Work hours spent at Grossberg Law Offices always seemed to trail by in a steady, monotonous line. It was the very quality that Mia had originally greeted with much apprehension upon being hired by Marvin Grossberg, himself, but she'd been so young and eager to learn, to be taken seriously, that she had decided to brush it away and pay it little mind. She was willing to endure a few small annoyances, after all, if it meant that she got to do what she loved (not to mention this put her one step closer to eventually finding the man that had ruined her mother, all those years ago). Much as the stuffy atmosphere of the office typically vexed her, though, today she found it rather comforting. After the week she'd experienced, she needed something steady in her life, something constant and unwavering, just to keep her from feeling completely unstable.
Just last week, Terry Fawles had died right before her very eyes. And even though he'd taken the poison himself, even though on the witness stand he'd claimed he no longer wished to live anyway, Mia couldn't see it as anything but a vicious, brutal murder. It might as well have been Dahlia Hawthorne who had tipped the poison into the back of his throat; if it weren't for that wretched, evil woman and the spell she'd put Mr. Fawles under, perhaps he would have escaped that trial with whatever life he would have had left after the judicial system chewed him up and spat him back out. No matter how many times Mia replayed the entire scene in her mind, she couldn't help but daydream about what might have been, were it not for Dahlia. How many innocent lives would be saved, without that woman's wrath to take them down?
Things couldn't ever be that simple, though; there always had to be bloodshed and tears, heartache and backstabbing. Mia had seen that firsthand, unfortunately, growing up in Kurain Village. Beneath the serenity and beauty of the little colony, tucked cozily into a rolling, lush mountainside, there lied a deep history of betrayal and greed. The entire village was comprised mainly of broken families; only the women were born with strong spiritual power in their veins, and as a result, the men tended to become jealous and desert their wives and children. And as if that weren't enough, there also existed the constant feud for the highest position of power in Kurain Village, that of the Master of the School of Channeling. The position typically went to the eldest of the Main Family; however, all this changed when Morgan Fey, Mia's aunt, had been born with little power and Misty Fey, the younger sister (Mia's mother) had a wealth of it. Misty became the Master, leaving Morgan as the leader of the branch family. The resentment between the two had burned strongly and overtly until Misty's disappearance, and sometimes Mia suspected that even now, things were not quite settled.
As a child, being happy had seemed such a simple idea. It was something she kept close to her heart, something easily identifiable, something she could reach out for and have it always be there. Playing outside with Maya, their bare feet skimming through the green grass, sitting on the thatched floor and piecing together the Sacred Urn together . . . her younger self had associated these with happiness in its purest form. If it was so easy for her to just smile and be content back in those days, then why was she finding it so difficult now? It seemed such a faraway, incorporeal concept, like a dream that was vivid at the time, but then only came to your mind in wisps and bursts after you woke up and tried to recall it again. It was becoming an increasingly trying task to keep from feeling completely defeated.
Now that she was forced to come face-to-face with her naïveté, she could hardly stand to recognize it as her own. Much as she hated to admit it, this wasn't at all what she had envisioned when she had left her village to pursue a legal career. True, now that feuding with her sister over the position of the Master was out of the question, she could feel a great deal better about her entire situation, but . . . what was the good of leaving if all she accomplished as a defense attorney was to lead her first client to his grave? Even if it had ultimately been Dahlia's work that had prompted his suicide, it had been Mia's job all along to protect him, and she'd failed. How much more was she destined to fail to accomplish throughout the course of her career, if her first case had gotten off to such a shaky start? And it wasn't a matter of a lack of evidence or too many penalties from His Honor – no, a man had died because of her own shoddy work, and at this point, she doubted if she would ever step foot in another courtroom again.
She kept returning to work; she wasn't entirely certain why, but she kept returning nonetheless. Perhaps she found solace in the slow-paced monotony that had so quickly come to define life at Grossberg Law Offices . . . or perhaps it was the dark-haired defense attorney that sat across from her, always busily hunched over paperwork at his own desk, a ceramic coffee mug always at the ready. He inspired something in her that she'd never known before, made her think and feel in ways and hues she'd never even dreamed possible . . . and yet, even that budding relationship between the two of them did little to encourage her to return to the courtroom. In the days following Mr. Fawles' death, Mia had taken instead to hiding in her office at any given hour of the day, slinking home with her head hung low when work hours were over. Perhaps the courts were simply for people that were made of stronger stuff than she.
