AI ---
The door to *The Raven’s Nest* swung open with a *clang * of brass hinges, and the sudden gust of cold air carried the scent of damp wool and something sharper—like old whiskey and the faint metallic tang of a half-empty ashtray. Rory Carter froze mid-step, her fingers tightening around the handle of her delivery bag. The neon sign above the door flickered , casting a sickly green glow over the pavement, and for a heartbeat, she thought she’d imagined it.
Then the voice cut through the hum of the street.
*"Well, well. If it isn’t the little Irish lawyer."*
The words slithered through the crowd like a knife between ribs. Rory’s breath hitched. She didn’t turn. Couldn’t. Not yet. The voice belonged to Evan O’Shea—Evan *Fucking * O’Shea—and if she spun around now, he’d see the way her pulse hammered at her throat, the way her hands trembled just enough to betray her. So she stood there, rigid as a statue, and let the door close behind her with a *thud * that echoed in her ribs.
*"Rory?"* His voice was smoother now, polished with years of practice. The Evan she knew would’ve called her *Carter *, would’ve sneered at the way she’d ditched her suit for a delivery bag and a life that didn’t involve his kind of power. But this Evan—this man who stood just inside the bar’s dim glow, his broad shoulders filling the doorway—hadn’t aged well. Not the way she had.
She exhaled through her nose, slow and controlled. *"Evan."*
His lips curled, just slightly , like he’d been waiting for that. *"Still got the fire in you, I see."* He stepped back, gesturing to the bar like he owned the place. *"Or did you lose it along with the rest of your ambition?"*
Rory’s fingers flexed around the bag’s strap. She should’ve known. Should’ve *seen * him coming. But Evan had always had a knack for showing up when she least expected it—like a bad habit you couldn’t shake. She set the bag down on the nearest table, her knuckles brushing the worn wood. *"What are you doing here?"*
*"Business."* He leaned against the bar, his sleeve riding up to reveal a fresh scar—a thin, white line across his forearm. *"You?"* His gaze flicked to her wrist, to the scar she’d tried to hide under her sleeve. The one from the night she’d burned herself trying to escape him . *"Still running from things, I see."*
Rory’s jaw tightened. She didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.
The bar was thick with the kind of silence that only comes when two people are circling each other, both too proud to back down first. The bartender—a man with a face like a bulldog and a name tag that read *Silas *—paused mid-pour, his eyes flicking between them. Then he set the glass down with a *clink * and turned back to his work, but not before Rory caught the way his fingers twitched, like he was debating whether to intervene.
Evan sighed, rolling his shoulders like he was bored. *"You look different."*
*"So do you."* She kept her voice flat, but her pulse was a drumbeat in her ears. Different. That was the word he’d used. Like they were strangers now, like the years between them had carved out something unrecognisable.
*"Time does that."* He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. *"You still work for that Chinese bloke, then?"*
*"Yu-Fei Cheung?"* She raised an eyebrow . *"You remember his name?"*
*"I remember a lot of things."* His gaze dropped to her mouth, just for a second, before he looked away. *"You ever think about coming back? To the firm? I could use someone like you."*
Rory laughed, sharp and bitter. *"You? Need me?"*
*"I need *you*."* He leaned forward, his voice dropping to something quieter, more intimate. *"You always were good at bending rules."*
The words hit her like a slap. She remembered that version of him —the one who’d promised her the world if she’d just stay quiet, just let him handle things. The one who’d made her feel like she was the only woman in the room, until she wasn’t.
*"You’re married,"* she said, because it was the only thing she could think to say. The only thing that mattered.
*"Divorced."* He shrugged, like it was nothing. *"Happens when you spend too much time chasing ghosts."*
Rory’s stomach twisted. She knew that feeling .
Silas cleared his throat from behind the bar. *"You two done here, or should I start charging for the air?"*
Evan’s smirk returned, but this time it was directed at the bartender. *"Nah, nah. We’re just catching up."* He turned back to Rory, his voice dropping again. *"You ever think about what you left behind?"*
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
The air between them thickened, charged with something unspoken . The kind of thing that could ruin a person if they let it. Evan reached into his jacket, pulling out a small, leather-bound notebook. He flipped it open, revealing a page filled with neat, precise handwriting.
*"I’ve been keeping track,"* he said. *"Of the people you’ve left behind. The cases you walked away from. The lives you didn’t save."*
Rory’s breath caught. She knew that notebook . Had seen it once, years ago, when he’d thought she was just another intern, just another face in the crowd. But she’d read it then. Had memorised the names, the dates, the things he’d promised to fix if she’d just stay.
*"You’re full of surprises,"* she said, her voice dangerously calm .
*"So are you."* He slid the notebook across the table, the leather cool against her fingers. *"Page 47. The Carter case. The one you couldn’t close."*
Rory’s pulse spiked. She knew that case . Had worked it for months, had come so close to the truth before Evan had pulled the rug out from under her, had made her look like the fool. She’d left it behind. Had left *him * behind.
