Chapter 76: The Attorney
Her hands found his arms and her nails dug in and her head fell back against the desk. The morning light caught the sweat on her breasts, the flush spreading down her chest, the way her lips parted with every thrust.
"Look at me," Sean said.
Makima lifted her head with visible effort and met his eyes. Hers were glassy and unfocused and completely unguarded. There was no composure left. No careful control. Just Makima, stripped down to the woman who had been carrying too much alone for too long, finally letting someone else carry her.
Sean reached between their bodies and found her clit with his thumb. She bucked against him and made a sound that was almost a sob.
"Again," Sean said. "Cum for me again."
"I can’t," she gasped. "I can’t possibly—"
Her body disagreed. He felt the telltale tightening around him, the way her breathing stuttered, the way her hips started moving on their own. He circled her clit with steady pressure and thrust into her deep and slow and she shattered for the second time, her back arching off the desk, a flood of wetness coating his hand and dripping onto the papers beneath her.
This time he let himself follow.
The release built at the base of his spine and spread outward, heat blooming through his entire body. He pushed deep and held and let go, spilling into her in hot pulses, and she made a sound that was his name and a curse and something wordless all at once.
For a long moment neither of them moved.
Then he eased out of her and she let her legs slide off his shoulders and he collapsed forward, his forehead resting against hers, both of them breathing hard. The desk was a disaster. Papers stuck to her back. A pen had somehow ended up in her hair. Neither of them cared.
She laughed. Soft and breathless and completely unguarded, the same laugh she’d given him the first night, the one that sounded like she’d forgotten she knew how to make it.
—---------------------
Noon
Max came through by noon.
Found someone. Elena Voss. Property law specialist, fifteen years in practice, no connections to Pemberton and Vale or any entity I can link to Vivian’s network. She’s based downtown. I took the liberty of texting her your number. She said she can see you today at two if you can make it.
Good work, Sean typed back. How are you doing today?
Fine, said Max. Less tired. Amara called this morning. She’s feeling better. Pre-op went well.
Sean felt something ease in his chest at that. Good. Tell her I said to take it easy.
She doesn’t know who you are, Max reminded him.
Tell her anyway.
He arrived at Elena Voss’s office at five minutes to two. The building was a modest professional space downtown, the kind of address that communicated competence without excess. Elena Voss herself was a compact woman in her mid-forties with quick eyes behind thin-framed glasses and the specific efficient energy of someone who had learned long ago that unhurried attention was more productive than rushed certainty.
She shook Sean’s hand without comment on his age and gestured him into her office.
"Your contact explained the general situation," she said, sitting across from him. "You have a document you need assessed for current enforceability."
"Yes," said Sean. He placed the envelope on her desk.
She opened it with practiced care, unfolding the documents and reading through them with the focused attention of someone who read legal language the way other people read novels, for meaning underneath the surface.
She read through twice before she spoke.
"The conditional right of first refusal," she said, setting the addendum apart from the rest. "1964. The language is clear enough. No sunset clause. No geographic limitation that would have expired with the original structure." She looked at him over her glasses. "Where is the property currently?"
"The original structure was demolished in the 1970s," said Sean. "The land is currently part of a holding that changed hands multiple times since the original sale."
"How many times," said Elena.
"At least three," said Sean. "Possibly more. I have a partial chain but not complete."
She looked at the document again. "The language says the right attaches to the land itself, not the structure. That’s unusual for documents of this era. Most conditional clauses from this period assumed the structure’s continued existence." She tapped the addendum lightly. "Whoever drafted this was thinking ahead. The right of first refusal survives demolition and reconstruction under this language."
"So it’s still valid," said Sean.
"In theory," said Elena carefully. "Enforceability is a different question. The right needs to have been properly preserved through each transfer of ownership. If any of those transfers included language that explicitly voided prior conditional rights, it becomes complicated." She looked at him steadily. "How motivated is the current owner of that land to resolve this quietly?"
"Not very," said Sean.
"And how motivated are you to make it uncomfortable for them," said Elena.
"Appropriately," said Sean.
Elena Voss almost smiled. "I need the full chain of title for that property. Every transfer since 1964. With that, I can give you a definitive assessment within forty-eight hours."
"Can you find the chain yourself?" said Sean. "With appropriate compensation for the time."
"Property records are public," said Elena. "It’ll take time but yes." She paused. "You should know, if this clause is enforceable and someone with resources wanted to contest it, it would be a fight. A winnable one for the right of first refusal holder, but a fight."
"What kind of fee for the full assessment and whatever comes after," said Sean.
Elena looked at him for a moment. "If we end up in litigation, full service would run between eighty and a hundred and twenty thousand depending on complexity."
"I’ll pay half upfront today to retain you," said Sean. "The rest on completion."
Elena Voss looked at him with the same evaluating attention Patricia Moyer had used that morning, the particular gaze of older women who’d learned to read people from a long history of having to.
