside—there she was. Clara Jensen. The woman leaned over his desk, one hand braced casually against its edge as she pointed to a legal document. Too close. Amara's stomach coiled hot, but her face betrayed nothing.

For a heartbeat, she watched in silence, unnoticed. Clara's voice was faintly melodic, all too familiar in its practiced sweetness. Then Amara pushed the door open further, her entrance deliberate.

"Darling," she called softly, her tone wrapping itself around his name like a velvet ribbon, as though Clara Jensen wasn't worth her breath. "You weren't planning to take your break without me, were you?"

Clara turned first, startled, her brows shooting up. Amara stepped fully inside, sweeping the room with a glance. Sterile, far too beige—and cluttered. She'd have to speak to him about his office decor another day. Her gaze settled on Clara, who'd straightened awkwardly at her entrance.

"You must be Clara Jensen," Amara said, extending her hand with the grace of a diplomat. "I've heard so much about you."

Clara blinked and took Amara's hand briefly, clearly off-balance. "And you are...?"

Amara smiled as though amused by the question, her fingers still curled faintly in Clara's grip. "His girlfriend," she replied with a sweetness that could rot teeth.

Clara released her hand quickly, her gaze flitting toward him, then back to Amara. "Right. Well—I should let you two talk. We'll pick this up later?" She directed the last part toward him, who gave a distracted nod. Clara left the office quickly, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

Amara turned then, fully facing him, her shoulders still set with perfect poise. "Charming girl, your colleague," she said, though her voice carried a saccharine edge that cut glass.

"Look," Amara said softly, stepping closer to his desk. "I came because you've been working too hard, and I've missed you." She perched herself delicately on the edge of his desk, reaching out to straighten his tie as though it offended her sense of order. "Tell me, darling—does Clara Jensen always hover like that? Or is it just with you?"