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The air in the deposition room was so stale and dry it felt like breathing burnt ashes. Or perhaps that was just the side effect of being in the same enclosed space as Aerion Targaryen for four consecutive hours.
He was entirely determined to kill her, Clarice decided.
She clicked her pen. Once. Twice. The sound echoed crisply in the sterile, glass-walled conference room of Targaryen & Associates. It was a room designed specifically to intimidate, to taunt; perched on the fifty-second floor of a Manhattan skyscraper, offering a sweeping, vertigo-inducing view of the city below.
"If opposing counsel insists on clicking that pedestrian piece of plastic one more time," Aerion drawled, not even looking up from the almost compulsively organized legal pad in front of him, "I am going to file a motion for sanctions based on intentional infliction of emotional distress."
Clarice stopped clicking the pen. Instead, she offered him a smile that was ten percent forced politeness, ninety percent pure, unadulterated loathing. "My apologies, Mr. Targaryen. I was merely trying to keep myself awake. You see, it’s quite hard to stay alert when you’ve been objecting to the same perfectly valid question for the better part of an hour."
Aerion finally looked up. His eyes —an arresting, uncanny shade of bruised violet that always made Clarice’s skin prickle, no matter how many times already she’d stumble upon them in court— met hers. He was leaning back in his chair, the picture of absolute, pedantic boredom. He wore a tailored charcoal suit that hugged his broad shoulders with an utterly infuriating perfection, his silver-blonde hair sitting short and impossibly refined over his head.
"It is not a perfectly valid question, Miss Arryn," Aerion said smoothly, his voice a dark, velvety rustle that grated on Clarice’s very last nerve. "It is a fishing expedition. You are asking my client to recall the exact phrasing of an email sent three years ago, knowing full well the servers were wiped during the corporate merger. I am one to enjoy fishing, sweetling, but this is simply tedious. Move on."
Clarice leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. Beside her, her client, Thomas, shifted nervously. Thomas was a mid-level logistics manager who had been fired from Valyrian Corp, Aerion’s monstrous corporate client, two days before his pension vested, officially for "insubordination," but actually because he had noticed a glaring, highly illegal discrepancy in their international shipping manifests.
"I’m asking your client," Clarice said, her voice dropping to that dangerous, icy register that paradoxically ignited something within Aerion’s lower stomach, "why a man with an immaculate twenty-year record was suddenly terminated the very morning he flagged a three-million-dollar gap in the Q3 ledger."
The witness, a sweaty, red-faced VP named Higgins, opened his mouth to stammer out a reply, but Aerion held up a single, elegant finger against his lips, skin pressed tightly against skin. Higgins’s mouth snapped shut instantly. Clarice had to avoid staring at his fingers against the man’s lips.
"Objection, argumentative. Lacks foundation. And, quite frankly, boring." Aerion protested tediously, though his lips curled with a wry, almost amused smirk. “You used to be so much more fun than that, sweet Clarice.”
"You can't object to a question just because it bores you, Aerion," Clarice snapped, her eye twitching.
"I can object to whatever I please, Clarice, when you insist on wasting my billable hours," Aerion replied, finally leaning forward, his gaze locking onto hers. His eyes travelled from her face, down her skin behind the unbuttoned neck of her shirt, up her eyes once again. His fingers twitched. "Your client was fired because he failed to meet performance metrics. It is a tragedy of mediocrity, I agree, but it is not a crime. You have no ledger. You have no emails. You only have the paranoid delusions of a disgruntled ex-employee. If this is the best the city's underfunded public defenders can muster when they try their hand at civil litigation, then I am deeply underwhelmed." He drawled, placing a mocking hand against his chest.
"I'm not a public defender anymore, and you know it," Clarice said, her jaw tight. "And we both know those files didn't just 'disappear' in a server migration. Valyrian Corp buried them!"
"Prove it," Aerion murmured, a cruel, mocking smile touching the corner of his lips; his face the look of pure satisfaction and exhilaration he only got when he was indulging in his absolute favourite pastime: taunting her. "Oh, wait. You can’t." He checked his gold Patek Philippe watch. "It’s four o'clock. We are done here for the day. Higgins, do not speak to her."
Aerion stood up, buttoning his suit jacket in one fluid motion. He gathered his leather folio.