*"You’re lying,"* she said.
*"Am I?"* He tilted his head, his eyes gleaming in the dim light. *"Or are you just afraid to look ?"*
The notebook was heavy in her hands. She could feel the weight of the words , the weight of the things she’d buried. Silas watched them from behind the bar, his expression unreadable , but his presence was a constant hum in the background, like a warning.
Rory flipped to page 47.
The words jumped off the page at her:
*"Carter . You said you’d find her. You said you’d make it right. But you didn’t. And now she’s gone ."*
Her breath hitched. She knew that voice . Knew the name.
*"Laila,"* she whispered.
Evan’s smile was slow, triumphant. *"You still remember."*
Rory’s hands shook. She remembered Laila Carter —her mother. The woman who’d raised her alone after Rory’s father had walked out. The woman who’d taught her everything she knew about fighting, about surviving. The woman who’d been *gone * for years.
*"You knew,"* she said, her voice barely above a whisper .
*"I knew."* Evan’s smile didn’t waver. *"And now you do too."*
The notebook slipped from her fingers, landing with a *thud * on the table. Rory’s vision blurred. She could feel the blood roaring in her ears, could feel the way her body was betraying her, trembling like a leaf in the wind.
Silas moved then, stepping between them, his hand resting on the hilt of the knife tucked into his belt. *"Enough."*
Evan’s gaze flicked to the bartender, then back to Rory. *"You always were good at running,"* he said, his voice soft now, almost sad . *"But you can’t run forever."*
The door to the bar’s secret room—hidden behind the bookshelf—creaked open on its own, as if summoned by the weight of the moment . The air inside the room was thick with the scent of old paper and something sharper, like gunpowder.
Silas turned, his voice low. *"Get out."*
Evan didn’t move. *"Not until she’s done."*
Rory’s fingers curled into fists. She could feel the heat of his gaze on her, could feel the way her body was betraying her, trembling like a leaf in the wind.
*"You’re not leaving,"* she said, her voice steady despite the storm inside her . *"Not until I know why."*
Evan’s smile was slow, triumphant. *"Because some debts never die, Rory. And neither do the people who owe them."*
The notebook lay between them, a silent accusation. Rory picked it up, her fingers brushing the leather. She could feel the weight of the words , the weight of the things she’d buried.
*"You’re lying,"* she said again, but this time, her voice was stronger. *"You’re lying about my mother."*
Evan’s smile faltered, just for a second. Then it was back, sharper, colder. *"Am I?"*
Silas stepped forward, his voice a growl. *"Out."*
Evan didn’t move. *"Not until she’s done."*
Rory’s gaze flicked to the bartender, then back to Evan. *"Why?"* she demanded. *"Why now?"*
*"Because time’s a bitch, Rory."* Evan’s voice was quiet, almost intimate. *"And she doesn’t care about your little rules."*
The notebook slipped from her fingers, landing with a *thud * on the table. Rory’s vision blurred. She could feel the blood roaring in her ears, could feel the way her body was betraying her, trembling like a leaf in the wind.
Silas moved then, stepping between them, his hand resting on the hilt of the knife tucked into his belt. *"Enough."*
Evan’s gaze flicked to the bartender, then back to Rory. *"You always were good at running,"* he said, his voice soft now, almost sad . *"But you can’t run forever."*
The door to the secret room creaked open on its own, as if summoned by the weight of the moment . The air inside was thick with the scent of old paper and something sharper, like gunpowder.
Silas turned, his voice low. *"Get out."*
Evan didn’t move. *"Not until she’s done."*
Rory’s fingers curled into fists. She could feel the heat of his gaze on her, could feel the way her body was betraying her, trembling like a leaf in the wind.
*"You’re not leaving,"* she said, her voice steady despite the storm inside her . *"Not until I know why."*
Evan’s smile was slow, triumphant. *"Because some debts never die, Rory. And neither do the people who owe them."*
The notebook lay between them, a silent accusation. Rory picked it up, her fingers brushing the leather. She could feel the weight of the words , the weight of the things she’d buried.
*"You’re lying,"* she said again, but this time, her voice was stronger. *"You’re lying about my mother."*
Evan’s smile faltered, just for a second. Then it was back, sharper, colder. *"Am I?"*
Silas stepped forward, his voice a growl. *"Out."*
The air in the bar seemed to thicken, like the moment had stretched taut, ready to snap. Rory’s breath came in short, sharp bursts. She could feel the way her body was betraying her, trembling like a leaf in the wind.
*"Why?"* she demanded, her voice raw . *"Why now?"*
Evan’s gaze flicked to the notebook, then back to her. *"Because some things can’t stay buried forever, Rory. And neither can you."*
The door to the secret room creaked open wider, revealing a man in a long coat, his face obscured by the shadows. His voice was a whisper , but it carried the weight of a storm.
*"She’s here,"* he said. *"And she’s waiting."*