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Amelia Hart was a woman who commanded attention without uttering a word. At 37, she had already climbed to the top of her profession, earning the respect and wariness of anyone who crossed her path.

Her tailored navy suit was sharp and unforgiving, like armor against the world. The crisp lines of the fabric hugged her figure, accentuating her poised, athletic build. Her dark hair, pulled into a sleek, tight bun at the nape of her neck, highlighted the strong angles of her face—high cheekbones, a square jaw, and full lips pressed into a perpetual line of concentration. Her dark eyes were coldly analytical, always measuring, always calculating, and they locked onto Dorothea the moment she stepped into the room.

Amelia's presence was like a storm—subtle at first, but with an undeniable force. There was no softness to her, not really. To the outside world, Amelia was a machine—a prosecutorial force who took pride in her ability to never miss a detail. She had learned early in her career that the best way to climb to the top was through precision and calculation, not emotion. And that was how she approached every case, every conversation. She didn't waste time with pleasantries. She demanded results, and she got them.

But underneath that carefully constructed exterior was a woman who had sacrificed much to get where she was—a woman who, in the quietest moments, might wonder if she was too far gone to turn back. Amelia never allowed herself those moments for too long, though. She was too driven, too consumed by the weight of her work, to indulge in such thoughts. 

Amelia read the article with a mixture of irritation and unease, her grip on her coffee cup tightening as she scanned the scathing words. She knew the optics are bad—worse than bad. This wasn't just about one case anymore; it was about her legacy.

She felt the walls closing in. If she pushes forward and the case falls apart, her reputation might never recover. But if she cooperates with Dorothea and Breanna, there's a chance to salvage not just her career, but her integrity.

Dorothea strode into Amelia's office unannounced, her boots clicking sharply against the polished floors. The district attorney's private office was as pristine as her appearance—mahogany furniture, bookshelves lined with immaculate legal volumes, and a single, elegant orchid on the desk.

Amelia Hart didn't look up immediately. She was seated behind her desk, her tailored navy suit immaculate, pen in hand as she signed a document. "Detective Ellins" she said coolly, her voice as precise as her pen strokes. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Cut the pleasantries, Amelia," Dorothea replied, dropping a file onto the desk with a deliberate thud. "We have a problem."

Amelia finally looked up, her sharp eyes narrowing as she took in Dorothea's expression. "Oh, I know we have a problem. You and your little journalist disrespecting me. How long will this circus go on for?" her voice was slightly shaking, but she did not give in her insecurity.

Dorothea leaned forward, placing both hands on the desk, her face mere inches from Amelia's. "That man didn't kill Martin Collins"

Amelia's brow arched, her lips curving into the faintest hint of a smirk. "I take the facts and I work with them"

"Those are not facts." Dorothea shot back, her voice low but edged with steel. "And I'm telling you, Amelia, this confession is all wrong. His story is straying from the forensic team's version. There are details that the killer should be very well aware of. But this man is not."

Amelia leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms as she studied Dorothea. "Details you've conveniently decided to withhold from me as well?"

Dorothea gave a tight smile. "Oh, I'll tell you. But only if you're willing to listen. Because if you charge this man and it turns out he's innocent, the blowback isn't going to be on me—it's going to be on you. People are already talking, Amelia. They're questioning the case, questioning you. Your career's at risk if you don't get this right."

Amelia's smirk faded, replaced by a hard glare. "Careful, Detective. I don't take kindly to threats."

"It's not a threat," Dorothea said, her tone softening just slightly. "It's a reality check. You know as well as I do that once doubt sets in, it spreads like wildfire. So, let's make sure we have the right person before you light the match."

Amelia was silent for a moment, her gaze locked on Dorothea's, as though trying to read the unspoken motives behind her words. Finally, she sighed, uncrossing her arms. "Fine. I'm listening. What are these so-called 'details'?"

Dorothea straightened, her voice steady as she began. "The stab wounds. The autopsy shows they were delivered with great rage, but no vital organs were affected – the killer wanted to prolong his suffering. That kid? He is skinny. I cannot believe that he had enough force to kill the man instantly. But that is his story. However, the forensics found out – as far as I was concerned – that Martin fought back. Is our suspect just terrified and does not remember or is he straight up lying about this murder?"

Amelia's expression didn't waver, but Dorothea could tell she was listening intently. She pressed on.

"Then there's the weapon. The knife used was an antique letter opener, one of a kind, from Collins' own collection. It wasn't lying around. The killer had to know it was there, had to go out of their way to find it. When I asked the kid where he got the weapon, he said he brought it from home."

Amelia frowned. "That doesn't make sense."

"Exactly," Dorothea said, her voice sharper now. "And there's more. The killer left no fingerprints on the letter opener. None. But they left a bloody fingerprint on Collins' desk—deliberately placed. Our suspect says that he did not go near Martin's stuff or desk. Oh, and let's not forget the second murder that happened while our suspect was in custody. What about it? Is it a coincidence?"

Amelia tapped her pen against the desk, her mind clearly racing. Finally, she set it down, fixing Dorothea with a piercing gaze. "If you're right—and I'm not saying you are—what do you propose we do?"

"We work together." Dorothea said simply.

Amelia let out a short laugh, the sound sharp and disbelieving. "You and me? Working together? That's rich."

"I'm serious, Amelia," Dorothea said, her voice steady. "You can keep your ego intact and still solve this case. Let me interrogate the kid again. I'll ask him about the fingerprint. I'll ask him about the knife again. About the other murder. I will put him on the spot and prove he is lying. And in return, you keep your career intact, and I get to keep doing my job without watching an innocent kid take the fall."

Amelia stared at her, weighing the offer. "And if you're wrong?"

Dorothea leaned in again, her gaze unwavering. "I'm not."

The silence between them stretched, charged with tension. Finally, Amelia nodded, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Fine. But if this goes sideways, Dorothea, you're taking the heat with me."

"Deal," Dorothea said, straightening.

As she turned to leave, Amelia's voice stopped her.

"You know, Dorothea," she said, her tone teasing but her eyes sharp, "for someone who claims not to care about politics, you sure play the game well."

Dorothea smirked over her shoulder. "I don't play games, Amelia. I just win them."

Amelia shook her head, a faint laugh escaping her as Dorothea walked out. For the first time in years, she felt the faintest flicker of excitement—not just for the case, but for the challenge Dorothea brought with her.

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