"This isn't over, Targaryen," Clarice warned, packing her own battered, overflowing briefcase. Her cheeks were flushed with the kind of rage and vex that he alone could stem.
"It rarely is, darling," Aerion said, his tone dripping with condescension. "I look forward to our next duel. Though try to wear something less... polyester, next time. I’d be more than happy to arrange an appointment for you with my tailor. On me, of course, I would be more than pleased to watch the fitting."
Clarice picked up her heavy legal textbook and briefly, vividly, imagined hurling it at his perfectly elegant, infuriatingly handsome head. Instead, she took a deep breath, patted Thomas on the shoulder, and marched out of the conference room.
By 11:00 PM, Clarice was running on three hours of sleep, four cups of coffee, and just pure, unadulterated spite.
Her apartment was covered in case files. The judge, heavily biased toward Valyrian Corp's deep pockets, had denied her motion to compel discovery. The District Attorney, who was supposedly investigating Valyrian Corp for tax fraud, was dragging his feet, likely bought off or terrified of Targaryen & Associates' unnerving and endless power.
Clarice stared at the whiteboard she had set up in her living room; her hair falling straight down her shoulders; her eyes, stormy and clouded, rimmed in that kind of exhausted redness only Aerion Targaryen managed to inflict somehow. Higgins was the key. During the deposition, right before Aerion had shut him down, Higgins had glanced nervously at his own briefcase. Clarice had spent weeks digging into Valyrian Corp's internal structure. She knew they didn't just wipe the servers. Corporate paranoia meant they kept a hard copy. A failsafe. The so-called 'Black Ledger.'
An informant, a disgruntled secretary Clarice had helped out of a bad domestic dispute a year ago, had tipped her off. Higgins keeps the hard copies in his private archive. Valyrian Tower, 44th floor. He’s old school, he doesn't trust the cloud.
Clarice knew it was illegal. She knew if she was caught, she would be disbarred, arrested, and utterly ruined. She was an officer of the court, a former prosecutor. She believed in the law. She was, to all means and purposes, an honorable woman.
But she believed in justice more. And the law, right now, was currently being warped, twisted, and weaponized by a silver-haired demon that spawned from hell itself in a perfectly tailored suit.
"Screw it," Clarice muttered to her empty apartment.
She changed out of her work clothes and pulled on black, fitted vest and skirt , and dainty, discreet flats. She had to play the role right. She grabbed a flashlight, her lock-picking kit, and a cloned keycard she had kept from an old affair.
Valyrian Tower at 2:00 AM was a silent, dark tomb of glass and marble.
Clarice bypassed the lobby guards by entering through the subterranean loading dock, swiping the cloned card. The light blinked green. She exhaled a shaky breath and slipped into the elevator, hastily hitting the button for the 44th floor.
The ride was agonizingly slow. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. You are insane. You are actually insane. If Aerion finds out about this, he won't just ruin your career, he'll have the time of his life while he does it.
Clarice gritted her teeth at the image of Aerion smiling his proud, arrogant, pretty smile.
The elevator pinged. The doors slid open to a dark, cavernous hallway lined with plush carpeting and frosted glass doors.
Clarice moved silently, her flashlight beam sweeping across the nameplates until she found it: R. Higgins - Vice President of Logistics.
The door was locked with a heavy-duty deadbolt, not a keycard. Clarice knelt, pulled out her tension wrench and a rake, and went to work. It took her three agonizing minutes, sweat beading on her forehead, before the lock finally gave a satisfying click.
She slipped inside, closing the door softly behind her.
The office was massive, decorated entirely by a wall of filing cabinets. Clarice immediately went to the one marked 'Archival - Do Not Digitize'. She pulled open the heavy metal drawer. It groaned softly.
She began flipping through the thick, manila folders. Come on, come on...
Click.
The sound hit her like gunshot. It wasn't the filing cabinet. It was the door to the office opening.
Clarice’s blood ran cold. She killed her flashlight instantly, throwing herself into the narrow gap between the filing cabinets and the heavy velvet curtains drawn over the window. She pressed her back against the wall, holding her breath, her hand flying to her mouth. She would’ve laughed, a manic, nervous laughter, weren’t her career on the line.
