Page 1 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer
Justice may be blind, but I’m not—especially when staring down a predator who thinks he can outsmart a woman in Valentino.
I pull into my usual courthouse spot, flip down the visor, and check my reflection.
Eyeliner? Sharp enough to draw blood.
Lipstick? Cherry red and not on my teeth. Bonus.
My blonde hair is curled to courtroom-perfection, still full of bounce from the overnight wrap.
My heels are pink. My nails are pink. My soul is… tired—but also pink.
I click the visor closed and grab my Louis Vuitton briefcase, stepping out just as my favorite chaos-hurricane appears, coffee in hand and judgment in his eyes.
Sebastian Elias Tréviot Ignatius Blaire III struts up beside me in a cobalt trench, paisley scarf trailing, sunglasses perched on his bald head, eyebrow cocked.
“Girlie-pop,” Sebastian drawls, falling into step beside me, “if I die today, tell the press it was because my witness wore khakis to court. I want it on record.”
He’s already holding out my coffee. Triple-shot iced Americano with light oat milk, one pump toasted vanilla, one brown sugar, cold foam, cinnamon, and a pink straw.
Obviously.
I take it, already sipping. “What’s your case?”
“I’m prosecuting a man suing his ex for calling him ‘emotionally constipated’ on TikTok. Claims it cost him a protein powder deal.”
I nearly choke. “So… a real legal emergency.”
“Honey, he listed ‘alpha male influencer’ as his profession. If I keep a straight face through voir dire, I deserve a Daytime Emmy.”
Inside, the scanner beeps as I pass through. Sebastian, of course, makes a show of removing his belt and patting himself down.
“Morning, Hank,” he winks at the very straight, very tired guard. “Still resisting me, I see. Admirable. Tragic, but admirable.”
Hank rolls his eyes like it’s his job. “Belt in the tray, Blaire.”
“One day,” Sebastian stage-whispers as he slides through the metal detector, “he’ll cave. And when he does, I’ll dedicate a closing argument to him.”
We collect our things and head toward the elevator bank.
“And what about you, Miss Ma’am? Ready to legally eviscerate today’s scum of the earth?”
“I’m prepped. I’m pissed. I’m wearing waterproof mascara.”
“Poppy Hartwell, dawn-slayer and breaker of men’s egos.” He taps my coffee in a mock-toast.
“You’ve got this, girlie-pop.”
At the hallway split where civil and criminal part ways, he keeps going, calling over his shoulder.
“Slay responsibly.”
Inside my courtroom for the day, Mariela Castillo is unraveling. Her hands twist in her lap, nails bitten to the quick, eyes darting like she expects a ghost to crawl out of the woodwork.
I nudge her with my shoulder.
“Deep breath, Mari,” I whisper. “You already did the hard part.”
She doesn’t look at me, but her breath stutters.