Mr. Grossberg had noticed her increasing despondency of late, and, to his credit, had done everything in his power to possibly alleviate such a painful state of mind. Knowing her tendency to become drawn into her work and use activity to keep herself from feeling like an absolute wreck, he had been good about keeping her busy with paperwork and minor legal consultations – honestly, it was the first time in her life that she would actually feel compelled to thank Marvin Grossberg for the rigorous workload he placed upon the shoulders of his subordinates. It was a nice change of pace to feel, if only for a little while, that she was actually going to be okay, rather than fall apart at the seams.
He wasn't the only one who had taken note of her recent change in behavior, though. Diego Armando, her longtime boss – and she thought possibly something more, though she couldn't entirely be certain of his intentions just yet – had caught on, and had made it his sole purpose to do everything in his power to ensure she stayed. In his own bizarre way, he really was quite adept in the art of cheering her up. Even so, the effects of his efforts never tended to last for very long, and Mia wasn't entirely certain of how much faith she ought to place in his words to begin with. Though they had worked with one another for a while now, she still wasn't sure whether he actually cared about what became of her, or if he was simply the "big man" of the office who found it amusing to pick on the new girl and exploit her emotions. Who could you trust in this profession, when such a huge part of it involved smoke and mirrors, mind games of the highest degree?
Still, I can't just heap all this self-pity onto my back all the time and expect things to just go back to normal, Mia thought – as she often had in the days following Mr. Fawles' untimely death. That was quite possibly the worst part of it all; deep down, she knew she ought not to be so terribly low. If she were more skilled or experienced, she could simply get up, dust herself off, and not let herself linger on the past so long before heading on with her life. No matter how certain she was that this was exactly what she needed to do, Mia couldn't find it within herself to actually follow through with it. Not yet. She didn't know exactly what she was waiting for . . . but she knew she would come to meet it gladly when it finally did manage to show up. Whatever 'it' was.
For the time being, though, she supposed it couldn't hurt to throw herself full-force into the work in front of her. Even if she was reluctant about setting foot into another courtroom again, that didn't mean she couldn't be just as passionate about her work in the office. Still . . . even that was difficult to accomplish sometimes. Today had been a particularly sluggish, grueling workday; thankfully, office hours were very nearly ended. Mia threw a cursory glance at the clock on the far-left hand wall, sighing to herself with mingled relief and wistfulness as she realized she had less than an hour left before she would be permitted to head home. After the restless night she'd experienced, she wanted nothing more than to head home and curl up in bed and regain all the hours of sleep she'd lost last night.
Last night, for the first time in years, Mia had had a terrible nightmare. Spirit mediums were not often prone to dreaming, but when they experienced great shocks or traumas, it wasn't entirely unthinkable for the memories to invade their subconscious minds. All through the night, she'd dreamt of Terry Fawles on the witness stand, blood trickling from the corners of his frowning mouth. His eyes were fathomless and dull as he stared into the crowd of horrified courtroom spectators, and when he coughed, the entire room tensed, but no one did anything. And then Terry was screaming, crying out for Dahlia to come and save him, that he was in pain and needed her, and when at last that demoness made an appearance, she was laughing. When Mia had tried to look into her eyes, all she'd seen were the whites, as if Dahlia were a spirit herself; her red hair waved erratically in the air, her entire being crackling with a bizarre sort of electric charge. And just as Dahlia Hawthorne began to scream Mia's name, the defense attorney was at last able to tear herself out of her fitful slumber.
Unable to help herself, she gave a tiny shudder as the images, unbidden, entered her mind once again. Stubborn and determined not to face that nightmare again, Mia stiffened her posture, entire body tense with concentration, and willed the terrible thoughts out of her mind. Only when she felt certain that she could face the world around her without being called back to that awful dream, she blinked her eyes open once again . . . coming face-to-face with a tall, dark man standing at her desk, a strong-smelling cup of coffee in his left hand.
"Oh! D-Diego – I mean, Mr. Armando," Mia stuttered, immediately relaxing her posture and attempting to cover for the fact that she'd just been reliving a rather traumatic experience. Clearing her throat, she shifted slightly in her seat, tucking a lock of stray hair behind her left ear. She could feel her cheeks practically glowing with embarrassment, but by this point, if she acknowledged it too greatly, it would likely only make things even worse. "I'm so sorry, I didn't see you there – I must have been so distracted, I . . . you know." As if to illustrate her point, she gave her hand a flippant little wave, a disjointed giggle punctuating her sentence.
