𝗙𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗕𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗩𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗮 𝗨𝗻𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗲.
𝐅𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐞
I am the judge, the jury, and the executioner.
Francesca "Frank" Monroe. One of the most successful criminal defense attorneys in the history of Illinois. The woman everyon...
"There are four kinds of homicide; felonious, excusable, justifiable, and praiseworthy."
- Ambrose Bierce
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Heartbreak wasn't just some fleeting fucking emotion. It was a goddamn sickness, a weight that sank into your bones and refused to let go. A constant, crushing ache that never really faded—just sat there, pulsing, waiting to remind you that you'd lost something that could never be replaced.
It felt like standing at the edge of a fucking cliff, staring into the abyss, knowing you'd never be the same again if you jumped—yet too paralyzed to step back.
That was exactly what it felt like when Hector walked away. Out of my life.
Loving him had never been soft, never easy. It was raw, violent, all-consuming—roots tangled deep in my soul, deeper than I ever should've let them grow. And when he was gone, he ripped something out of me, left a gaping, jagged void that nothing could fill. Everywhere I turned, he was there—his scent in the sheets, his voice in my fucking head, his touch burned into my skin like a scar. I closed my eyes, and all I saw was him. Opened them, and all I felt was the suffocating pain of knowing he wasn't coming back.
I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, drowning in it. Tears streaked down my face, hot and relentless, but I couldn't even sob properly anymore—just fucking shattered in silence, my heart a raw, exposed nerve. It physically hurt, like something had caved in my chest and left me gasping.
Then, a knock. Sawyer's voice cut through the fog. "Frankie. Can I come in?"
I swiped at my face, barely pulling myself together. "Yeah," I choked out, but my voice gave me away.
The door creaked open, and the second I saw his face—pale, tense, eyes full of something dark and terrible—my stomach dropped.
"What?" My voice was barely a whisper. My whole body braced, instinct screaming at me that whatever came next would wreck me.
Sawyer swallowed hard, like he could barely force the words out. "Hector. His car was bombed."
The room collapsed around me.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't fucking move. My heart clenched so violently it felt like something inside me cracked wide open.
No.
No, no, no—
I gasped, clutching my chest like I could physically hold the broken pieces together. It wasn't real. It couldn't be.
But the look on Sawyer's face said otherwise.
I had to move. Had to fucking go.
My body acted before my mind caught up—I was up, running, barely registering the sound of my own footsteps pounding down the stairs. Sawyer was right behind me, barely getting into the passenger's seat before I tore out of the driveway, tires screaming against the pavement.
