Devils advocate

Pauline Kew adjusted the silk lapel of her jet-black blazer, cut in Savile Row to cling to her curves like a glove. The blouse beneath was white, sheer enough that the outline of her bra was obvious , a taunt, not an accident. Her skirt was pencil-tight, split just enough at the back to flaunt her long, toned legs, each one wrapped in black hold-ups that bit into her pale thighs. On her feet, Italian heels gleamed new and expensive.

She looked like every man’s fantasy of authority, and every woman’s nightmare of competition, cold, perfect, a barrister dressed for blood.

Her blonde hair was pulled into its usual severe bun, yanking her cheekbones into sharper lines. It was her crown of ice, her way of saying she was above them all, too clever, too ruthless, too untouchable to be anything but obeyed. Her skin was porcelain white, her lips painted a slash of scarlet. Her eyes were glacial, the kind of stare that stripped men of courage and left them stammering like boys.

Pauline Kew was thirty-five, but there was no softness about her. Years in London’s courts had honed her into a predator. Men feared her. Women whispered about her. She thrived on it.

Today’s case gave her particular joy.

Across the chamber sat a man in a cheap suit that smelled of desperation. His hands twisted, his face hollowed from sleepless nights. He was fighting for custody of his children. A girl of eight, a boy of six. She had already gutted him, but Pauline wanted to make sure he never so much as breathed the same air as his children again unless he bled money he didn’t have.

Pauline’s mouth curled. She could taste his weakness.

“Mr. Hughes,” she purred, rising to her feet, her voice dripping contempt. She moved like a predator who already knew the kill was hers. “You say you love your children. That you provide for them. And yet, your earnings are pathetic.” She spat the word like filth. “You admit yourself your wages barely cover your rent. Tell me, how exactly do you propose to raise two children on scraps? On hand-outs? On love?”

The man stammered, his voice cracking. “I—I work every hour I can. I’d give them everything, I just—”

Pauline cut him off with a flick of her manicured hand, a slash of red nails that told him he wasn’t worth finishing a sentence. “Yes. I’m sure you would. But love doesn’t buy shoes. It doesn’t pay school fees. It doesn’t put them in proper homes. The truth is simple: you are a failure, Mr. Hughes. A pathetic, broke little man. And it would be cruelty, pure cruelty, to saddle two innocent children with your inadequacy.”

His eyes welled with tears. Pauline felt it twist deliciously inside her, a hot curl of triumph. His suffering was nectar.

“Counsel,” the judge’s voice boomed, pulling her up short.

She turned. The judge was older, thick-jowled, his thinning white hair combed back with effort. But it wasn’t his words that caught her. It was his eyes.

He wasn’t looking at her notes, or the father, or the law. He was staring at her. At her body.

Pauline’s lips thinned. For once, she wasn’t winning. His rulings had leaned toward the father, his questions too sympathetic. A rare obstacle. Pauline could not lose.

Then she saw it, the raw hunger in his stare.

And a wicked thought slithered into her mind.

She sank back into her chair, slow, deliberate. The desk was polished oak, gleaming, and from his vantage point the judge had a clear sight beneath.

Pauline crossed her legs, stockings whispering together, and then, deliberately, shamelessly, she spread them wide.

Her skirt fell open, baring the pale expanse of her thighs, the lace tops of her stockings biting into soft flesh. Between them, her black thong was nothing but a strip of fabric, damp where it clung to her cunt. Barely a covering at all, a tease.

She caught his gaze, held it, and let her tongue flick across her painted lips. Slow. Cruel. Daring him.

The judge froze, colour blooming across his neck. His hand twitched on the gavel. Pauline sneered inwardly. He was hers.

She leaned back, lounging like a queen bored of the proceedings, her thighs spread wide enough to remove all doubt. Her eyes stayed locked on his. He was drowning in her.

When she stood again, her voice was smooth steel. “My Lord, surely you see that granting custody to the mother is not only reasonable, but necessary. The children deserve stability. Prosperity. They deserve better than a father who can barely feed himself.”

The judge’s face burned crimson. His eyes flicked between her cunt and her mouth. And then the gavel fell.

“Case decided. Custody to the mother. Mr. Hughes will pay child support as recommended—no less.”

The man broke, sobbing in the chamber, shoulders shaking. The sound cracked through the air like music.

Pauline gathered her notes with perfect composure, though her blood thrummed with the thrill. She had destroyed him. Reduced him to nothing. And she had done it with contempt and the curve of her thighs.

She rose, smoothed her skirt, and strode from the courtroom. Her heels hammered against marble like gunfire. Behind her, the father collapsed in tears.

Pauline’s lips curved, red and merciless. Victory was sweet,but the misery of others made it intoxicating.

Yet—

As she stepped into the chill outside, a shiver sliced down her spine. Subtle, but sharp.

Her breath misted in the London air. For a single beat, she felt eyes on her, something unseen pressing against her skin.

She scanned the crowd. Nothing. Just lawyers, clients, pedestrians.

Still, the sensation lingered. A shadow curling around her neck, a whisper she couldn’t shake.

Pauline sneered, muttering under her breath. “Pathetic. Winning unsettles the weak. That’s all this is.”

But when her eyes closed that night, the shiver returned. Stronger.

Something had been stirred.

Something had begun.