Diego seemed relatively unperturbed by her jumpiness. Though, this much came as little surprise to Mia – the man was the very definition of the word "unshakable". In fact, he actually appeared to find it quite amusing, a low, mild chuckle rising from the back of his throat. A lopsided grin meandered onto his features as he coolly responded, "When standing at the desk of a pretty lady, always wait for her to speak first. That's one of my rules."
Mia couldn't help but give a rueful little smirk at this. "Oh, really?" she returned, arching her eyebrows and leaning forward on her desk, a flash of humor shining in her brown eyes. "Well, that's a new one. Though I don't doubt at all that you've stood at the desk of many a pretty lady in your lifetime." As the last syllable left her lips, she gave a good-natured roll of her eyes. "How many of them fell for that line, I wonder?" She couldn't resist the opportunity to throw in a little bit of a tease, especially now that she'd regained her composure.
"Hah . . .! That remains to be seen," he answered without missing a beat. If she wasn't mistaken, his gaze had seemed to land directly on her for a moment before swiveling away again, the cocky grin on his face not fading for an instant. "Though I have to admit, I'm more than a little disappointed that you would put it that way. What a way to make a man's line of work appear so dishonorable!" With another decidedly softer laugh, he set down his coffee mug at the edge of her desk, leaning forward and propping himself against the tabletop with the palm of his hand.
Mia laughed. "That's because you're the definition of dishonorable," she joked, reaching for the coffee and even daring to take a sip. "And if you're going to leave your drinks on my desk without even the courtesy of using a coaster, then I'm going to assume temporary ownership over them for myself." Still, as she said this, she handed it back to him, grateful at least for the surge of bitter heat making its way down her throat.
"Be my guest," he offered lightly, before pausing to take another swig for himself. "I have 16 more cups awaiting me after this one, after all. I'm just surprised that you don't have to grab yourself a bowl of milk to take with that beautiful, bitter black brew, Kitten."
Only he could be so infuriatingly condescending while talking about coffee, of all things, Mia thought. Shaking her head and permitting a world-weary sigh to gust past her lips, she flicked her bangs out of the way of her eyes and asked, "What exactly is it that you wanted from me, Diego?" She was surprised at the ease with which his first name rolled off her tongue; it wasn't something she used terribly often, as it made her feel slightly nervous about their closeness. It made him something more than a boss, something personal and valued and knowable, and that intimidated Mia most of all.
He seemed to make little note of it, though if there was anything Mia had learned about him in her time working alongside him, Diego Armando was a man who took great pride in not making a show of what he was thinking. She was almost compelled to believe that he made himself an enigma purely because he found it to be tremendously entertaining.
"Patience, and all in due time," he told her, holding up an index finger and raising his eyebrows. This annoyed Mia to the point where she thought she might just stand up and leave work early, if only for the sake of avoiding him, but when he spoke again, she found herself intrigued and opted instead to stay. "My intentions are simple enough. It pains me to see you cooped up in this miserable, stuffy cage all day, Kitten, truly it does." The amusement in his eyes as he studied her seemed to contradict these words, but she kept her mouth shut, willing to give him the benefit of the doubt . . . for now. "So! In order to remedy that, what do you say the two of us check out of here and go get some dinner?"
Frankly, she was so stunned that he had even invited her that for a few awful seconds, she didn't know what to say. They were work friends at best, acquaintances who happened to share an office at the very least, and the fact that he seemed so concerned for her welfare (though, she had to admit, his sincerity was rather dubious at this juncture) staggered her quite a bit. Why should he care what Mia felt, when he had work of his own to complete? She was just starting out here, and he'd earned his stripes in the courtroom. No matter how talented a lawyer he believed her to be, there was no real reason for him to go out of his way for her sake.
And yet . . . she couldn't deny the fact that she was beginning to enjoy it whenever he did.
"Uh . . . now? Do you mean . . . like, right now?" she questioned, visibly startled by the invitation. She blinked, as if clearing the haze from her vision, and gave her head the tiniest shake of bemusement. "But – you know we still have at least 45 minutes of work left to do, right? Won't we get in trouble with Mr. Grossberg if we just . . . up and leave?" She gritted her teeth, beyond frustrated with how completely childish and goody-goody she sounded, though she could think of no other way to word it.