Footsteps came then. Slow, deliberate, and expensive. Leather-soled shoes on hardwood; a perfect, condescending cadence.
Clarice squeezed her eyes shut. No. God, no. Anyone but him.
A narrow beam of light swept across the room, illuminating the dust motes dancing in front of her eyes. The beam hit the filing cabinet Clarice had just left slightly ajar.
"For fucks sake," a low, smooth voice murmured in the darkness. "Higgins you careless, useless, dim-witted bitch."
What the hell was the defense attorney doing breaking into his own client's office in the middle of the night?
Clarice listened as Aerion moved toward the cabinet. She could hear the rustle of paper as he began pulling out folders.
"Where is it, you fat, incompetent fool..." Aerion muttered to himself, his usual polished veneer cracking just a fraction, revealing genuine irritation.
He was looking for the ledger, Clarice realised. Aerion didn't know the truth either. His client was lying to him, too. She resented not being able to mock him about it right there.
Clarice shifted her weight. Her rubber sole squeaked —only a microscopic, tiny sound, but in the dead silence of the office, it might as well have been a siren.
The rustling stopped. The beam of Aerion's flashlight snapped directly to the gap between the cabinets and the curtains.
"Come out," Aerion's voice was sharp and commanding, stripping away any trace of his courtroom drawl. "Slowly. Or I’m breaking this glass panel above you."
Clarice hesitated. If she ran, he might not recognize her in the dark. But he was blocking the only exit.
And, of course he would still recognise her in the dark.
Setting her jaw, Clarice stepped out from behind the cabinet.
Aerion kept the flashlight aimed at her face, blinding her. She put a hand up to shield her eyes.
"Turn that damn thing off, Targaryen," she hissed.
There was a profound, stunned silence. Then, the flashlight clicked off, leaving them in the dim, warm glow of the city lights bleeding through the edges of the curtains.
"Clarice?"
For the first time since she had known him, Aerion sounded genuinely shocked. He stepped closer, his tall silhouette looming over her. She could smell him: bergamot, cedar, and expensive scotch.
"What in the nine hells are you doing here?" he demanded, his voice dropping to a harsh, disbelieving, though not entirely stripped of amusement, whisper.
"I could ask you the same question," Clarice shot back, crossing her arms to hide the fact that her hands were shaking. "Isn't breaking and entering a little hands-on for a named partner? Don't you usually hire goons to do your dirty work?"
Aerion scoffed, a dark, dangerous sound. "I am acting in the best interests of my firm to retrieve misplaced corporate property. You, on the other hand, are committing a felony. A very desperate, very stupid felony."
"I am looking for the truth," Clarice snapped, stepping into his space. She had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye, but she refused to back down. "The truth you and your bloated corporate cronies are trying to bury to ruin my client's life."
"Your client is a gnat on the windshield of global commerce, Clarice," Aerion sneered, looking down at her. "And you are about to lose your license to practice law over him. Do you have any idea what I could do to you right now? One phone call to the police."
"Do it," she challenged, her eyes flashing. "Call them. Explain to the cops why the defense attorney is secretly tossing his own client's office at two in the morning. Explain how you're withholding discovery from the DA. Let's both go down, Aerion. Though I suspect you very much want that really, as you have made quite clear in the past."
Aerion’s jaw tightened. He stepped even closer, until the tips of their shoes were touching. The air between them suddenly felt thick, charged with the same electric, furious energy that characterized their courtroom battles, but amplified a thousand by the darkness and the lewd isolation.
"You are infuriating," he breathed, his voice dropping an octave.
"And you are a squirmy, blood-sucking parasite in a Tom Ford suit," she whispered back.
Without breaking eye contact, Aerion reached blindly into the open drawer behind her. Clarice reacted instantly, her hand darting out to grab his wrist. His skin was warm, his pulse steady beneath her fingers.
"Don't," she warned.
"Let go of me, Clarice," he commanded softly. "I am getting that ledger."
"So you can destroy it?"
"So I can know exactly what I am dealing with!" Aerion hissed, his composure finally fracturing. "I do not go into a courtroom blind, and I do not let imbeciles like Higgins perjure themselves on my watch. I am taking the file."
"Over my dead body."
