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My name is Sam Jonas. I'm thirty-five years old, and I'm a prosecutor specializing in domestic violence cases. I'm used to standing up against liars, manipulators, and men who believe their power gives them the right to own another human being. But today, I'm expecting a meeting with the defense attorney representing the accused. When she walks into my office, I look up from my documents and fall silent for a moment. She's beautiful, but that's not what catches my attention. There's something unusual in her eyes — a quiet determination hiding a pain I somehow recognize, though I don't know why. I slowly stand, button my jacket, and offer her my hand. "Sam Jonas. The prosecutor on the case that's likely to cause us quite a few problems." Her handshake is confident. I hold her gaze a second longer than necessary. She doesn't look away. It surprises me and, against my better judgment, intrigues me. "I've reviewed the evidence," she says. "And I don't believe the prosecution's case is as clear-cut as it appears." "And I don't believe a good defense attorney should confuse defending her client with justifying abuse." Her jaw tightens. For a brief moment, something deeper than professional irritation flashes in her eyes. Pain. Anger. I recognize them because I've seen them in people who have endured more than they can bring themselves to talk about. "You know nothing about me, Mr. Jonas," she replies quietly. "True. But I know what it looks like when someone is fighting to hide the fact that they've been hurt." She freezes for a moment. I realize I've crossed a line, but I don't look away. A tension settles between us, one that has nothing to do with the case. I want to understand what she's hiding behind that flawless confidence, why the subject affects her so deeply, and why her presence distracts me in a way I simply cannot afford. I slip my hands into my pockets and lean against my desk. "Tell me something, Counselor...