Diego seemed less than worried about any potential repercussions to their actions. "What, him?" he laughed, incredulous that she had even thought to consider that much. Giving a dismissive wave of his hand, he said, "That old coot got out of here at least two hours ago. He's probably curled up on the couch at home now, eating ice cream and watching old Three's Company reruns."
Again, Mia sighed, slumping her shoulders with exasperation. Grossberg, too? She thought, dismayed. Am I the only one in this stinking place who actually cares about getting anything done . . .?!
Perhaps she was just overthinking things. She had to admit, sometimes she did get rather ahead of herself. And Diego Armando was not the easiest person to know, by any means. Figuring him out entirely was a task that would take a great deal more of her time than just office hours; she had realized that for a while now. This was as good an opportunity to start learning as any, she supposed. Besides, he was right – she had spent too much time at the office lately, sometimes even staying long after office hours were over simply because she was afraid of being at home alone to think over what had happened to Mr. Fawles, and how she had allowed Dahlia to get away. Perhaps this was exactly what she needed to take the edge off her thoughts, and to loosen up enough to get ready to go back to court. She supposed it couldn't hurt to give it a try. (There were certainly worse-looking people to take on a dinner outing, after all.)
"Well . . . alright, alright," she conceded at last, holding her hands up in an appeasing gesture. "I'll go. But only," she added as a sudden thought occurred to her, jabbing her index finger in his direction, "if you promise that we're actually going somewhere to eat food, not just drink seventeen cups of coffee." The corners of her mouth twitched, her efforts to disguise an amused little smirk completely in vain.
Catching on to this, the coffee aficionado seemed to mimic her smirk, his eyes perpetually bright with silent laughter. "I can make no promises," he taunted, a note of strange affection working its way into his voice, certainly not going missed by Mia. She bit her lower lip and made a concerted effort not to turn red, though he thankfully seemed distracted enough that he wouldn't have noticed, anyway. "This is the part where you just grit your teeth and learn to trust me, Kitten."
Her lips parted slightly as she considered his words. She had to admit, he had a point. How long was she going to continue to just agonize over every little thing, wondering if she'd done what was right, instead of actually allowing herself to stop being so fearful and to just go ahead and do it? What would she get out of life if she continued to be so constantly wary? Whether or not she wanted to admit it right now, some part of her was definitely strongly drawn to Diego, and if she passed up the opportunity to get to know him – really know him – now, then who knew when on Earth she would have another chance!
Taking his cue, Mia rose fluidly from her seat, stepping around to meet him on the other side. "Hey, it's not my fault if you have an untrustworthy disposition," she joked, elbowing him playfully in the side. "You should count yourself lucky that I'm coming along at all." Even as she spoke, she knew that this was completely false – if anything, it was secretly the other way around – but Diego seemed delighted to humor her, nonetheless, laughing right along with her.
"Believe me, Miss Fey, I would consider your company nothing short of the greatest possible honor."
And though deep down she knew he was joking, though she knew entirely well that this was nothing more than a completely professional excursion between two co-workers, she allowed her heart to give the slightest flutter in response to his words, anyway.
Mia had to hand it to Diego – he really did know how to pick a restaurant.
He had taken her to a place known simply as Vinny's, a quaint, unassuming, hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant that Mia hadn't even known existed until today. Apparently, it was one of the great secrets of this particular avenue – excellent food for reasonable prices – and from what she had seen so far, she would have to pleasantly agree with that description. The walls were brick, but had been painted over in soft, golden-brown hues that somehow seemed to make the entire room warmer, cozier. The tables each bore checkered white-and-red tablecloths, along with little candles that burned away in tiny glass jars. Their seat was particularly close to the stone oven which was used for cooking pizzas and such, and was giving off a much-appreciated wave of heat right in their direction.
Diego had made good on at least part of his promise: though he was currently nursing nothing but a cup of coffee (completely black, and according to him, delicious, though apparently a bit too cold), there was certainly no shortage of actual food on hand for Mia to choose from. Eventually, she'd opted for a simple plate of spaghetti, and it definitely didn't disappoint. For the first time since what had happened in court with Mr. Fawles, Mia finally felt truly relaxed and comfortable; after a week of living with her stomach feeling as squirmy and knotted as the plate of spaghetti in front of her, this new level of ease and recreation on her part was most welcome.
She hadn't the foggiest idea what would come of an evening spent like this – in fact, she partly found herself wondering why she was even vaguely entertaining the thought that anything ought to happen – but she had to admit, so far she was glad she'd come along, anyway.