Clarice shoved his arm back. Aerion grabbed her wrist in return, twisting gracefully to pin her hand against the metal cabinet. Clarice gasped, using her free hand to grab his lapel, trying to yank him off balance. For a brief, chaotic moment, they grappled in the dark; an uncharacteristically fun mess of limbs, suppressed grunts, and heavy breathing. Clarice was surprisingly strong, but Aerion was larger, and he smoothly backed her up against the filing cabinets, his chest pressing against hers, pinning both of her wrists above her head with one large hand.
"Are you quite finished?" he panted slightly, his face mere inches from hers. His violet eyes were dilated, dark and intense in the shadows.
Clarice glared up at him, her chest heaving against his. She smiled; a barring of teeth and loathing. "I hate you so much."
"The feeling," he murmured, his gaze dropping to her mouth for a fraction of a second, "is entirely mutual."
Suddenly, the heavy oak door of the office rattled.
Both of them froze.
"Hey, Frank? You left this door unlocked again?" a gruff voice echoed from the hallway.
Clarice’s stomach dropped out. She looked at Aerion. The smug arrogance had completely vanished from his face, replaced by stark realization. If they were caught here, fighting like stray cats over stolen documents... it wouldn't just be Clarice's career. They were both dead in the water.
The doorknob turned. The heavy door swung open, casting a wide beam of yellow hallway light into the room.
Aerion moved faster than Clarice could process. He released her wrists, clamped his hands onto her bum, and lifted her over the wood, behind the heavy, frosted-glass partition that separated the filing area from Higgins's main desk.
"Who's in here?" the security guard barked. The bright beam swept across the room, missing the partition by a millimeter.
Aerion pressed his hips against Clarice’s stubbornly closed legs. He leaned in close, his mouth beside her ear. "He's going to see our faces," he breathed, his voice a warm, rumbling sensation against her skin.
The heavy, thudding footsteps of the guard drew closer. The beam of light swept the floor, illuminating the bottom of the glass partition. Before Clarice could act, Aerion’s hands slid from her waist up to her jaw, his long fingers tangling in her hair. He tilted her head back.
And then, Aerion Targaryen kissed her.
Clarice’s mind simply short-circuited.
His mouth was bruisingly firm, demanding, and impossibly hot. The shock of it paralyzed her for a full two seconds. She tasted scotch, and mint, and the electric buzz of adrenaline. His thumb stroked the line of her jaw, holding her in place, while his other hand flattened against the small of her back, pressing her hips against his.
She knew what he was doing, she knew he was only saving their stupid, annoyingly competitive asses. Logic dictated she should play along. But logic had nothing to do with the sudden, violent surge of heat that flooded her veins.
With a soft, involuntary gasp, Clarice kissed him back.
She let go of his lapels and slid her hands up his chest, opening her legs so his hips could settle further into hers, wrapping her arms around his neck. She opened her mouth under his, and Aerion groaned —a low, ragged sound that vibrated against her lips. He shifted his stance, crowding her against the glass, his kiss deepening from a tactical maneuver into something hungry and desperate. All the hatred, the vitriol, the hours of screaming at each other in courtrooms and conference tables, suddenly inverted, morphing into a raw, consuming, electrifying passion.
The beam of the flashlight swept over the frosted glass.
"Hey!" the guard shouted.
Aerion didn't pull away immediately. He kept his mouth on hers, his hands gripping her tightly, playing the part perfectly. Maybe too perfectly so. Only when the guard banged a fist on the partition did Aerion slowly, reluctantly break the kiss.
He rested his forehead against Clarice's, both of them panting, their breath mingling in the small space. Clarice’s lips felt bruised and swollen; her heart was beating so fast she thought she might pass out. Aerion's eyes were wide, blown dark, a look of profound, stunned confusion masking his usually sharp and predatory features.
Aerion cleared his throat, stepping back slightly, adjusting his jacket with hands that weren't entirely steady. He stepped out from behind the partition into the light.
"Is there a problem, officer?" Aerion asked. His voice was flawless. The cool, arrogant drawl was back in an instant, though it was perhaps a shade huskier than usual.
The security guard lowered the flashlight, squinting. "Mr. Targaryen?" he asked, recognizing him. "What... what are you doing up here, sir? It's two a.m."
