By the time Stella left, armed with a detailed plan for their next steps, the afternoon had already settled over the city. A soft knock sounded at the door before Eamon's assistant entered, carrying a neatly packed box lunch from the company's cafeteria.
Eamon preferred eating alongside the other employees whenever possible. Sharing a meal with junior lawyers and support staff was, in his opinion, just as important as maintaining a high success rate or bringing in large profits for the firm. A law office could not function on prestige alone. Unfortunately, in recent months, he found himself eating in his office more often than not.
His assistant placed the lunch on the small coffee table in the sitting area before moving toward the coffee machine. Without needing to ask, she began preparing his usual order. Eamon finally stepped away from his laptop, though not entirely from his work. He gathered another stack of documents before making his way to the couch.
The lunch box was opened with one hand while the other still held several files.
As expected of the Sauveterre Law Firm, even their cafeteria meals bordered on extravagant. Perfectly grilled salmon, roasted vegetables, a small serving of rice, and fresh fruit for dessert. Expensive, but nutritious.
Alessia Sauveterre had personally insisted that the firm's cafeteria focus on employee health. In her opinion, overworked lawyers surviving on instant noodles and takeaway coffee reflected poorly on the company.
A few moments later, his assistant approached with a cup of black coffee and gently placed it on the table.
She remained standing nearby.
Eamon took a sip before looking up.
Immediately understanding the silent instruction, she began reciting the remainder of his schedule.
"There are three missed calls from the Vandel case. Mr Laurent has also requested a meeting regarding the merger documents. Tomorrow's luncheon with the investment firm has been scheduled for one o'clock, and your meeting with the forensic team has been extended by an additional hour."
Eamon nodded occasionally, making small comments between neat bites of food.
"Move Mr Laurent to Friday."
"Understood."
"And postpone the luncheon if possible."
"I'll see what arrangements can be made."
"The forensic meeting stays."
"Yes, sir."
She continued listing appointments, phone calls, and emails requiring his attention. Only once she had received all further instructions did she give a slight bow and quietly leave the office, carefully closing the door behind her.
Silence settled over the room once more. Eamon continued eating while reviewing the documents in his lap; the ticking of the clock and the faint hum of the city outside became the only sounds accompanying him.
His mind was already several steps ahead. He considered various opening remarks and possible responses from opposing counsel. Even with this new judge being dismissed, the trial would begin in two months.
Eamon was confident they would win; that wasn't in question. What truly concerned him was everything surrounding the trial, but especially Hadeon and the Blackwells and their strong control over the media.
With the media, they can sway public opinion. Eamon didn't want any negative comments to follow Acheron long after the trial was over. The Blackwells would not simply sit quietly and accept defeat. They would drag Acheron's name through the mud if they had to.
They would portray him as unstable. As an addict and a liar. As an omega willing to do anything to seek attention. That video had never been intended solely to discredit him; it had been designed to define him.
To reduce every aspect of his existence to a single ugly label.
Drug-addicted Omega.
One that society would find easy to dismiss.
Eamon had represented politicians, celebrities, and influential business figures before. Public opinion had always existed in those cases, but it had never mattered this much.
This case was different; it had become something far larger than a single crime.
Omega rights groups had turned Acheron into a symbol. Certain Alpha advocacy groups painted Hadeon as another victim of social bias. Others focused entirely on the issue of drug addiction.
Everyone seemed to have created their own version of events.
With their own heroes and their own villains.
The truth had become buried beneath layers of outrage, politics, and personal agendas. The waters were so muddied that many no longer cared what had truly happened. Only which narrative suited them best.
Eamon disliked it. No, if he had to be honest, he hated it.
Acheron isn't some symbol, a movement or a headline. He was simply a young man who had suffered terribly, and yet people who had never met him felt entitled to dissect every aspect of his life. The investigation into the Blackwells had therefore become deeply personal to Eamon.
They wanted the public to distrust Acheron.
Then he would tear apart their carefully crafted image piece by piece.
Once the trial concluded, regardless of the verdict, he intended to ensure the Blackwells faced justice. The investigations into their corruption, drug trafficking, and countless other crimes would come to light. Their names would dominate every newspaper and television station.
Their spotless façade would crumble. It wouldn't matter what information got twisted about Acheron; the weight of the Blackwells' own sins would bury every lie they had created.
He only hoped...
His fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the paperwork.
...that Acheron could endure until then.
A faint ache settled in his chest. The past year had taught him many things, among them was the uncomfortable realisation that there were some people he wished to protect, even if it meant carrying burdens that were never originally his.