Eventually, when it seemed like the silence had stretched on for too painfully long, Mia at last plucked up the courage to voice what had been on her mind the entire time she'd been in his company.
"Can I ask you something?" she said, absentmindedly twirling her fork in the leftover strands of pasta that she hadn't bothered to eat just yet. She studied him briefly, her eyes searching his, and when she found no clues in particular, she ventured forward with her question. "Why exactly are you doing this?"
Diego narrowed his eyes curiously, tilting his head slightly to the side. "What strange ideas of human conventions you have, to cling to the belief that a man needs a reason to treat a friend to dinner." The word 'friend' fell off his lips so casually, almost flippantly, that it took Mia several seconds of bewildered blinking to figure out that he'd even said it to begin with.
"O-oh, no, I didn't mean to offend you," she explained, eyes widening slightly. "It's just that, well, you don't seem the type to do anything just because. Especially where co-workers are concerned. I mean, we worked the . . . the Fawles case together," she pointed out, swallowing hard past the sudden lump in her throat, "but other than that, I wouldn't say we're particularly close."
"Heh, true," he conceded with a short nod. There was a beat of silence as he took a sip of coffee before he continued to speak, and when he did, his words were no less surprising. "Still, I would say that you might as well consider this a favor. From me to you."
"A favor?" asked Mia, lifting an eyebrow and crossing her arms. "Is that right?" she added in an effort to sound slightly more casual and sarcastic, though she couldn't help the genuine curiosity working its way into the undercurrent of her voice.
Even as she questioned him, though, she had a feeling that she knew what all this was about. She'd taken note of his efforts to cheer her up lately, after all, so it wasn't entirely unthinkable that this could be yet another extension of that behavior. Though she could hardly say why he seemed so intent on lifting her spirits – as she'd said, they weren't terribly close with one another outside of work – she supposed that she appreciated his taking the time to endeavor towards it, anyway. It was a comfort to know that someone cared about the way that she felt, especially now that she was so far away from the only home and family she'd ever really known.
In confirmation of her suspicions, Diego explained, "I just thought that after the week you've had, a quick chat over dinner in a nice, low-key setting wouldn't go entirely amiss. Consider this an effort on my part to keep my favorite kitten from tearing her own fur out."
"O-oh," Mia breathed in response. She couldn't exactly say she was shocked, but she had to admit, there was something slightly intriguing about hearing it directly from him. "Well, listen, that's really nice of you to think of me like that, but I really don't need – I mean, I'm not exactly – I'm really fine, Diego. Honestly."
The expression on his face suggested that he begged to differ. Still, he gave a slow, thoughtful nod, at least possessing the decency to pretend he was taking her self-diagnosis into account. She had to admit, she'd given him more than enough reasons to believe exactly the contrary, but at this point, she wasn't certain if she wanted to hear any more about the Fawles case, or what she could do to make herself feel better. She had never intended to make it Diego's problem, too, but he seemed to have taken it upon himself. The realization filled her with a bizarre mix of gratitude and frustration with the entire ordeal; she swallowed heavily, trying to keep her facial expression smooth and indifferent.
"Heh, glad to hear it," he responded, thankfully not making a big deal out of the fact that he seemed to be able to see right through her protests. Instead, his usual crooked grin returned to his features, and with a light shrug of his shoulders, he added, "I always did take you for the resilient type."
Mia couldn't help but crack a tiny grin at these words. "In this line of work," she pointed out, "you pretty much have to be. That is, if you want to keep getting work in the future." After a moment's pause, she glanced down uncomfortably and tugged at the sleeves of her glossy black jacket, wishing for one impossible instant that she could just disappear from sight.
Diego nodded his head in agreement, reaching for his cup of coffee and tilting his head back as he drained it completely. When he set the mug down again, he sighed and said, "Actually, that's part of what I was hoping I might talk with you about. A little birdy told me that you were thinking of leaving the office. Would that be . . . just Grossberg's office, or the legal profession as a whole?" He looked up and regarded her curiously now, his eyes dark and expression unreadable, as if he were in court, cross-examining a witness.