Aerion smoothed his lapels, looking down his nose at the guard with an expression of supreme, pedantic annoyance. "I was under the impression, Frank, that a partner's private business was precisely that. Private." He glanced back toward the partition, where Clarice remained hidden in the shadows. She played her part quite well, a hand against her heaving chest, legs drawn into a frightened position. "My... associate and I were working late on the Arryn settlement. We required a change of scenery. And privacy. Do you make a habit of interrupting the firm's senior counsel, Frank?"
The guard swallowed hard, intimidated. "No, sir. Sorry, sir. The door was unlocked, I just..."
"Then I suggest you lock it on your way out," Aerion snapped. "And perhaps keep this interruption out of your nightly log, unless you'd like me to discuss your discretion with my father."
"Yes, Mr. Targaryen. Have a good night, sir."
The guard practically bolted from the room, pulling the heavy door shut behind him. The deadbolt clicked into place.
Silence descended on the office once more, heavier and thicker than before.
Clarice slowly pulled herself down, and stepped out from behind the glass partition. Her skirts were still clawing high at her thighs. She couldn't look at him. She stared at the filing cabinet instead, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.
Aerion stood a few feet away, his back to her. He was gripping the edge of Higgins’s desk, his knuckles white.
"That was..." Clarice started, her voice raspy. She cleared her throat. "That was quick thinking."
"Yes," Aerion said tightly. He didn't turn around. "It was purely tactical."
"Right. Obviously." Clarice swallowed the sudden, sharp ache in her throat. She hated him. She remembered that she hated him. "It worked."
Aerion finally turned to face her. The arrogant sneer was gone, replaced by a guarded, almost wary expression. He looked at her mouth, then quickly up to her eyes. He walked past her, purposefully putting distance between them, and opened the filing cabinet.
He pulled out a thick, red folder. He opened it, shining his penlight on the pages. Clarice watched his eyes scan the documents. She saw his jaw clench, a muscle feathering in his cheek.
"Is it there?" she asked quietly.
Aerion snapped the folder shut. He stood in the dark for a long moment. Then, slowly, he walked over to Clarice. He didn't say a word. He simply held the red folder out to her.
Clarice stared at it. "What are you doing?"
"I am withdrawing from the case," Aerion said, his voice flat, emotionless. "Tomorrow morning. Targaryen & Associates will no longer represent Valyrian Corp."
Clarice looked from the folder to his face. "You're giving me the evidence? Aerion, this is a breach of privilege. You could be..."
"They lied to me, Clarice," he said, his voice dropping to a harsh, cold whisper. "They falsified documents, they lied to my face, and they used my firm to cover up a multi-million dollar embezzlement scheme. If involved, I’d be more than happy to represent them, but I do not defend men who make a fool of me."
He pressed the folder against her chest. One of his fingers brushed against her breasts. Clarice took it instinctively, her hands clutching the thick cardboard.
"And," Aerion added softly, his gaze dropping to her lips once more before snapping back to her eyes, "I suppose I owe you a settlement offer."
Clarice simply stared at him, the engines of her brain working, before she let out a breathless, half-hysterical laugh. "You're giving me the smoking gun so you don't have to admit I beat you."
A ghost of a smirk finally touched Aerion's lips. "Do not flatter yourself, counselor. I am giving you the smoking gun so you can put that imbecile Higgins behind bars where he belongs. And so we never have to endure another deposition together."
Clarice clutched the folder tightly. "Never?"
Aerion stepped closer. The scent of him wrapped around her again, intoxicating and dangerous. He reached out, and for a heart-stopping second, she thought he was going to kiss her again. Instead, his long fingers reached up and gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The brief touch of his fingertips against her skin burned like fire.
"Well," Aerion murmured, his voice a low, dark promise in the silence of the office. "Perhaps not never."
He stepped back, turning toward the door. "Give me five minutes to leave the building before you sneak out, Clarice. Try not to get arrested on your way down. It would be incredibly tedious to have to bail you out."
"Go to hell, Aerion," she whispered, but the venom was entirely gone from her voice.
Aerion paused at the door, glancing over his shoulder. In the dim light, his pale violet eyes gleamed with a predatory, entirely undisguised interest.
"I'll save you a seat, darling," he replied.
With a frustrated groan, she was already counting down the days to see him in court again, Clarice realised then.