The rest of the afternoon disappeared beneath endless paperwork, phone calls, and countless mugs of coffee.
Documents gave way to meetings.
Meetings gave way to more emails.
By the time Eamon finally looked at the clock again, it was already past nine in the evening.
The office floor had long since emptied. Most of the lights outside his office had been turned off, leaving only a handful of employees still working overtime. Eamon rubbed at the bridge of his nose before finally standing.
He did not particularly mind working late. In truth, he had grown accustomed to it years ago.
What concerned him more was his mother.
Edmun checked in on him frequently. If he discovered he had been working overtime too often, he would undoubtedly appear in person and forcibly schedule a holiday for him.
The mere thought caused him to exhale quietly through his nose. Eamon understood the care behind these actions; burnout was common in their profession. His father had nearly worked herself into an early grave more than once.
Still, as the trial drew closer, maintaining a reasonable schedule became increasingly difficult. There were simply too many moving pieces and too much at stake.
After gathering his belongings, he left.
The lights of Eamon's home flickered on one by one as soon as he stepped inside.
Warm golden light spilt across polished wooden floors and dark marble surfaces, illuminating the spacious interior. Yet despite the brightness, the house felt strangely hollow.
Jasper was likely out with friends or staying over at his partner's place. If not, he would only return sometime in the early hours of the morning. He had gotten used to the silence over time, but tonight, it seemed more noticeable.
He loosened his grip on his briefcase and made his way toward his office, setting it down beside the desk. Instead of heading toward the coffee machine as he usually did, he turned toward the small wine and coffee nook tucked into one corner of the house.
Unlike this morning, his hand reached for an already opened bottle of red wine.
A generous amount was poured into a large, rounded glass. The deep crimson liquid swirled gently as he picked it up.
Only then did he head toward the kitchen. Fully intending to prepare himself dinner, he should at least eat before continuing his work. Passing the laundry room, he removed his suit jacket and draped it into the basket before loosening and pulling off his tie. His fingers moved automatically to the top buttons of his shirt, undoing three of them. A portion of the tattoo on his chest became visible.
Immediately, he felt himself breathe a little easier.
By the time he entered the kitchen, he had already decided on a simple pasta. Fortunately, he still had all the ingredients. The familiar routine settled him. Olive oil was warming in the pan, garlic sizzling softly and the rhythmic sound of a knife against the cutting board. It was simple, repetitive work, but there was something comforting about it. As the sauce simmered, he switched on the television in the sitting room. From the kitchen counter, he could still see the screen clearly.
The news channel appeared almost immediately.
To this day, he dislikes the news. As a child, he had hated the sensational headlines and fearmongering stories that seemed designed only to provoke outrage, but as an adult, he hated them for entirely different reasons. He realised that these stories mattered, as whatever is reported influences public perceptions and, down the line, courts as well.
The public views often shifted and changed, depending on which way the wind blew. A single headline, a poorly worded article, or even an emotional interview. Any one of them could influence the atmosphere surrounding a case. This very atmosphere, whether judges admitted it or not, inevitably seeped into courtrooms.
Keeping up with the news and watching how the information is presented influences how he presents his case in court.
Fortunately, Acheron would not face a jury. Judges had their own biases and prejudices, but at the very least, they were expected to remain objective.
At least... they were supposed to.
The corner of his mouth flattened. After everything the Blackwells had already done, even that assumption felt fragile.
The scent of garlic pulled Eamon back to the present, drawing him from the tangled maze of his thoughts. He plated his dinner in silence and refilled his glass with wine before carrying everything to the dining room. The large table looked almost absurd with only a single place setting, the empty chairs surrounding him like silent witnesses. Beyond the far end of the room, floor-to-ceiling windows framed the sleeping city below. Thousands of lights shimmered against the darkness, glittering like fallen stars scattered across the earth. For a few quiet moments, Eamon simply sat there, wine cradled in one hand, listening to the soft hum of the apartment and the distant pulse of the city beyond the glass.
The television continued droning on in the background. Discussing another scandal, another tragedy. Leading to an endless debate.
He reached for the remote and switched off the television. The soft murmur of voices vanished at once, leaving the apartment steeped in silence. With a faint sigh, he turned on some music instead. Gentle piano notes drifted through the room, filling the empty spaces with a soft, comforting melody. The house immediately felt a little less hollow. Eamon slowly ate his dinner, his gaze fixed on the city beyond the windows.
By the time dinner was finished and his wine glass emptied, it was already pretty late.
Still, he carried another glass of wine to his office. There was more work to do; there was always more work.
At least, that had been his intention.
What he intended and what actually happened were two entirely different things.