Mia didn't even have to wonder who had let it slip to Mr. Armando that she was thinking of leaving. With an exasperated little huff, she pushed back her bangs and answered, "Mr. Grossberg blabbed, didn't he?" She raised her eyebrows, and when Diego flashed her a grin that seemed to affirm her suspicions, she shook her head and brought one hand down on the table in an expression of vexation. "To be completely honest with you, Diego, I have no idea what I'm going to do. When I told Mr. Grossberg that I might quit, I . . . ugh. I was feeling really low that day, and not to mention I'm still nervous even thinking about setting foot into another courtroom. That last case really . . . did a number on me. I'm not sure if I'll ever be the same again." There, now her secret was out. Let him see what he thought of her 'resiliency' now.
Frustratingly enough, his facial expression gave away very little of what he was actually thinking. His left eyebrow rose in a careful, questioning arc, and he leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table and steepling his fingers beneath his chin. Still, the silence between them spanned, and though he appeared thoughtful and inquisitive, he seemed to have nothing truly important to add to her explanation for the time being.
At last, the quietude was broken when he cleared his throat and prompted her by simply saying, "And?"
An unreasonable flare of anger lit up in Mia's chest. He had invited her to dinner, and now she was the one being interrogated? He'd wanted his answer, and she'd given it to him, hadn't she? Still, she gritted her teeth and relaxed her shoulders, doing her very best not to appear defensive. As if she hadn't had to explain her reasoning to everybody over and over again before, anyway. This just reminded her of the day she had decided to leave Kurain Village, and her decision had been met with nothing but doubt and questions then, too. Why couldn't people just take her at her word for once?
"And," she continued anyway, "I'm starting to feel that maybe I'm just not cut out for this after all. If I were really a good lawyer, then I wouldn't be experiencing this doubt in the first place, would I? It's just . . . I started doing this because I wanted to help people." She glanced down at her fingers, thoughts of her mother's smiling face running unbidden through her mind. "I wanted to do what's right, to protect the people I'm defending . . . but I couldn't do that. Not only did I fail to get an acquittal, but he died because I was too late, too slow to figure it all out." She shook her head, folding her arms stubbornly across her chest. "I can't let more peoples' lives be ruined on my watch. It would be a . . . a disservice to society."
As with everything that Mia had stated previously, Diego listened intently, drinking in every syllable with the steady, analytical prowess that suited a veteran lawyer such as him. Her cheeks felt hot under his scrutiny, but she tried to keep her gaze and stature unwavering and confident; she hated having to admit to her weaknesses and lingering feelings of self-doubt, especially in front of this man who seemed to hold such a strange amount of respect and reverence for her, but somehow, he'd dragged it all out of her anyway. And though it embarrassed her, she had to admit, the opportunity to get all those emotions off her chest was not an entirely unwelcome one.
Mia had thought that by this point, she'd gotten to be a rather accomplished study of character where Mr. Armando was concerned, but even she hadn't been prepared for the next words out of his mouth.
"Martyrdom doesn't suit you, Kitten," he said, just as smoothly and calmly as ever. Eyes glinting with keen amusement, he looked her over in an attempt to gauge her reaction.
"Wh-what?" she stuttered lamely in response, giving a jerky, bemused little shake of her head. "What are you talking about?"
"Disservice to society?" he quoted, a passion entering his tone of voice that she had only ever heard before when he was arguing a point in court. "Oh, please. The only disservice to society would be if I were to just accept that bullshit explanation of yours, pat you on the back, and let you walk away from the courts forever." She gave a start at his harsh phrasing, but if she wasn't mistaken, it was supposed to be some sort of compliment . . . and strangely enough, it worked.
"Diego—" she protested, but he interjected quickly.
"Listen up, Mia," he said, and she couldn't conceal her surprise at the fact he'd used her name, her actual first name, instead of Kitten or one of his other myriad of nicknames for her. "What happened to Fawles in court was not your fault. Since you're still so hung up on that, I want to make that abundantly clear before I tell you anything else. You did everything in your power to make sure that he got set free – you weren't the one that forced the poison down his throat." She flinched, but straightened up and did her best not to crumble; still, she saw his facial expression soften by just a fraction before he continued. "Up against the kind of evil you were facing, how many newbie lawyers do you think would have gone in there, guns blazing, and won? I'll give you a hint: The answer is not very freaking many. You managed to go much farther than anyone could have anticipated; you gave a fight most seasoned lawyers would be envious of! That's nothing to hang your head over."
"But what about Mr. F—?"
"Which brings me to my next point," he added before she could even finish saying her former client's name. "There's something you still need to understand about being a defense attorney, Kitten." He had returned to using her pet name again, possibly attempting to sound light and conversational, but the intensity in his voice cheapened any effect the nickname might have had. "You and me? We're not superheroes. We're not gods, much as we would like to believe that sometimes. Rushing in and saving people from disasters isn't our responsibility. All you can do is give your clients the best defense possible, and keep smiling 'til the bitter end; you've done your job properly when you've believed and kept strong until it's all over." Now his gaze met hers, and she was determined not to glance away, even as he began to speak again. "You would be disgracing Mr. Fawles' memory if you stopped practicing law, not if you continued. Don't you get that?"
Deep down, Mia knew that he was right about everything. What did that say about her, if she were to just walk away from everything now, give up after her first trial? She couldn't go back to Kurain Village – she had already rejected the School of Channeling, made it clear that she wanted no part of the endless feuding that came with the main family bloodline. Most of all, she couldn't just leave her business with Dahlia Hawthorne, that wicked woman, unfinished. No, if she stayed in this profession, she was sure she would meet that sweet-faced demon again in a court of law one day – and then, she'd stop her, once and for all. She couldn't accomplish that if she were to just give up. And for the first time, she couldn't help but think that maybe she wouldn't have to fight against Dahlia completely alone. Maybe this man before her could help her, support her, as she fought to bring the truth to light.
"I . . . when you're right, you're right," Mia managed to say at last, a soft, rueful little laugh punctuating her sentence. Growing more serious, she murmured, "Dahlia Hawthorne is still out there somewhere. And . . . and even if I'm still feeling unsure about my talents as a lawyer, or what my purpose even truly is, I can't just let her walk away free. I have to stay . . . if only so that I can catch her again myself one day."
Seeming thoroughly pleased with this response, Mr. Armando responded, "And there is no doubt in my mind that you will. So for now, just toughen up, dry those tears, and . . . instead of a permanent retirement, let's just make it a quick coffee break, yes?"
The tension broken at last, Mia gave a genuine laugh this time. "Yes," she replied, even going as far as to send a smile in her boss' direction. "That sounds great to me. Th-thank you, Diego, really. For everything. I . . . I definitely needed that."
"No trouble whatsoever," he replied casually. "You can just repay me by offering to foot the bill for this banquet of ours here."
Dinner had ended, and now Mia found herself standing at the front door to her apartment, key in her hand, Diego a few feet behind her. He leaned casually against the railing of the second floor hallway, but the entire way home, had seemed to have something on his mind. Even now, when her curiosity got the better of her and she swung around to face him without opening the door, there was a pensive expression etched deep into the lines of his face. The night around them was clear and cool, a light breeze blowing through the open-air hallway that tousled his shaggy hair.
"Thank you again for tonight," she said, wishing that she could express her gratitude with more meaningful words, but at the same time, unable to find the proper thing to say. He drew a step closer to her, and she met his gaze, finding a thoughtfulness, an almost-gentleness to him that had never been there before. "I really can't tell you how much help you've been to me. It turns out I just have a lot of things to think about and . . . and figure out for myself."
Diego flashed her his trademark crooked smile, yet here was a certain sincerity to it now where it had only been mocking and playful earlier. "You'll get there," he told her, confident enough in her abilities for the both of them, "one day. Besides, life's a pretty boring game to play if you've got every twist figured out right at the starting point."
A soft laugh fell from Mia's lips. "I guess you're right." Turning once again to the door, she gave him a wave from over her shoulder and said, "Well, good night, Diego."
" . . . Mia?"
It wasn't the response she had expected. She paused where she stood, hand poised to unlock the door, key in the grip of her suddenly-sweaty palm, and raised her eyebrows, wondering for a moment what else he could possibly wish to say to her. Tucking the key in her pocket once again, she slowly turned around to face her, her gaze questioning and yet knowing all at once. He lowered his head, and her heart rate picked up as their lips barely brushed against one another, tentative and enquiring. After a beat, Mia vaulted herself up on tiptoe and opted to deepen the kiss, a decision to which Diego seemed to happily comply; she reached up and allowed her left hand to caress the back of his neck, her fingers brushing the feather-light curls of hair at his nape. His hands found her waist, and the light pressure there was enough to keep her from feeling as though she were falling through midair.
From the beginning, she hadn't been certain where her budding relationship with Diego would take her . . . and now, she couldn't help but be all the more eager to figure it out. Because just like that, she now had one more piece of decisive evidence as to why she ought to take his advice and stay.